The Defiant One

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The Defiant One Page 25

by Danelle Harmon


  "You try picking the confounded thing up!" he said drolly, taking out a handkerchief and mopping his forehead.

  Celsie, one brow lifting in mocking amusement, waited until he reached the top of the stairs and set the crate down. Shooting him a superior little grin, she reached down to pick it up — and froze, her grin abruptly fading. She might as well have tried to lift an overweight Great Dane. The crate wouldn't budge.

  "Very well then, I reclaim my comment about your brawn," she said, straightening. "It's a wonder you didn't break your back! Really, Andrew, why didn't you just leave it downstairs, instead of lugging it all the way up here?"

  "Because you, madam, asked me to bring it up."

  "Oh."

  "It really does belong in the kitchen," he added.

  Her face fell, though she tried not to let it show. "Let me guess . . . It's an iron cook pot for the hearth," she said, trying not to sound too deflated.

  "No, it is not an iron cook pot. Now, go get my present and we'll open them right here," he said, leaning against the elegantly carved balustrade and crossing his arms. "Unless it's even bigger than this thing?"

  "It is much bigger than that. And I couldn't presume to carry it even if I wanted to. You'll have to come with me."

  "You would say that . . . I suppose you want me to bring this, then, too."

  "Of course. Would you like me to help you carry it?"

  He merely shot her an exasperated look. Celsie's eyes sparkled above her grin. She watched as he crouched down and lifted the heavy crate, hoisting it even though Celsie hadn't been able to lift it an inch off the floor.

  Now that she knew how impossibly heavy the thing was, Celsie couldn't help but stand transfixed. Very well, then, so her gifted husband had brawn as well as brains. Why, her side of this marital bargain was getting better and better! She watched him balancing the box, and felt a thrill of expectation at the thought of touching those strong, defined muscles . . .

  "Stop staring, girl, and start walking. This isn't the lightest thing I've ever carried!"

  Celsie laughed and continued on. She was well aware that his appreciative gaze was on the sway of her hips and the narrowness of her waist as she preceded him down the hall, and the thought only made her all the more eager to finally get her husband into bed where he belonged.

  She led him past the state bedrooms, past the apartments they would call their own, and into a rich, masculine room that had once been her papa's library but was now empty of books and all signs of recent habitation. Dark mahogany bookcases lined an entire wall. A case clock dominated one corner of the room. Tall, south-facing windows let in the thin autumn sun and overlooked the ornamental pond, its surface now peppered with yellow and brown leaves, in the near distance. The walls were panelled with fine English oak, the doors carved and heavy, the polished floor devoid of furniture save for three long tables, all of them spotlessly bare. All of them, that is, except the middle one, upon which stood a decanter of wine and two crystal goblets.

  Celsie stopped, turned, and hands on her hips, regarded him happily.

  "Well, here you are, husband. My wedding present to you."

  Andrew set down his burden with a grunt and straightened. He looked around and frowned, his expression much the same as Celsie's had been upon learning that his present to her had been a monstrous piece of iron.

  "So, what do you think?" Celsie asked excitedly, feigning innocence. "Isn't it wonderful?"

  "Uh . . . isn't what wonderful?"

  "Why, this room, of course."

  "Sorry?"

  "It's yours," she said gaily, unable to stop grinning. "Oh Andrew, don't look so baffled! There was a real reason why I didn't want you to have the downstairs ballroom for your laboratory . . . I had this room all picked out and ready for you. I thought you'd like it so much better . . . It gets lovely sunshine all day, is away from commotion and the sound of the kennels outside, and was once the domain of my father, the master of the house. Now, as the new master of the house, it is your domain. Yours to do with, whatever you wish."

  He stared about him, blinking and amazed, his expression softening into one of sheer, unfettered rapture. A broad, boyish smile overtook his mouth, and he shook his head in disbelief, his eyes glowing with happiness. "Oh, Celsie . . . you couldn't have chosen a nicer gift!"

  "There's more," she said.

  "More?"

  "Yes. Since you are so hopelessly disorganized, Andrew, and since I'm beginning to think that your dislike of paperwork and the meticulous recording of information is one of the reasons you jump from one idea to the next before seeing things through, I have determined to do something about it. This chamber not only comes with all the furniture you see — also part of my wedding present, of course — it comes with its own laboratory assistant." She grinned. "Me."

  "You?"

  "Me." She flew into his arms, hugging him tightly. "Oh, Andrew, I just know you're going to change the world, and best of all, you're going to start right here! I can't wait!"

  Overwhelmed, he lifted her high and swung her around once, twice, her petticoats flying. "Celsie — dearest, most delightful Celsie — nothing you could have given me, save for yourself, could have made me so happy!"

  "Well since you get me as well as the room, then you should never have reason to be in a bad mood, ever again!"

  He bent his head and kissed her, his heart so full of joy and adoration he thought he was going to burst. It was a long time before he finally set her back, tenderly gripping her upper arms as he gazed down into her eyes.

  "Do you know, Celsiana Blake de Montforte, I am dangerously close to admitting that I could quite easily fall in love with you. In fact, I am dangerously close to admitting that I'm already half in love with you as it is."

  "Well then, if you're half in love with me, and I'm half in love with you, does that make us a whole?"

  "Sorry?"

  "Does that make us wholly in love with each other?"

  He laughed. "Well, now, that's rather interesting logic, isn't it? I hadn't quite looked at it that way, but yes, I do suppose it must."

  "Well then, show me how much you half love me by letting me open my present!"

  He looked suddenly shy, and she saw a faint red flush suffusing his cheeks. "Oh, well, nothing I could ever give you would even come close to what you've just given me."

  "You're probably right," she said jokingly, trying to lessen his sudden embarrassment. "I cannot imagine what a huge chunk of iron is going to do for me! But never mind, you've intrigued me, Andrew. I'll open it now."

  She knelt down beside the large crate, flipped open the rope latch, lifted the cover —

  And blinked.

  "Do you like it?" he asked, standing over her shoulder and displaying the same false innocence she had shown just moments ago.

  She just knelt there, staring rather stupidly at the pulleys and wooden crank handle and gears with their wolfhound-sized teeth, at this strange concoction of iron that was the ugliest and most unromantic wedding gift imaginable, and didn't know quite what to say. She didn't want to hurt his feelings; he sounded so excited, so eager for her to like it . . .

  Whatever "it" was.

  "Um, Andrew . . . it's, uh, rather interesting, but I haven't the faintest idea what it is."

  "Guess."

  "Um . . . it's the inner workings for a new clock you've designed?"

  "Try again."

  "Something you've seen in one of your visions?"

  "No — you've got one more guess."

  "Something to do with a new carriage."

  "Wrong again. Shall I tell you what it is, then?"

  "I think you're going to have to," she said, trying not to sound too glum.

  "It's a mechanized roaster," he said happily. "To go into the kitchen. To turn the meats. To turn the meats over the open fire, Celsiana, so that your little turnspit dogs can now go learn how to be lapdogs, instead."

  It took a moment for his words to sink i
n.

  To turn the meats over the open fire, Celsiana, so that your little turnspit dogs can now go learn how to be lapdogs, instead.

  Celsie's gaze flew back to what had been, just a moment ago, a confusing and ugly jumble of iron and wood; and then, suddenly, a lump caught in her throat and all those gears and pulleys and strange bits of metal went blurry beneath the sudden sheen of tears.

  Her hand went to her mouth.

  "Oh, Andrew," she breathed, turning to look up at him over her shoulder with huge, watery eyes. She felt her jaw quivering. "I can't believe you did this . . ."

  His cheeks were a little red. He shrugged, trying to make light of what he'd done, but she saw the pride in his eyes, the vulnerability, the desperate hope that she'd like what he had made for her. "Oh, well, it didn't take long," he admitted. "I got the idea when we were in London. I know the blacksmith in Ravenscombe quite well, and he was happy to fashion this to my specifications —"

  "You mean to say you thought this up just like that?"

  He shrugged. "That's how I think most things up," he confessed, almost apologetically. "I can't help it."

  "Andrew, you're absolutely brilliant!" She leaped to her feet and hurled herself into his arms, kissing his face, kissing his lips, while huge tears of happiness slipped down her cheeks. "Do you know what this is going to mean to all those poor little dogs burning their paws off in so many English kitchens, running their tiny legs to the bone? Do you realize how this is going to revolutionize the way kitchens are run, the way food is cooked? Oh, Andrew — I thank you! All those little dogs who are currently being so abused thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

  He caught her as she hugged him around the neck, nearly choking him and more happy than he'd ever seen her. His own grin was a little cocky. Well, damn . . . if this was all it took to make the lady happy, the road ahead wasn't going to be so difficult, after all!

  "Do you know, I couldn't have asked for a better present," she said, wiping at her streaming eyes. "I am the happiest woman in England. I have the smartest husband in the whole wide world. And the only thing that could possibly make me even happier is if my smart, handsome husband were to lift me in his arms and carry me off to our marriage bed."

  He smiled lazily down at her, and in one neat, easy movement, scooped her up. "Well then, dear lady — your wish is my most eager command."

  Chapter 28

  "We'll have to get a patent for it, immediately. We'll have to present it to the Royal Society. We'll have to throw a huge ball and invite everyone there is to invite, have a demonstration, and prove that people don't have to use poor little dogs in the kitchen!"

  Andrew merely smiled and, carrying the comparatively weightless Celsie, strode easily down the hall.

  "We'll have to enlarge the kennels so we can take in all the dogs that will be out of work once your wheel goes into production. We'll have to print broadsides informing the general public. Oh, and Andrew, we simply must make a present of one for the king's household, because if he endorses it, all of England will want one!"

  "Yes, Celsie."

  "Oh! You just passed the door, Andrew. Go back a few steps!"

  He did, carrying her over the threshold and kicking the door shut behind him as he moved toward the bed.

  "We'll have to start a company to manufacture it. We'll have to take it on tour throughout England. In fact, we'll have to take it all around Europe so that everyone there will also —"

  She never finished. His mouth came down hard on hers, crushing her lips with blistering intensity. His tongue forced her lips apart and his breath was hot against her cheek. Ohhhhhh, Celsie thought, and began to melt. As he laid her down on the bed, she felt her spine sinking into the plush coverlet, her eyes closing, her head falling upon a paw.

  A paw.

  Freckles was in the bed.

  Her eyes flew open. "Andrew, we can't make love here, Freckles will see!"

  "Freckles can close his eyes."

  "But Andrew —"

  He scooped her back up, carried her to the elegant, claw-footed settee, and laid her down on it instead. Her body angled across the rich red damask, one leg bent at the knee, the other just resting on the rug. One of her shoes came off. Her layers of petticoats spilled from her hips and tumbled toward the floor in frothy yards of quilted cotton, of heavy, serviceable wool. She felt his mounting urgency to have her. She felt his fingers pulling her stock from her neck, his lips against her throat. And she felt his hand palming and stroking her breast where it swelled above her stays, warming her skin, firing her desire.

  "God and the devil, I hate these things," he muttered. "Must beauty be contained in such a damnable cage?"

  He couldn't reach her; not without turning her over and unlacing her. And he had neither the patience nor the ability to wait. He crowded onto the narrow sofa, too much man for so little space, his knee driving against the outside of her thigh, his hand reaching down to find the hem of her petticoats and pull them high —

  "Lord save me, you're wearing breeches under these things!"

  "Well, I did ride astride, Andrew . . . Did you want the saddle to chafe my legs to ribbons?"

  "The last time I saw you in breeches . . ."

  "Was altogether memorable. Go ahead, Andrew. Let's make more memories. But please don't undress me fully — it's dreadfully cold in here."

  "It won't be for long," he promised.

  She unfastened the breeches and lifted her bottom, inviting him to tug them off.

  He did, tossing them to the floor. She saw his slow, appreciative smile as he found that which he'd been expecting to find — stockings, garters, and bare naked thighs. Oh, she loved when he smiled like that! And she loved the feel of his hand skimming up her stocking-clad calf. His mouth was warm against her breasts, swelling above the tightly laced stays, and now Celsie could feel his hand moving across her knee, fumbling with her garter, finally cursing and tearing it down her leg and peeling the filmy stocking off with it.

  "Is this what ravishment feels like, I wonder?" she breathed faintly, loving every minute of it.

  "It's what not being able to wait feels like."

  His hand, so warm against her flesh, so delicious, stroked up her inner thigh, his fingers searching, searching . . . and finding.

  Finding her already hot and wet for him.

  Finding her slick and ready and eager and wanting.

  "Oh, God," he said hoarsely, and with one quick movement, he tossed the heavy fall of her skirts fully up and over her stomach, exposing her long, white legs — one bare, the other still wearing its garter and stocking — and her naked femininity to the pale, late afternoon sun.

  To his smoldering, intent gaze.

  He stared; Celsie saw his chest rising and falling, his long lashes coming down to veil eyes that had gone suddenly dark. His knee pressed uncomfortably into her outer thigh; his arousal was fully evident beneath the flap of his breeches. She felt exposed and naked and shameless and wanton as he stared down at her, not saying a word, just looking. Just admiring. And then he lifted his gaze and in his eyes she saw desire burning so hot that it nearly scalded her with its intensity.

  "Damnation," he swore, on a little laugh.

  "Damnation?"

  "How the hell am I ever going to find the time, to find the incentive, to find the will to pursue my science when I have you around to constantly tempt me?"

  "I guess you're just going to have to practice a little restraint." She smiled up at him. "Though I certainly hope you won't."

  "Damn right I won't. By God, Celsie, you're going to be the death of me, I swear it."

  She giggled. "Where's that potion, Andrew? I thought we were going to try it topically."

  "Don't know . . . don't care."

  "Oh, get it. Get it, and let's see what it does."

  He got up, opened his coat, fumbled in the pocket and found the tiny vial. Celsie lay draped over the sofa, bathed in the glow of the sun coming in from the window ab
ove, her long legs framed by white underpetticoats and wool overpetticoats and the rich red damask of the settee. She could feel her body temperature rising. She could feel an empty ache in her arms, in her belly, in that spot between her legs where desire throbbed hot and moist, aching to be fulfilled.

  She began to tremble with need.

  To breathe a little heavier.

  He returned with the vial, forcing a space for himself on the seat beside her, his hand stroking the velvety skin of her inner thigh, coming near to but never quite touching the part of her that needed him more than any other. He held the vial up to the light, examining it, prolonging the ecstatic inevitable.

  "Shall we try it on me or on you?" he asked, his hand skimming back up her thigh and now gently pushing the leg that hung off the seat, further away from the other.

  "You choose."

  "All right, then."

  He pushed her thighs even further apart.

  "Andrew, you're going to split me right in half," she gasped, a little breathlessly.

  "I want to see you. I want to see all of you." His fingers were playing with the silky hair of her mound now, gently stroking the hidden folds within, making her entire body thrum with sensation. He looked intently down at her, watching everything his fingers were doing. "And I want to see just what happens when I put a drop or two of this solution right here between these pretty pink folds — and touch it to this hard little nub."

  His erotic suggestion caused Celsie to melt yet further into the cushion. Just the thought of that fervently potent aphrodisiac against her most intimate flesh was enough to double her already pounding pulse.

  "Well, then . . . go ahead," she managed, stretching an arm over her head and gazing up at his handsome, intent face.

  He slowly uncapped the vial, the deliberate delay in his movements causing the anticipation to build all the more. Celsie felt the room's cool, unheated air drifting around her exposed thighs . . . her knees . . . kissing her shamelessly exposed cleft. Trembling, she curled her right toe into the floor rug and pressed the other leg, still bent at the knee, to the red damask that covered the back of the settee.

 

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