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“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.”
“You are not your own man,” she said simply. “Your father is still ruling you from the grave.”
He wanted Daphne back.
“What am I to do with you?” He looked her way and grinned. “Love me? You said you loved me, you know.” He frowned. “I don’t think you can take that back.”
“The thing is, Daphrey—” He shook his head in much the same manner a dog shakes off water. “DaphNe,” he said carefully. “DaphNe DaphNe.” Daphne couldn’t quite stop a smile at that. “What, Simon?”
“I want to be happy,” he whispered. “You will be,” she vowed, wrapping her arms around him. “You will be.”
“I love you, Daff,” he whispered.
“And if you say that’s because you lot barged into her home like a herd of mentally deficient sheep, I’m disowning all three of you.”
“If I ever, ever hurt you again,” he said fervently, his mouth moving to the corner of hers, “I want you to kill me.” “Never,” she answered, smiling.
(There was a certain history to this. While heavily pregnant with Amelia, she had asked him if she was radiant or if she just looked like a waddling duck. He told her she’d looked like a radiant duck. This had not been the correct answer.)
