“The food was excellent the last time I ate here. I assure you—”
“It's not the quality of the food that worries me,” she interrupted. “It's my nerves.”
He stared at her blankly.
“Simon,” she said, obviously trying to hide the impatience in her voice (but not, in Simon's opinion, succeeding), “we were married this morning.”
Realization finally dawned. “Daphne,” he said gently, “you needn't worry.”
She blinked. “I needn't?”
He drew a ragged breath. Being a gentle, caring husband was not as easy as it sounded. “We will wait until we reach Clyvedon to consummate the marriage.”
“We will?”
Simon felt his eyes widen in surprise. Surely she didn't sound disappointed? “I'm not going to take you in some roadside inn,” he said. “I have more respect for you than that.”
“You're not? You do?”
His breath stopped. She did sound disappointed.
“Uh, no.”
She inched forward. “Why not?”
Simon stared at her face for several moments, just sat there on the bed and stared at her. Her dark eyes were huge as they returned his regard, filled with tenderness and curiosity and a touch of hesitation. She licked her lips—surely just another sign of nerves, but Simon's frustrated body reacted to the seductive movement with an instant quickening.
She smiled tremulously but didn't quite meet his eye. “I wouldn't mind.”
Simon remained frozen, curiously rooted to the spot as his body screamed, Tackle her! Haul her onto the bed! Do anything, just get her under you!
And then, just when his urges began to outweigh his honor, she let out a small, tortured cry and jumped to her feet, turning her back on him as she covered her mouth with her hand.
Simon, who had just swiped one arm through the air to yank her to him, found himself off-balance and facedown on the bed. “Daphne?” he mumbled into the mattress.
“I should have known,” she whimpered. “I'm so sorry.”
She was sorry? Simon pushed himself back up. She was whimpering? What the hell was going on? Daphne never whimpered.
She turned back around, regarding him with stricken eyes. Simon would have been more concerned, except that he couldn't even begin to imagine what had so suddenly upset her. And if he couldn't imagine it, he tended to believe it wasn't serious.
Arrogant of him, but there you had it.
“Daphne,” he said with controlled gentleness, “what is wrong?”
She sat down opposite him and placed a hand on his cheek. “I'm so insensitive,” she whispered. “I should have known. I should never have said anything.”
“Should have known what?” he ground out.
Her hand fell away. “That you can't—that you couldn't—”
“Can't what?”
She looked down at her lap, where her hands were attempting to wring each other to shreds. “Please don't make me say it,” she said.
“This,” Simon muttered, “has got to be why men avoid marriage.”
His words were meant more for his ears than hers, but she heard them and, unfortunately, reacted to them with another pathetic moan.
“What the hell is going on?” he finally demanded.
“You're unable to consummate the marriage,” she whispered.
It was a wonder his erection didn't die off in that instant. Frankly, it was a wonder he was even able to strangle out the words: “I beg your pardon?”
She hung her head. “I'll still be a good wife to you. I'll never tell a soul, I promise.”
Not since childhood, when his stuttering and stammering had attacked his every word, had Simon been so at a loss for speech.
She thought he was impotent?
“Why—why—why—?” A stutter? Or plain old shock? Simon thought shock. His brain didn't seem able to focus on anything other than that single word.
“I know that men are very sensitive about such things,” Daphne said quietly.
“Especially when it's not true!” Simon burst out.
Her head jerked up. “It's not?”
His eyes narrowed to slits. “Did your brother tell you this?”
“No!” She slid her gaze away from his face. “My mother.”
“Your mother?” Simon choked out. Surely no man had ever suffered so on his wedding night. “Your mother told you I'm impotent?”
“Is that the word for it?” Daphne asked curiously. And then, at his thunderous glare, she hastily added, “No, no, she didn't say it in so many words.”
“What,” Simon asked, his voice clipped, “did she say, exactly?”
“Well, not much,” Daphne admitted. “It was rather annoying, actually, but she did explain to me that the marital act—”
“She called it an act?”
“Isn't that what everyone calls it?”
He waved off her question. “What else did she say?”
“She told me that the, ah, whatever it is you wish to call it—”
Simon found her sarcasm oddly admirable under the circumstances.
“—is related in some manner to the procreation of children, and—”
Simon thought he might choke on his tongue. “In some manner?”
“Well, yes.” Daphne frowned. “She really didn't provide me with any specifics.”
“Clearly.”
“She did try her best,” Daphne pointed out, thinking she ought at least to try to come to her mother's defense. “It was very embarrassing for her.”
“After eight children,” he muttered, “you'd think she'd be over that by now.”