"You are very intuitive, as that is exactly what I intend to do."
"You know, you're proof of why dogs are so much better than men! They, at least, don't mock the idea of love, and they give it freely, uncomplainingly, and unconditionally. They have nothing more important in their lives than their humans. They love you till the day they die. And they, at least, want to spend time with you!"
"I can assure you, madam, that I am quite happy to spend time with you — preferably in your bed, where I can assure you that I will make you far happier than even your precious Freckles could ever dream of doing."
There was no green left in her eyes. "You're sick."
"Undoubtedly."
"And you'd better understand right now that I'm not kicking Freckles out of my bed for you. If you won't leave your laboratory to make room in your life for me, then I'm not making Freckles leave my bed to make room in it for you."
"Then in that case, I hope your bed is a large one so that it can accommodate the two most important males in your life."
"And I hope you can accommodate my wishes that we go out in Society once in a while!"
"Sorry, I don't care for social events. They're boring."
"They don't have to be. Why, we can dance. We can socialize. We can try to get people to take kindness to animals seriously."
Andrew was sketching again. A decapitated Lucien was lying on the ground now, another sword sticking through his heart. "I would prefer to stay home," he murmured, scribbling. "However, you are quite free to attend as many of these excruciatingly thrilling events as you wish."
"Fine, then. I will."
"Good."
The awkward silence was back, this time worse than it had been before. Andrew went back to his sketch — but the fire behind his original idea was gone, his savage delight in making an effigy of Lucien had vanished, and now, only lifeless, empty lines looked back at him. Sod this, he thought, tossing the sketchbook aside. Now, on top of everything else, he felt guilty for deliberately hurting her feelings. His guilt fed his anger, and his anger, the ever-present fear about his condition and the eventuality that it would be discovered.
He stole a glance at his companion, who was back to staring out the window once more. She had a lovely profile. A nose that made him want to kiss it. Lips that — Bloody hell, what the deuce did she want out of him, anyhow? She knew he didn't want a wife. He had thought she had wanted to go her own way as much as he did his. And now she wanted to spend time with him, to foster a friendship, to drag him out into Society, where it was all too likely that he would have another episode and people would finally know the truth about him. He wiped a hand over his face. If that happened, his science would never be taken seriously by his peers. If that happened, he would be laughed right out of the Royal Society before he even managed to get into it.
"I can see this isn't going to be easy," she muttered, still gazing out the window with a hopeless, sad expression on her face.
That expression was fatal to Andrew's anger. It was so much easier to shove her away when they were arguing. But this bald expression of hurt . . .
He just couldn't stand it.
"I'm sorry," he said gruffly. "I am an unpleasant creature. Not very good company for you or anyone else."
"I'm sorry, too. You deliberately baited me and I snapped it up like a beagle would a bone."
She turned her head then. Their gazes met. Her mouth curved in a fleeting, apologetic smile — and then her gaze dropped, only to land on the sketchbook on the seat.
She frowned. Andrew tensed. And then she reached out, picked it up, and studied Andrew's rendering of his decapitated brother, the headless corpse with a sword through the heart, the drops of blood running from the ragged neck.
Andrew bit his lip, not knowing what her reaction was going to be. Disgust? Anger? Horror?
It wasn't what he expected.
Laughter.
A burst of it escaped her mouth, only to be quickly muffled by her hand. She kept her hand there and looked up at him, her eyes dancing with mirth.
Andrew felt the corners of his own eyes crinkling.
She took her hand away then, and began to giggle. Andrew grinned and reclaimed the sketchbook. And this time, when their gazes met, neither looked away.
Chapter 15
Andrew and Celsie weren't the only ones who felt like killing the duke of Blackheath.
Gerald, along with his valet and Celsie's dog, reached Rosebriar late that evening. Gerald's temper had cooled somewhat, though anger still simmered just beneath the surface. He could think now, instead of just react. And think, he did.
Blackheath, damn his eyes, had hit upon the truth: Gerald had nothing against Lord Andrew de Montforte personally, as a bridegroom for Celsie, save for the fact that he couldn't control the Defiant One the way he knew he could control Bonkley and a score of other men he could think of.
And as far as Gerald's bailing himself out of debt was concerned, that was a problem.
He didn't know whom he despised more: the arrogant duke of Blackheath, whose wishes were only one rung down the ladder from God's; the duke's bat-brained brother for creating the love potion that had stolen Celsie right from out of his grasp; or Celsie herself for refusing to lend Gerald any more money than she'd already done. She was a selfish, ungrateful bitch, no better than her whoring mama. And now he could hear barking coming from the kennels outside, could see Freckles standing next to his water bowl, empty and dry, and looking up at Gerald in quiet expectation. Gerald ignored the old dog. He hated its sorrowful eyes. Hated the claim it had on Celsie's life. Bloody hell, his sister cared more for these stupid beasts than she did her own brother. She was willing to pour all her time, energy and money into them, but she wouldn't lift a finger to pay off his debts.
He despised the de Montfortes, Celsie, even his own father, who'd promptly lost all interest in his only son the moment he'd met and married Celsie's beautiful mama, worshipping her until the discovery of her in bed with another man had broken his heart and hastened an untimely end. 'Sdeath, he felt as though the entire world were against him.
Just as he knew every creditor on earth was banging on his door back in London. Good thing he could hide here for a while, though after he'd tried to kill Andrew this morning, it was a certainty that Celsie would throw him out when she returned.
He couldn't hide from debtor's prison forever. He needed blunt, and plenty of it, and if he couldn't get it from Celsie one way or another, he was going to have to find it from somewhere else.
He left the hall and went outside, needing fresh air, needing to think. Freckles, abandoning his dry water bowl, followed painfully, but sore and tired and unable to keep up with Gerald's long stride, soon fell behind. The earl didn't bother to wait for the old dog. He was sick of dogs. Sick of everything.
It was as he strode out past Celsie's neglected rose gardens that a snippet of the conversation he'd had with His Arrogance the duke of Blackheath came filtering back to him . . .
Really, Somerfield, if you are desperate to get your hands on a fortune, perhaps you should consider marrying an heiress yourself and have done with the matter.
Gerald stopped in mid-stride.
By God, that was it. That was the answer.
Marry an heiress himself!
Of course, he had to find one first. And far more challenging, he had to make her fall in love with him enough to want to marry a penniless earl with a less-than-sterling reputation and a penchant for the gaming tables.
But how?
He stared down at one of the garden's last roses, blooming bravely in the moonlight despite the fact that any time now, it might wither beneath the season's first hard frost. That aphrodisiac. I have got to get my hands on that aphrodisiac.
An impossibility, of course.
And then he thought of Eva.
~~~~
By mutual consent, Andrew and Celsie had decided to go to London, to give themselves time to think — away from th
eir families and the troubles they'd left behind. By the time the coach finally pulled up before the elegant wrought-iron gates of de Montforte House, the moon was a soaring beacon that lit up the night sky.
Andrew, shivering in his sleeveless waistcoat, had spent most of the trip in silence. He had wanted to be alone with his thoughts, alone with his problems. The slight softening he felt towards Celsiana was both welcome and somewhat worrying. He was determined to keep her at arm's length — but she had found a chink in his armor. Truth be told, he was much happier being friendly with her than antagonistic. Even now, looking at her on the opposite seat, dozing peacefully beneath the lap rug he'd put over her after she'd fallen asleep, he felt a sharp pang of tenderness in his heart. He didn't like being so rude and abrupt to her — but it was necessary. He couldn't let her get close to him.
He had too much to lose.
And now the coach had stopped. It was time to get out.
"Celsie."
She didn't move.
Andrew leaned forward and touched her shoulder. "Celsie, wake up. We're here."
She made a faint, unintelligible sound, pulled the short blanket up around her shoulders, and didn't move any further.
The door opened and a footman let down the stairs. Andrew didn't know quite what to do — so he did the only thing he could do.
He stood as best he could, slid his arms beneath Celsie's sleeping body, and lifting her from the seat, stepped down from the coach.
She was tall for a woman, but she was all legs, her bones light, her weight insignificant. She fit easily in his arms. He liked the feel of her there. He liked the way that, in her half sleep, she nestled her cheek against his chest, one palm placed trustingly against his heart. Again, he felt that curious stab of tenderness. Aware that the footman was standing there trying to remain inconspicuous, Andrew turned and carried her into the house.
Issuing commands to the servants for food, hot baths, and rooms to be made ready, he bore his sleepy burden up the stairs. He would not, of course, remain with her. He had no intention of sleeping with her. He would stay as far away from her as possible.
Reaching the top of the stairs, he turned and carried her into his rooms, thinking that would be the best place for her until morning when they could sort this sordid mess out.
She opened sleepy eyes as he shut the door behind her and laid her on the bed. Immediately, wariness came into them when she saw where he had put her.
"Relax, I'm not going to touch you," he said gruffly.
"Where are we?"
"London. De Montforte House. You're in my bed, but have no fear, I have no intention of staying." He drew back, away from her, giving her privacy and space. "A maid will be up shortly with some supper, and they're already preparing water for a hot bath. Good night."
She sat up. "Where are you going?"
"I, madam, am exhausted. I'm going elsewhere, and there, after supper and a bath, I'm going to bed."
"Oh."
He turned, irritably, and looked at her. She was still on the bed, though obviously uncomfortable about being seen in such an intimate place. She still had the lap rug, clutching it rather tightly around her shoulders. She looked unhappy. Confused. And heartrendingly vulnerable. The tender feeling she aroused in him irritated him.
"Now what?" he asked impatiently.
She sighed and ignored his curtness. "This isn't right. I have a townhouse here in London, too. I think I'd better go there instead . . ."
For some reason, his peevishness increased. "Fine, then. Go."
"Yes. I think that would be for the best." She flashed him a look he couldn't quite decipher and started to get off the bed. He noticed that she kept her eyes down, away from him, as though the experiences of the past two days had sent her beyond mortification. Her cheeks were pink. He would not feel sorry for her. He would not. She kept the lap rug tightly shut around her.
"You can take our coach," Andrew said.
"Thank you."
"Maybe we can meet in the morning over breakfast." He turned away from her, feeling oddly bereft, oddly betrayed, oddly confused over why he was feeling suddenly angry with her all over again. "We, uh, need to discuss how we can get out of this devilish predicament."
"Yes. What time should I call?"
"It doesn't matter."
She raised her gaze then, and met his. "I'll make it around noontime, then. I know you're a late sleeper."
"Trust me, madam, I don't expect to be getting much sleep tonight."
She nodded in understanding. He bowed to her, and she turned and walked out of the room, leaving him standing there alone. Andrew's palms went damp. His heart turned into a racehorse. He hailed her, almost desperately. "Wait."
She turned, the look in her eyes almost hopeful, but no, he was imagining it.
"You can take one of my greatcoats if you want," he offered. "You wouldn't want anyone to see you wearing" — he jerked his chin to indicate her breeches and stockings, just visible beneath the short blanket — "that."
"Thank you," she said, slipping off the woolen throw and putting it across the back of a chair. He went to the wardrobe, retrieved a heavy woolen coat, and gently settled it around her shoulders, letting his fingers linger longer than they should as he adjusted it.
"There." He swallowed and drew back, rather reluctantly. "Until tomorrow, Lady Celsiana."
"Until tomorrow, Lord Andrew."
There was an expression in her eyes that he couldn't quite read. Something like sadness. Or hurt. He couldn't quite discern which. He didn't want to discern which. He had to get this woman out of the house, out of his life, before his anger broke down even more.
He turned away so he wouldn't have to see her disappear, when something outside the tall window that looked down on the street caught his eye. His curiosity aroused, he took a few steps toward it and froze.
"Dear God . . ."
The street was glowing with an eerie amber light, but where the cobbles should have been, there was only a broad, flat ribbon of grey bracketed by lines of bright yellow and white. Strange, frightening noises filled his head. Strange, frightening lights dazzled his eyes. Andrew stared, the hair on the back of his neck rising. Holding his breath, too afraid to move, he slowly raised his gaze, trying to locate the source of the eerie light . . . and saw that the full moon, riding so high above the city, was repeated over and over and over again the length of the street, in a perfect, unbroken line of amber moons all glowing down on the scene beneath him.
He shut his eyes and gripped the sill of the window, his knees shaking, and when he opened them a heartbeat later, everything was as it should be.
Only one bright moon, riding high in the night sky above. Cobbles, over which the iron wheels of carriages, gigs, and coaches were rumbling and rattling. Smart-stepping horses, pedestrians on foot, a dog sniffing around in a gutter.
And Celsiana, who had come up behind him and put a concerned hand on his arm.
"Andrew?"
He gave his head a good shake, as though he could shake away the madness, as though he could forget all those amber moons that had been lined up above the street just a moment ago. "Did you see it?" he asked harshly.
"See what?" She went to the window, frowned, and turned concerned eyes on him. "Andrew, are you all right?"
"Yes, yes, I'm fine," he snapped, turning on his heel. He was trembling. He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, wanting only to flee before he ended up telling her of the strange moons and lights he'd just seen outside that very same window.
Before he ended up telling her that he was going mad.
But she was there, her hands gripping his rigid forearms. She pulled them down, dragging his fists away from his face, seeing the panic in his eyes. Her gaze was dark with concern. He shut his eyes as she palmed his forehead. "You're ill. You're sweating. You're as white as the tip of a beagle's tail."
"Celsie, leave me alone. Go away. Go away, now."
"I will, after I make
sure you're all right."
"For God's sake, woman —"
Her grip around his wrist was fierce as she dragged him away from the window and back toward the bed. "Stop acting like a foolish man and sit down for a moment. You were ill this morning, too, weren't you? That's why you fell during the duel. Oh, don't think you can deceive me, Andrew. Gerald didn't stun you with his sword; you're ill. And you need to rest."
"I'm fine, I just . . . need some food, that's all."
"Andrew, sit."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me. Sit!"
He had no chance to recover from his amazement at being the first human on earth, surely, to be given an obedience command, before she shoved him down and backward. Andrew sat. Somewhat stunned, he allowed Celsie to tug off his boots, to remove his stock, to sit on the bed beside him and lift a concerned hand to his brow to check for fever.
The devil, but he had never had anyone fuss over him before. Maybe his mother had, but he'd been young when she'd died, and he sure as hell couldn't remember it. His life had been spent in self-imposed solitude. He'd never craved affection of any sort. But now, here she was touching him. Worrying over him. What a novel feeling. What a nice feeling.
Embarrassed, he smiled a little weakly. "I suppose you're going to tell me down next."
"Actually, that's exactly what I was going to tell you." She completely missed his feeble joke and stood back, studying him narrowly. "Well, you're cooler now, but you still don't look well at all. I'm going down to the kitchens to find something for you to eat so you won't have to wait for a meal to be prepared. Some food, hot tea, and a nightshirt ought to be just the thing. Now, get under those covers and don't move until I return, is that clear?"
"What?"
"You may be ill, my lord, but I know for certain that your hearing is quite unimpaired."
Andrew was staring at her. "I'm not sure whether I should be grateful, amused, offended, or amazed by such . . . treatment . . ."
"You can be all of them except offended," she said, giving him a fleeting smile that brought out the sparkle in her eye. "After all, I'm treating you no differently than I would a dog."
The Defiant One Page 13