He looked so earnest, so boyishly serious, that it was a hard battle not to throw her arms around him and attempt to comfort him. But no matter how deep his pain, or how wounded his soul, he was going about this all wrong. The best revenge against his father would simply be to live a full and happy life, to achieve all those heights and glories his father had been so determined to deny him.

Daphne swallowed a heavy sob of frustration. She didn't see how he could possibly lead a happy life if all of his choices were based on thwarting the wishes of a dead man.

But she didn't want to get into all of that just then. She was tired and he was drunk and this just wasn't the right time. “Let's get you to bed,” she finally said.

He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes filling with an ages-old need for comfort. “Don't leave me,” he whispered.

“Simon,” she choked out.

“Please don't. He left. Everyone left. Then I left.” He squeezed her hand. “You stay.”

She nodded shakily and rose to her feet. “You can sleep it off in my bed,” she said. “I'm sure you'll feel better in the morning.”

“But you'll stay with me?”

It was a mistake. She knew it was a mistake, but still she said, “I'll stay with you.”

“Good.” He wobbled himself upright. “Because I couldn't—I really—” He sighed and turned anguished eyes to her. “I need you.”

She led him to her bed, nearly falling over with him when he tumbled onto the mattress. “Hold still,” she ordered, kneeling to pull off his boots. She'd done this for her brothers before, so she knew to grab the heel, not the toe, but they were a snug fit, and she went sprawling on the ground when his foot finally slipped out.

“Good gracious,” she muttered, getting up to repeat the aggravating procedure. “And they say women are slaves to fashion.”

Simon made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snore.

“Are you asleep?” Daphne asked incredulously. She yanked at the other boot, which came off with a bit more ease, then lifted his legs—which felt like deadweights—up onto the bed.

He looked young and peaceful with his dark lashes resting against his cheeks. Daphne reached out and brushed his hair off his forehead. “Sleep well, my sweet,” she whispered.

But when she started to move, one of his arms shot out and wrapped around her. “You said you would stay,” he said accusingly.

“I thought you were asleep!”

“Doesn't give you the right to break your promise.” He tugged her at her arm, and Daphne finally gave up resisting and settled down next to him. He was warm, and he was hers, and even if she had grave fears for their future, at that moment she couldn't resist his gentle embrace.

Daphne awoke an hour or so later, surprised that she'd fallen asleep at all. Simon still lay next to her, snoring softly. They were both dressed, he in his whiskey-scented clothes, and she in her nightrobe.

Gently, she touched his cheek. “What am I to do with you?” she whispered. “I love you, you know. I love you, but I have what you're doing to yourself.” She drew a shaky breath. “And to me. I hate what you're doing to me.”

He shifted sleepily, and for one horrified moment, she was afraid that he'd woken up. “Simon?” she whispered, then let out a relieved exhale when he didn't answer. She knew she shouldn't have spoken words aloud that she wasn't quite ready for him to hear, but he'd looked so innocent against the snowy white pillows. It was far too easy to spill her innermost thoughts when he looked like that.

“Oh, Simon,” she sighed, closing her eyes against the tears that were pooling in her eyes. She should get up. She should absolutely positively get up now and leave him to his rest. She understood why he was so dead set against bringing a child into this world, but she hadn't forgiven him, and she certainly didn't agree with him. If he woke up with her still in his arms, he might think she was willing to settle for his version of a family.

Slowly, reluctantly, she tried to pull away. But his arms tightened around her, and his sleepy voice mumbled, “No.”

“Simon, I—”

He pulled her closer, and Daphne realized that he was thoroughly aroused.

“Simon?” she whispered, her eyes flying open. “Are you even awake?”

His response was another sleepy mumble, and he made no attempts at seduction, just snuggled her closer.

Daphne blinked in surprise. She hadn't realized that a man could want a woman in his sleep.

She pulled her head back so she could see his face, then reached out and touched the line of his jaw. He let out a little groan. The sound was hoarse and deep, and it made her reckless. With slow, tantalizing fingers, she undid the buttons of his shirt, pausing just once to trace the outline of his navel.

He shifted restlessly, and Daphne felt the strangest, most intoxicating surge of power. He was in her control, she realized. He was asleep, and probably still more than a little bit drunk, and she could do whatever she wanted with him.

She could have whatever she wanted.

A quick glance at his face told her that he was still sleeping, and she quickly undid his trousers. Underneath, he was hard and needy, and she wrapped her hand around him, feeling his blood leap beneath her fingers.

“Daphne,” he gasped. His eyes fluttered open, and he let out a ragged groan. “Oh, God. That feels so damned good.”

“Shhhh,” she crooned, slipping out of her silken robe. “Let me do everything.”

He lay on his back, his hands fisted at his sides as she stroked him. He'd taught her much during their two short weeks of marriage, and soon he was squirming with desire, his breath coming in short pants.