The Defiant One

by Danelle Harmon

  Celsie thought — hoped — that Andrew was going to kill the duke right then and there. He shot to his feet, his face darkening, his fists clenching at his sides. "The lady has stated her wishes, I have stated mine, and I am leaving."

  "So am I," snapped Celsie, also rising.

  "But what about my brother's compromised honor?" asked Lucien, raising an innocent brow. "It would be most embarrassing if word got out that he was attacked by a woman and did not enjoy it."

  "I never said I didn't enjoy it," Andrew ground out.

  "Oh. Well then, that changes things immensely, doesn't it? As you are of superior strength to the lady, and did nothing to defend yourself from her — what did you say? — ah yes, persuasive designs upon you, then I daresay we can conclude, after all, that you are as much responsible for this predicament as she is. I really think that one of you, at least, should offer marriage."

  Celsie had had enough. She strode angrily up to the duke of Blackheath, who remained sprawled negligently in his chair, an amused little smile playing about his mouth as he looked up at her.

  "You seem to be rather hard of hearing, Your Grace," she said tersely. "I have already told you that I have no wish to get married."

  "And you, my dear, seem to be ignorant of the gravity of this situation. Perhaps if you explain why the idea of marriage to a handsome young man like my brother here is so revolting, I will suddenly find my hearing quite restored."

  "Because marriage doesn't suit me, that's why."

  The duke was back to examining his cognac. "Ah, yes. I seem to recall that the last two fellows you tried to marry expired under rather extraordinary circumstances, the former, if I remember correctly, by choking on a pea. Hmm. Perhaps marriage doesn't suit your prospective bridegrooms, my dear."

  "Only one of them expired," said Celsie icily. "But even so, we wouldn't want your poor brother here succumbing to the Jinx."

  "Rubbish," said Lucien, smiling. "He is a de Montforte. 'Twill take more than a pea to do him in." He looked at Andrew. "Surely, you are not afraid of being done in by a pea, are you, Andrew?"

  "Why the devil should I be afraid of being done in by a goddamned pea when three drops of my solution seem to have done the trick well enough?"

  "Ah, but surely it is not as bad as all that. You do not find the lady wanting, do you? She is quite lovely," the duke murmured, lifting his glass to Celsie. "She has spirit, intelligence, and enough money to finance any disastrous little experiments you should choose to . . . test in the future. Truly, I cannot see what the problem is."

  "The problem is, I do not need some female interfering with my time, my work, my schedule, my life. I do not have time for a wife, and I do not want the responsibility of having to look after one."

  "Ah, but you should have thought of that before you allowed her to take the solution. Now, you may find yourself facing the responsibility of looking after a child. Would you want any son or daughter from this union to be born a bastard, Andrew, simply because you are too stubborn, foolish, and proud to do the right thing?"

  Celsie slammed her hand down atop a small table. "Stop harassing him! It is obvious that he has no wish to get married, and I will say once and for all that I don't want to get married, either!"

  "Ah. Do you find him wanting, then?" asked the duke, smoothly.

  "That is not the point! And I have had enough of this absurd conversation. Gerald, I demand that you take me home. Now."

  "Celsie —"

  "Now. Before I grow even angrier than I already am."

  Gerald put down his glass, but his jaw was rigid, his eyes glittering with fury. "Very well then, Celsie. If you will await me in the carriage, I will join you as soon as I have concluded my business here."

  She rose to her feet. The gentlemen did as well. Then, with a short curtsey to the duke, Celsie turned and marched from the room, leaving an awkward silence in her wake.

  "That settles it, then," said Andrew.

  Somerfield put down his glass. "That settles nothing, de Montforte."

  Even Lucien, still casually ensconced in his chair, lifted his brows.

  "The fact remains that you have dishonored my sister and ruined her beyond repair. If she will not accept restitution, then I demand it."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "My second will be calling upon you this afternoon. I will see you tomorrow at dawn, sir — where the two of us will settle this matter like men. Good day."

  Chapter 8

  "Really, Andrew. I fail to understand why you look so damned gloomy. 'Tis only a sword fight, and I'm sure it will be over well before breakfast. Just long enough to work up a good appetite, I should think."

  The two brothers had had a blazing row just moments after Celsie and the earl had departed. Or rather, Andrew had had a blazing row with Lucien, accusing him of deliberately orchestrating the debacle. Lucien had merely sat there in total calm, an infuriating little smile on his face as Andrew raged and howled and tore about like a December gale.

  Dinner had been a tense, charged affair. Now, the evening meal had long since finished, the table had long since been cleared, the musicians who supplied His Grace and his vast household with the latest and most fashionable music from the Continent had long since retired. Even most of the servants had gone to bed. As well they should; it was ten minutes past midnight.

  "I am gloomy for many reasons, but I can assure you, fear of death on the morrow is not one of them," Andrew snapped, not looking up as he pored over the seventeenth-century tome on alchemy that had occupied his attention for the last two hours.

  "I am relieved to hear that. You are, after all, a de Montforte."

  Scowling, Andrew flipped a page and jotted something in the notebook at his right elbow. "A de Montforte who's been damaged beyond repair."

  "Rubbish. You spent hours a day rebuilding your strength once you were able to breathe normally again, and we both know how you accomplished that."

  Indeed. After the fire had so injured his lungs, Lucien had forced him into a ruthless regimen of hard exercise, challenging him to practice his fencing skills even on those days when Andrew had felt too weak or dispirited to even lift the rapier. As much as Andrew hated to admit it, there wasn't a man in England who could match Lucien's prowess with the blade . . . and as his fencing partner, Lucien had good reason to believe in Andrew's own skill as well.

  "Yes, well, if you're looking for gratitude, you're not going to get it," he said curtly. "Not tonight. I'm totally fed up with you and your confounded manipulations. Why don't you just bugger off and leave me alone?"

  "Ah, Andrew. You wound me."

  "Do I? Well let me tell you something else. I refuse to go to any more balls, parties, or public gatherings of any sort. I am not normal, and know it. I will never be normal. One of these days someone outside the family will find out. It's a damned miracle someone didn't find out or at least raise an eyebrow at the ball. You may be able to command just about everything except the weather, but even you cannot protect me if people start getting suspicious."

  "I have done a commendable job so far."

  "Yes, well, I'd rather just stay home. Unlike the rest of you, I hate going out in Society anyhow. Always have. Nothing but a bunch of twittering fops and fools who have nothing better to talk about than politics, scandal, and fashion."

  "Well, what would you have them talk about? The composition of drinking water? The effect of heat on various gases? The formula to determine the exact distance the earth stands from the sun? Really, Andrew. Your mind dwells in different and far higher places than do ours, indeed, than do those of most people you're likely to meet."

  "My point exactly." Andrew flipped a page. "And another thing. I would rather die at Somerfield's hand tomorrow than endure any more of those so-called doctors you keep dragging here to examine me."

  "Very well then. I will drag in no more doctors to examine you."

  Andrew rested his brow in the heel of his hand and turned a page, trying to
focus his attention on the question of why his random mix of chemicals had produced an aphrodisiac that had come close to ruining his life — if it hadn't already.

  But he kept seeing Lady Celsiana Blake, so interested in his work when every other lady he'd ever brought into his laboratory had been bored to tears. He kept seeing her looking seductive and oh-so-desirable in the throes of passion. He kept seeing her bravely trying to retain what dignity she had left while Lucien had baited her and tried to force her into a marriage she didn't want. And he kept seeing her leaping to his defense, taking the blame for the day's disaster instead of allowing him to shoulder it, as any other woman probably would have done.

  As any other woman probably would have demanded.

  "Well, Andrew," said his brother, pushing back his chair. "Now that we've reached an agreement of sorts, perhaps we can call a truce and be civil to one another? I for one am finding this brotherly strife infinitely wearying."

  "Then you should have thought of the consequences before playing games with Celsie's and my lives."

  "Games? My dear brother. You're the one who fails to see the gravity of this situation, not me. If you'd only done the gentlemanly thing and offered to marry the girl, you could enjoy a leisurely stay in bed tomorrow morning."

  "I'd sooner marry one of her dogs."

  "Hmm, yes. I am sure that whomever marries the fair Lady Celsiana will be marrying her dogs — that is, if he does not first choke to death on a pea."

  "Yes, well no danger of that with me, as I have no intention of marrying her and I hate peas." Andrew shut the book, poured himself a generous measure of brandy, and fixed Lucien with a hard glare from across the table. "Stay out of my life, Lucien. I'm warning you."

  "You're what?" asked Lucien, raising his brows.

  Andrew's eyes glittered. "I said, I'm warning you."

  "Dear me. That's what I thought you said."

  "You manipulated both Gareth and Charles into marriage, but I won't have you doing so to me. Do I make myself clear?"

  Lucien gave a dismissive wave of one lace-framed hand. "My dear boy. Charles and Gareth needed to be married. You. . . . well, as you have said time and time again, you have contributions to science to make. You have great things to invent. A wife would only get in the way of such lofty ambitions."

  Andrew clenched his jaw. Lucien was only echoing words that he had often uttered himself, but for some reason, they sounded mocking when his brother repeated them. He felt his temper starting to ignite.

  "Besides," Lucien added, before he could fashion a suitable retort, "I did not tell you to give the girl your potion. I did not tell her to ravish you. And I certainly did not tell her foolish brother to challenge you to a duel. Forgive me for pointing out the obvious, Andrew, but this trouble is of your own making, not mine. The fact that I find it all rather . . . amusing, is neither here nor there."

  "I wonder," muttered Andrew, pouring more brandy.

  "Well, do wonder over something other than a bottle of spirits. A little is good to steady one's nerves before a duel, but moderation is prudent."

  "There is nothing wrong with my nerves. Merely my temper."

  "Ah. One hopes your temper will improve by morning, then."

  "It will improve the moment you and every one else in the world stops interfering in my life. I just want to be left alone to do the things I want to do. That is all I've ever wanted. To be left alone."

  "It is not good to be alone."

  "You should talk."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "You heard me," Andrew gritted, his intent russet-green eyes blazing into Lucien's black stare. "You couldn't wait to get Gareth and Charles married off, and I'd bet my last breath you're trying to do the same to me, but what about you? You're the duke. You're the one with an obligation to this family, to your title, to your holdings, to our ancestors. Yet you stubbornly refuse to take a wife and produce an heir. At the rate you're going, the sixth duke of Blackheath will have to come down through Charles."

  "Hmm." Lucien was idly stroking his chin. "Perhaps the sixth duke of Blackheath will be Charles."

  Andrew narrowed his eyes. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

  "Why, absolutely nothing." Lucien's tone was far too dismissive, far too blithe, but before Andrew could question such enigmatic words, the duke suppressed a yawn and got to his feet. "I will leave you now, since that is your wish. Only sporting of me to grant it to you." He gave a devilish little smile. "After all, it might be your last."

  "I thought it was a second's duty to bolster the courage of his principal, not undermine it."

  "No need. As you said yourself, there is nothing wrong with your nerves, merely your temper. Even so, I am off to bed. You ought to be too, I think. Morning comes early."

  "Yes. Tomorrow's earlier than usual. Good night."

  "Good night."

  Lucien, looking down at Andrew's bent, sullen figure, paused to briefly clap a hand to his brother's shoulder as he passed behind his chair. His displays of affection were rare, and it was the closest that he was prepared to come to an apology, but Andrew only flinched irritably, shaking off his hand and never taking his attention off the glass of brandy into which he was brooding.

  Silently, Lucien walked from the dining room and out into the hall. Taking a sconce from a wall bracket, he made his way down the long, shadowy corridors. They were deserted, his footsteps echoing eerily against the walls of stone as he made his way toward the tower that housed the ducal apartments.

  Past the lonely rooms that had once been Charles's.

  Past the empty rooms that had once belonged to Gareth.

  Past the rooms — lonely, empty, soon enough if he had any say about it — where Nerissa, even now, slept so innocently.

  He paused outside her bedroom for a moment, his palm flat on the door, a poignant little smile softening his severe and unforgiving features. And then he continued on, toward the tower, steeling himself for the climb up the stairs where he had discovered his father lying all those years ago, his neck broken, his eyes glazed and staring, the tears wet upon his still warm cheeks.

  It was a memory that still had the power to unnerve him. Even now, twenty years later, it was as vivid as it had been that night he'd flung himself upon his dead father, overcome with fear and anguish at finding himself suddenly and unexpectedly saddled with the weight of adulthood, the responsibility of an ancient dukedom, and, when his grieving mother had succumbed to childbed fever three days later, the care of three brothers and an infant sister.

  He had been ten years old. It had been the end of his childhood, and as he had silently watched his parents' coffins interred side by side in the ancient de Montforte vault, his little weeping brothers huddled around him, his baby sister in his arms, he had vowed to his parents that he would take care of his siblings till the day he died. That he would never, never fail in his responsibilities to them.

  They came before the dukedom and his obligations to it.

  They always would.

  He reached the top of the tower that housed the immense ducal apartments, the huge rounded bedroom walled on all sides by tall, leaded windows that commanded a superior view of the downs and valleys for miles around. The November wind whistled mournfully outside. He sent his sleepy valet off to bed and, wrapped in a robe of black silk, went to one of the windows to look out over the night. In the distance, the lights of Ravenscombe twinkled.

  It was a long time before he finally retired, sliding wearily beneath the sheets of the great, medieval bed of carved English oak. He blew out the candle and stared up into the darkness above his head, listening to rain beginning to slash against the windows. In this same bed had slept every lord of Ravenscombe and, after the family had been elevated to the next echelon of the aristocracy, every duke of Blackheath. In this bed had also slept every duchess, but Lucien knew, deep in his soul, that this bed would never see his duchess.

  He held no fear of death, of course. He never had. But he w
as very concerned that he might not live long enough to see his vow to his dead parents carried out — and each of his beloved siblings happily and safely married off — before dreams became reality.

  You will marry her, Andrew.

  Upon my life, I will see it done.

  Far off in the darkness, a nightingale called. Moonlight parted the clouds and sparkled upon the ancient moat.

  And high in his lofty tower, all alone in his vast, cold bed, the mighty duke of Blackheath finally closed his eyes and slept.

  Chapter 9

  Dawn broke along the eastern horizon in fiery bands of red, orange, and gold. The timeless, high downs glowed with it. Morning mist sparkled upon their grasses like thousands of scattered diamonds, the bare face of chalk rubble here and there marking a road or farmer's path over the majestic hills.

  Andrew had not bothered going to bed. He had passed the night in the dining room where Lucien had left him, immersed in books, trying to find something, anything, that might help him understand the potion he had unwittingly created. The ruthless pursuit of answers was the only way he could focus his thoughts. Lady Celsiana Blake had been much on his mind. The impending duel had not been on it at all, and now, at daybreak, surfaced only as a minor irritation that needed to be dealt with.

  Despite his toils and a total absence of sleep, Andrew looked none the worse for wear. As he emerged from his apartments dressed in a loose white shirt beneath a sleeveless waistcoat, snug leather breeches that all but matched his carelessly waving auburn hair, and tight-fitting riding boots, his entire manner was one of brooding impatience and boredom. Nevertheless, he was a sight that made every maid in Blackheath's employ who was up and about her duties sigh with admiration as he strode briskly past.

  Andrew, oblivious as always to the excited commotion he caused amongst members of the fairer sex, found Lucien waiting for him in the Grand Hall. He was not in the least bit surprised to see that the duke, freshly shaved and elegantly turned out in black, looked as unruffled and unperturbed as ever. The sight of faint shadows, however, beneath those all-knowing, all-seeing, dark eyes took him slightly aback.