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No response.

He pounded.

No response.

He raised his fist to pound again, when it occurred to him that maybe she hadn't even locked the door. Wouldn't he feel like a fool if—

He twisted the knob.

She had locked it. Simon swore swiftly and fluently under his breath. Funny how he'd never once in his life stuttered on a curse.

“Daphne! Daphne!” His voice was somewhere between a call and a yell. “Daphne!”

Finally, he heard footsteps moving in her room. “Yes?” came her voice.

“Let me in.”

A beat of silence, and then, “No.”

Simon stared at the sturdy wooden door in shock. It had never occurred to him that she would disobey a direct order. She was his wife, damn it. Hadn't she promised to obey him?

“Daphne,” he said angrily, “open this door this instant.”

She must have been very close to the door, because he actually heard her sigh before saying, “Simon, the only reason to let you into this room would be if I were planning to let you into my bed, which I'm not, so I would appreciate it—indeed I believe the entire household would appreciate it—if you would take yourself off and go to sleep.”

Simon's mouth actually fell open. He began to mentally weigh the door and compute how many foot-pounds per second would be required to bash the bloody thing in.

“Daphne,” he said, his voice so calm it frightened even him, “if you do not open the door this instant I shall break it down.”

“You wouldn't.”

He said nothing, just crossed his arms and glared, confident that she would know exactly what sort of expression he wore on his face.

“Wouldn't you?”

Again, he decided that silence was the most effective answer.

“I wish you wouldn't,” she added in a vaguely pleading voice.

He stared at the door in disbelief.

“You'll hurt yourself,” she added.

“Then open the damned door,” he ground out.

Silence, followed by a key slowly turning in the lock. Simon had just enough presence of mind not to throw the door violently open; Daphne was almost certainly directly on the other side. He shoved his way in and found her about five paces away from him, her arms crossed, her legs in a wide, militant stance.

“Don't you ever lock a door against me again,” he spat out.

She shrugged. She actually shrugged! “I desired privacy.”

Simon advanced several steps. “I want your things moved back into our bedroom by morning. And you will be moving back tonight.”

“No.”

“What the hell do you mean, no?”

“What the hell do you think I mean?” she countered.

Simon wasn't sure what shocked and angered him more—that she was defying him or that she was cursing aloud.

“No,” she continued in a louder voice, “means no.”

“You are my wife!” he roared. “You will sleep with me. In my bed.”

“No.”

“Daphne, I'm warning you…”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “You have chosen to withhold something from me. Well, I have chosen to withhold something from you. Me.”

He was speechless. Utterly speechless.

She, however, was not. She marched to the door and motioned rather rudely for him to go through it. “Get out of my room.”

Simon started to shake with rage. “I own this room,” he growled. “I own you.”

“You own nothing but your father's title,” she shot back. “You don't even own yourself.”

A low roar filled his ears—the roar of red-hot fury. Simon staggered back a step, fearing that if he did not he might actually do something to hurt her. “What the hell do you m-mean?” he demanded.

She shrugged again, damn her. “You figure it out,” she said.

All of Simon's good intentions fled the room, and he charged forward, grabbing her by her upper arms. He knew his grip was too tight, but he was helpless against the searing rage that flooded his veins. “Explain yourself,” he said—between his teeth because he couldn't unclench his jaw. “Now.”

Her eyes met his with such a level, knowing gaze that he was nearly undone. “You are not your own man,” she said simply. “Your father is still ruling you from the grave.”

Simon shook with untold fury, with unspoken words.

“Your actions, your choices—” she continued, her eyes growing very sad, “They have nothing to do with you, with what you want, or what you need. Everything you do, Simon, every move you make, every word you speak—it's all just to thwart him.” Her voice broke as she finished with, “And he's not even alive.”

Simon moved forward with a strange, predatory grace. “Not every move,” he said in a low voice. “Not every word.”

Daphne backed up, unnerved by the feral expression in his eyes. “Simon?” she asked hesitantly, suddenly devoid of the courage and bravado that had enabled her to stand up to him, a man twice her size and possibly thrice her strength.

The tip of his index finger trailed down her upper arm. She was wearing a silk robe, but the heat and power of him burned through the fabric. He came closer, and one of his hands stole around her until it cupped her buttock and squeezed. “When I touch you like this,” he whispered, his voice perilously close to her ear, “it has nothing to do with him.”

Daphne shuddered, hating herself for wanting him. Hating him for making her want him.

“When my lips touch your ear,” he murmured, catching her lobe between his teeth, “it has nothing to do with him.”