The Duchess and I

[Derrick Kenworthy]

Clyvedon held many memories for Simon. While not all bad, none were patricianly fond or good. After his mother's death trying to give him life, he had been raised here. It was his father's way of forgetting his imperfect son was alive. The former Duke hated that his only son--only child--was flawed. He told Simon so. Told he that he was dead to him. That he was an imbicile. And Simon had spent his whole adult life trying to prove his father wrong. At first he strove to prove himself to his father. He had to be the best at he could be. Score higher marks. Ride better. Shoot better. Speak . . . speak better . . .

He didn't always end up the best, but it would not have mattered if the king himself had called Simon great. His father hated the idea of the Hastings line becoming weak. It would not be until his dead bed that the old Duke finally admitted to Simon he was proud of him. It would have been too late. The years of begging for approval, and pleading letters, had turned Simon's need to impress his father into a need to hurt him the way he had hurt Simon. A vow. A promise that would make every second of the old Duke's life pointless. It gave him satisfaction knowing these were the last thoughts his father had. The last words the man hard.

What he had not thought of was falling in love. And Simon knew he loved his wife, even as he didn't tell her. It was hard for him to say such words. He knew she deserved better then this half life he could give her. That over the years she could grow to hate him as much as his father had but . . . but he wanted her. Wanted the peace the brought him. He never had to try to speak or ignore the affects of his father when he was around he. He laughed with ease. Enjoyed life with ease. Her family even made him feel less alone in the world.

It was with these thoughts he put the letters back in the drawer. The very ones he wrote to his father over the years. And went to look for his wife instead. The hour was growing late and he felt the need to loose himself with her now more then this morning.

Walking the halls it was not hard to find her. She was in the room adjacent to theirs and in the bath. A slow smile crept over his face as it turned to a bright grin. Oh yes. This was perfect. Lifting his finger to his lips, he nodded his head to the door--a sign for Rose to leave without saying anything. Leaving him standing behind his wife instead of Rose. Knowing she was unaware he was there, Simon watched her silently as she spoke to the now absent maid.

Moving to kneel behind her, Simon leaned forward to brush a kiss over her cheek.

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Daphne had been dreaming of a bath all day. The weather had been dreary, sufficiently such that the stable master had advised against riding. As such, she had been forced to spend her time inside, tending to the various and sundry dull duties now tasked to her as the Duchess of a fine estate like Hastings. Not that she minded, much. But the duchy had been without a leading lady for long enough that many matters had fallen by the wayside. It fell to her to revive them. She understood a little of what her husband must have felt the first time he had stared at the accounts, the long lines of figures seeming drawing on into the universe. It was not the same as managing lands or overseeing the welfare of his people, but she nevertheless had the beginnings of a headache building behind her temples.

The large, claw foot tub had been exactly the medicine she needed for such an affliction. Rose had directed the other servants on how to fill it just so --  halfway with water hot enough to scald, a quarter tubs worth of mild temperature, and sprigs of lavender for scent. She slid into it slowly, relishing in the feel as her muscles lost tension and her aches soothed away. She could have been floating on a cloud for the peace she now possessed. A light, metallic sound next to her was Rose handing her the pitcher to douse herself. She shook her head and leaned back, feeling the water slowly laden her hair, then cover her forehead, then all of her. Once. Twice. She drifted up, allowing her body to fold in on itself as she gently leaned forward. She could feel a piece of lavender tickling her shoulder, and she giggled,  reaching behind to flick it off. This was contentment, pure and simple.

A scratch of stubble brushed her cheek, and she smelled Simon's strong, spicy scent as he gently laid his lips upon her. She turned, expecting to find him standing -- or rather, stooping -- over her. Instead, her eyes locked on his. She felt a warm glow spread over her, one not caused by any amount of water she had soaked in. It was Simon. The things this man did to her with only a look. Only a touch. Only a kiss. She brought her lips to meet his, timidly applying just a slight amount of pressure, that he might see the response he had awakened within her.

"Your Grace," she said against his mouth, "might you join me?"

She had quite forgotten her headache.

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[Derrick Kenworthy]

She turned to face him, and then instantly tilted her face up. Simon didn't need more of a cue then that to take her lips with his own, even though she gave him one of starting the kiss herself. His hand lifted up to touch her cheek, tilting her face just so to let him deepen the kiss for a moment. When she pulled away, just enough to tempt him to climb in with her, he found a smile tugging on his lips. Something that had happened to rare in his life with ease. He had laughed and joked, and enjoyed friends. Never had he just smiled for the sake of being happy. Daphne made he feel such emotions. Made he smile for such reasons. No humor or joke needed. Oh odd the power she had over him, and how willing he was to let her have it.

"But, your grace, who would help you bathe then?" He asked with a bit of mischief in his tone. While he planned to fully enjoy his wife in the bath before the water chilled to make her cold--one could not pass up the chance to have her quite so beautifully (and literally) in the palms of his hands. He had not lied tot he queen when he told her that he thought Daphne the most beautiful woman. He had not always seen her such (pretty yes, and desirable even more so) but beautiful?

It had taken him a short while to see that. He had been fighting so hard to remain apart of everyone around him that when he finally saw her--really saw her--he could not think of anyone else. Pushing to a stand he walked to the side of the tub so he could look down at her, while removing his coat and tossing it to the side. Followed by his waist coat, tossed in the other direction. "Allow me to give hand in helping you finish your bath." Kneeling back down by the side of the tub, he rolled up his shirt cuffs and smiled at her as he then rolled up his shelves.

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Whatever good she had done in her life, surely it had not been enough to warrant a heaven such as this. Whispers of Simon’s hot breath grazed against her bare skin, raising gooseflesh on every part of her not submerged. She shivered at the sensation, forcing small ripples to disturb the surface of the water, and she looked down to watch them settle. She was struck by a sudden desire to cover herself, and worked to shove the sensation into the deepest, darkest pit of her mind. Simon was her husband. He had seen her naked form many a time since their wedding, had placed his hands, his eyes, himself upon every possible place. And she had let him gladly, feverishly devouring all the affection that he gave her. But this, this was something different. Something more intimate, more intense than what they had shared before.

She pulled her hair forward, taking long moments to settle it just so. It was as much to settle her hands and steady her nerves as to acquiesce to Simon’s request. Wordlessly, she reached again for the soap and passed it, not daring to move further and risk losing what courage she had built up. There was silence between the two of them, comfortable and full, punctured only by the sound of falling droplets and candles. It only served to raise another warm note within her, a feeling of rich lust that worked its way into her very core. She was his. She was his and he wanted to touch her, wanted to bathe her. She was quite certain that no other woman in history could have been as lucky as she was in that moment.

“Your Grace…"

How she had gotten through even that short sentence without faltering, she did not know.

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[Derrick Kenworthy]

Simon let his eyes drift over the water as she pulled her hair around to bare her back. She was slender, and sometimes he worries he could hurt her, but Simon took care to treasure her. To make sure he never hurt her. That he never marred her perfect skin. He didn't want the ugliness from his past to tarnish the sunshine that radiated from her.

Reaching for the soap, Simon let his fingers linger over her's. Her skin was soft, and he felt it in his chest, that his woman choose him to be with. She had given up her wish for children for him. Moving the soap between his palms, he built a lather up before dropping it in the water to run his hands over her skin. His fingers moved over her back, and washed her skin. While there was no signs of dirt on her, he still moved his hands over every inch. Taking this time to learn the dips, and curves of her shoulders, following down to her back. Letting his fingers travel under the water to cresses the skin there.

Leaning in, Simon rested his forehead on the side of her face to breathe in the scent of her. Not just the soap but of her. One hand moved around to rest on her arm, only half pretending to wash her skin there. "You will tell me if you become chilled, will you not?" He whispered, not wanting her to become cold. After asking, his hand moved from her arm to her neck, tilting her face to look up at him. "I would be displeased"--at himself--"if my wife grew chilled and I was to fault." Leaning down he kissed her, slowly at first but then deeper.

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She moaned softly, the sound low and guttural, as Simon's warm fingers played across her skin. It was a most unladylike thing to do, but in their time together Simon had taught her so very many things. Such as letting go of her ladylike sensibilities. He could ask her for anything and she would willingly give it. Anything for this man, for the everything he gave to her. Her back arched slightly of its own accord, her body responding to the love given by her husband. She felt him on her ribcage, dancing along it slowly, gracefully. Teasingly. The flames were beginning to lick at her, growing, inching. And then Simon moved. She mourned the loss of connection, if only for a moment, for the next, he was along her arm, as though they were gracefully moving across a ballroom. It was not enough. Nothing would ever be enough.

She felt, rather than saw, him on her shoulder, the fine black hairs of his face tickling her skin. The pressure of his forehead was light on her cheek, and the vibrations rolled through him into her as he spoke. She shivered, stifling a giggle at the irony. He had caused such a reaction by speaking of her being chilled. And then she stilled. For his lips were on hers, soft at first, then deepening into a most passionate kiss. She reached up to touch his face, her fingers gently running into his hair. He was hot against her exposed skin, presenting a delicious contrast to the room's air that only served to heighten everything she felt.

"Simon." She pulled from him for a second, only to turn and face him fully. "I am quite warm..." It was a teasing statement, she knew. But she was still unfamiliar with how one went presenting opportunities to one's husband. She hoped that he would understand the euphemism, and, if not, that he would understand the hands which were now seeking to unbutton his shirt.

[Derrick Kenworthy]

Once, Simon recalled, they had taken a stroll together and she had asked him what was between a man and a woman. He had told her, softly, about touching herself. Her innocence then had been expected, but what he had not expected was the seed that conversation had planted in his mind. A seed of wanting that had grown in size and power overt he idea of her touching herself in bed, of wanting to see it, and wanting to touch her himself. Hearing her on their wedding name, admit to burning for him. For him! To this moment were she innocently told him she was warm already, made him grin. Her fingers moving to his shirt.

As much as he wanted, and burned, to join her--he had been waiting since that conversation by the bridge to see this moment. "But you do not yet burn?" He asked her with mischief and amusement in his tone, knowing that was something he intended to correct swiftly. Reaching to still her nimble fingers, which had begun to remove his shirt, he stilled them before lifting them to his lips. Placing a kiss on each of her finger tips and then her palm, he returned her hand to the water.

His hand guided her hand under the water and to her skin. When her palm rested on her own belly, he guided her hand down between her legs while he explained his intentions. His voice growing deeper, and slightly rough as he felt his own need harden from the sight. "Then we much rectify this. I would have my wife burn for me, as she did on our wedding night." His fingers left her's, and pulled up over her skin until he could rest his hand on her belly. "Touch yourself, and think of me. As I think of you when I touch myself." He wanted to watch her, and see how she moved her own hand--and then he intended to take over.

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Not so long ago, Daphne Bridgerton would have been shocked at the mere thought of what her husband asked of her. But in the time since she had become Daphne Basset, she had learned a great many things. How to run a household. How to love a man. How to own herself. Simon's fingers tread lightly on her abdomen, the whisper of the promise of things to come. She could feel them there,  tickling her skin in small movements. She closed her eyes and rested back into the moment, allowing her body to focus only on the circles he traced. How could someone so strong, so powerful do something so delicate?

Almost of its own accord, her hand began to mirror his ministrations, slowly -- achingly slowly -- spinning up until she reached the crux of her warmth. She moaned softly as she found herself, letting the sound flow freely from her mouth to ensure that her husband knew exactly where she was.  Two voices in her brain fought, one screaming faster, the other telling her to stop. Telling her that she should feel intense shame at what she was doing. She still had her little embarrassments from time to time, and she could feel a blush rising up her cheeks and into her hair, even as she extracted pleasure for herself. She silenced everything by torturing herself, moving languidly so that Simon could see every small twitch.

He wanted her to burn, but she was drowning instead, slipping growing waves. She could still breathe, could still keep her head above the sea, but the tide was turning. She was not sure how long she could hold herself back from the unstoppable force deep inside. It was not Simon’s face she thought of, not exactly. It was a thousand images moving past her eyes: the quirk of his eyebrow, a smile tucked deep into the corner of his mouth. His strong fingers touching her. She thought of those fingers, imagined them doing all the things to her that she was doing to herself.

“Si-mon.” It came out in a half-gasp, her lungs suddenly struggling to take in air. The pictures were tumbling together, blurring into a feeling of pleasure that radiated and fizzed under her skin.

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[Derrick Kenworthy]

Simon had been raised mostly alone, except for the company of caretakers and later Lady Danbury. He had expected to live his life alone as well. Hearing Daphne burn for him, hearing her cry his name as she felt most at need--feeling her skin move and tremble under his finger tips--made him wonder how he could have ever thought to live without her. Knowing that she was satisfied with the life he could give her, and knowing that she still burned for his touch made him love her all the more.

Made him burn for her all the more. His fingers pressed into her belly to keep from touching her. He wanted to watch her, but the need to be the reason she came was powerful. Slowly his fingers trailed up to cup her breast as she moaned his name. "Yes?" he questioned as if she were calling him name to ask something of him. Teasing her to make her use her words. "Did you need something of me, love?" His finger and thumb found her nipple and he rolled it between them.

He felt her grow close and longed to be inside her when she came, but knew the folly of it. Simon no longer cared about his trousers, or boots, or clothes that he would now ruin. He only cared that his need for this wife was growing painfully hard after watching her touch herself and cry his name. Standing, he lifted one foot into the bath, and left on to balance himself with while sitting on the edge of the tub. "Did you need this?" Reaching for Daphne, he pulled her up, lifting her into his lap. She soaked his pants, but he only cared that he could now kiss her. His fingers burying themselves into her hair as he kissed her lips.

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Daphne's mind screamed in colors as Simon's fingers played along her skin. Dancing. Provoking. He was asking something. She could hear his voice, hear words spilling from his beautiful mouth. But nothing reached her. She was well past the point where the world made full sense, and with each new minute that passed she moved closer and closer to losing herself over the edge. And then he touched her breast and her body screamed. Or maybe she screamed. It was impossible to separate the two. She knew what was coming next, what they were building towards, and every fiber of her being was filled with anticipation. Before him, before the things he had taught her, she had never known what it meant to be truly satisfied. And now? Now she craved it, even if she had never said as much out loud.

She felt, rather than saw, him join her, the enveloping water falling away as he lifted her. Gooseflesh rippled across her skin, and she shivered slightly at the sudden change in temperature. Warm. Cool. Hot. Simon burned even through the layers of fabric he still wore, the heat coming off of him in waves. The sensations blended together until it was almost too much to bear. She took a long breath to steady herself, inhaling the rich scent of her husband. It was so very him, that beautiful blend she could never quite place a finger on, and yet recognized instantly.

"Yesssssssss." The word came out as little more than a hiss. She forced herself to breathe again, her entire body moving as she took in air. She was his. And he was hers. He was all hers. Her mouth hungrily met his, claiming his lips for herself, staking her territory with abandon. She wanted him. She needed him.

There was too much in the way for her liking. Too many clothes, too many steps. Her hands -- still covered in herself -- reached to begin the work of undressing him, leaving her remnants over everything she touched. He was ready for her, now all she had to do was free him from his prison and they could walk into the light of pleasure together.

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[Derrick Kenworthy]

Simon felt his heart beating faster, as his wife reacted to his touch. To his kiss. He had not lied to the queen when he admitted what he felt, and if he had to tell her once again, his words would be different. They would be more powerful. More admitting to being in awe of her.

One of his hands moved down to her hips to help give her balance, as the last thing he wanted was for her to fall. Her nimble fingers began undressing him, and he moved his body to help her. Letting her remove his vest, and shirt. His trousers would take too long, for that would mean removing his now wet boots, and Simon could afford another pair. He did not care if they ruined.

Tossing his shirt to the side, Simon let her begin to undo his trousers. The need for her burning more now than in the garden, or their wedding night--the more he learned what she liked, the more he wanted to give it to her. Once she had unbuttoned him, Simon lifted her so he could slowly lower her over him, sinking deeper into her heat as he did. Groaning her name, "Daphne," Simon put her forehead on her's. "Brace your hands on my shoulders, and lift yourself up." He instructed, so he could begin moving over him.

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