She had chosen him, he reminded himself. Even knowing that she would never have children, she had chosen him. Being a good and faithful husband seemed the least he could do in return.
“I enjoyed it,” Daphne said softly.
He blinked and turned to her with a blank expression. “I beg your pardon?”
A shadow of a smile touched her lips. It was a sight to behold, something warm and teasing and just a little bit mischievous. It sent jolts of desire straight to his midsection, and it was all he could do to concentrate on her words as she said, “You said it had been a long day. I said I enjoyed it.”
He looked at her blankly.
Her face screwed up with such enchanting frustration that Simon felt a smile tugging at his lips. “You said it had been a long day,” she said yet again. “I said I enjoyed it.” When he still didn't speak, she let out a little snort and added, “Perhaps this will all seem more clear if I point out that I implied the words ‘yes’ and ‘but’ as in ‘Yeeeessss, but I enjoyed it.”
“I see,” he murmured, with all the solemnity he could muster.
“I suspect you see a great deal,” she muttered, “and ignore at least half of it.”
He quirked a brow, which caused her to grumble to herself, which of course caused him to want to kiss her.
Everything made him want to kiss her.
It was starting to grow quite painful, that.
“We should be at the inn by nightfall,” he said crisply, as if a businesslike mien would relieve his tension.
It didn't, of course. All it did was remind him that he'd put off his wedding night by a full day. A full day of wanting, needing, of his body screaming for release. But he was damned if he was going to take her in some roadside inn, no matter how clean and tidy it might be.
Daphne deserved better. This was her one and only wedding night, and he would make it perfect for her.
She shot him a slightly startled look at the sudden change of subject. “That will be nice.”
“The roads really aren't safe these day after dark,” he added, trying not to remind himself that he'd originally planned on pushing straight through to Clyvedon.
“No,” she agreed.
“And we'll be hungry.”
“Yes,” she said, starting to look puzzled at his current obsession with their newly scheduled stop at the inn. Simon couldn't blame her, but it was either discuss the travel plans to death or grab her and take her right there in the carriage.
Which was not an option.
So he said, “They have good food.”
She blinked, once, before pointing out, “You said that.”
“So I did.” He coughed. “I believe I'll take a nap.”
Her dark eyes widened, and her entire face actually bobbed forward as she asked, “Right now?”
Simon gave a brisk nod. “I do seem to be repeating myself, but I did, as you so thoughtfully reminded me, say it had been a long day.”
“Indeed.” She watched him curiously as he shifted in his seat, looking for the most comfortable position. Finally, she asked, “Are you truly going to be able to fall asleep here in the moving carriage? Don't you find the ride a bit bumpy?”
He shrugged. “I'm quite good at falling asleep whenever I wish to. Learned how on my travels.”
“It's a talent,” she murmured.
“Jolly good one,” he agreed. Then he closed his eyes and faked sleep for the better part of three hours.
Daphne stared at him. Hard. He was faking it. With seven siblings, she knew every trick in the book, and Simon was definitely not asleep.
His chest was rising and falling in an admirably even manner, and his breath contained just the right amount of whoosh and wheeze to sound like he was almost but not quite snoring.
But Daphne knew better.
Every time she moved, made a rustling sound, or breathed just a little too loudly, his chin moved. It was barely perceptible, but it was there. And when she yawned, making a low, sleepy, moaning noise, she saw his eyes move under his closed lids.
There was something to admire, however, in the fact that he'd managed to keep up the charade for over two hours.
She'd never lasted past twenty minutes herself.
If he wanted to feign sleep, she decided in a rare fit of magnanimity, she might as well let him. Far be it from her to ruin such a marvelous performance.
With one last yawn—a loud one, just to watch his eyes snap to attention under his eyelids—she turned to the carriage window, drawing the heavy velvet curtain back so she could peer outside. The sun sat orange and fat on the western horizon, about one-third of it already resting below the edge of the earth.
If Simon had been correct in his estimation of their traveling time—and she had the feeling that he was frequently correct about such things; people who liked mathematics usually were—then they should be almost at the halfway point of their journey. Almost to The Hare and Hounds.
Almost to her wedding night.
Good God, she was going to have to stop thinking in such melodramatic terms. This was getting ridiculous.
“Simon?”
He didn't move. This irritated her.
“Simon?” A little louder this time.
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, pulling down into a tiny frown. Daphne was positive he was trying to decide if she'd spoken too loudly for him to continue to feign sleep.
“Simon!” She poked him. Hard, right where his arm joined with his chest. There was no way he could possibly think a person could sleep through that.
His eyelids fluttered open, and he made a funny little breathy sound—the sort people made when they woke up.