The Defiant One

by Danelle Harmon

  "You're not cold, are you?"

  "No — just incredibly impatient to have you inside of me."

  Her gaze followed Andrew's hand as he put a finger over the top of the open vial and briefly turned it upside down. Then he took his finger away, a drop of the liquid standing upon the pad of his forefinger, shimmering in the fiery afternoon light.

  She gazed up at him.

  He gazed back, smiling a little wickedly.

  He reached down and parted her with one hand; then he touched his finger to her opening, and dragged it down the inside length of one damp petal of inner skin.

  Dragged it back up the length of the other, painting her with the solution.

  Celsie, her gaze still locked with his, began to shake.

  "Do you feel anything yet?" he asked.

  "Nothing but you . . . Which is erotic enough in itself."

  He smiled. Again, he put his finger to the vial, this time opening her with the other thumb and forefinger, observing her while the drop of potion stood upon his finger. Somehow he managed to recap the bottle. Then, slowly, torturously, he forced her inner lips wide, touched the drop of liquid to that hard, swollen button that hid between them — and keeping his finger there, pressed hard.

  Celsie moaned, sucking her lips between her teeth.

  He increased the pressure. "Now do you feel anything?" he asked softly.

  "It's . . . it's starting to tingle down there."

  "Hmm, yes."

  "It's — I think it's starting to — to burn."

  "Does it hurt?"

  "Oh, no. It's not that kind of burning . . . if you know what I mean."

  "Ah, yes. I know what you mean." His smile was positively wicked. "I must remember to make a note of that."

  He kept the pressure against her, pushing down with his finger, watching her flushed face as her head began to move slowly back and forth on the satiny red pillow.

  "Andrew," she managed, on a choked little gasp.

  "Yes, dear?"

  "Andrew, I think I need you to be inside of me now."

  "I'm not done observing, Celsie."

  Heat was building within her, all of it centered around his finger . . . and every inch of flesh the aphrodisiac had touched. "To hell with the experiment, Andrew . . . I'm getting desperate."

  He merely caught her nub between thumb and finger and began gently rolling it.

  "Oh —" Celsie moaned, fingers clenching and unclenching, toes curling, the sensation beginning to feel like a thousand little needles all stabbing into that one fiery spot, screaming for pressure, screaming for release, screaming for his mouth, his tongue, his finger, his manhood, anything. And now he was rubbing that hard bit of flesh a little more forcefully, intently watching her face, intently watching the nub itself. Celsie choked back a moan and grabbed at his hand, trying to push it against her all the harder. "Oh, Andrew — I think I'm going to die if you don't do something!"

  He was smiling, one brow raised as he observed her reactions, his eyes glowing with passion as he kept on. "Hmm, yes — you're blushing down there."

  "To hell with the science stuff, Andrew, take me — oh please, take me, I'm burning up!"

  Little whimpers began to escape her and she started to pant, to squirm, to struggle to get her legs together if only to put pressure against that keening, ravenous pins-and-needles ache that was screaming for fulfillment.

  "Touch me, Andrew — oh touch me, I'm going mad!"

  She shoved his hand against the burning flesh, crying out and twisting her hips against him as she fought for release.

  "I say, this is a most unusual reaction," he teased.

  Celsie couldn't take any more. In one swift movement she lunged upwards, spilling Andrew off the sofa and onto the floor. He landed with a hard oomph on his back, the fall knocking the breath out of him and sending the vial skittering across the floor. In a flash Celsie was on him, her hand ripping at his breeches, little sobs coming from her throat.

  She was maddened, desperate, strong, but no match for him. He caught her flailing hands, rolling her over onto her back and kissing her hard on the mouth. She broke free, one hand sliding up his nape and through his hair, the other raking his back through the shirt.

  "Celsie, hold still —"

  "I can't — I'm trying, Andrew, but I just can't!"

  He fumbled with his breeches, but she was thrashing too much, whimpering with need, heels digging into the floor and her body shaking violently. She tried to reach him through his breeches. Andrew grabbed her arm, pinning her to the floor, trapping her before she could reach for him and send him careening over the edge.

  And then he looked down and saw that her wild fighting had sent her skirts up, and there was nothing between him and the rug on which she lay but long white thighs, downy curls, and a damp slit of pink, plush, flesh.

  Andrew groaned, pulled her up a foot or two on the floor, and holding her legs open with both hands, buried his face between them.

  At first touch of his bristled cheeks scraping her inner thighs, she arched upward on a half wail, half sob. His hands anchored her thighs apart, the thumbs pressing into her flesh, and a moment later he was kissing her, his tongue hot, his mouth wide-open against her inner flesh. Celsie gave a harsh cry and arched her back, one hand breaking free, her nails clawing at the rug and bunching it in one fist. She felt his tongue darting out to probe and excite the nub of flesh that still burned out of control from the potion, felt him stroking and kissing and licking, and now everything inside her was gathering forces and careening toward a violent explosion.

  "Andrew — I need you inside me, need you inside me, now —"

  He only pressed his mouth harder against her, his tongue sliding between her wet folds in search of the very core of her, stroking, stroking —

  "Andrew —"

  And then Celsie cried out as everything inside her splintered and blew apart. Convulsing, she bucked upwards and tumbled Andrew onto his back, clawing at his breeches, ripping away the drop front with desperate fingers. He sprang hard and free against her belly, already thundering toward climax himself; just in time, Celsie got him inside her, and he came with a hoarse, ripping groan that mirrored her own cries as he fell with her over the precipice.

  She lay there atop him, damp with sweat, her face buried in the curve of his neck and shoulder, and both of them breathing like winded horses.

  "You and your damned experiments!"

  "You asked for it!"

  "Yes, well, next time, you're the one who's going to see what it feels like!"

  He guffawed. She laughed. And then he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pinned her to his spent body.

  "If I survive a month, let alone a week, of being married to you, it's going to be a damned miracle," he said. And then, flinging out an arm, he caught the corner of the rug, dragged it over the both of them as a makeshift blanket, and for the first time in days, finally shut his eyes.

  Beneath his back the floor was hard and drafty, but they were exhausted.

  "I was wrong, Celsie," he murmured, feeling sleep rushing down on him as he snuggled her tightly against his heart.

  "Wrong?"

  "About being only half in love with you . . . "

  She smiled. He put his lips against her cheek.

  Oblivion came quickly to them both.

  And on the high, soft bed, Freckles, snoring deeply, slept on.

  Chapter 29

  At about the time that Andrew and Celsie finally crawled into bed some hours later, shivering and squeezing to one side so as not to disturb the sprawled-out Freckles, Gerald was having tea with the very virtuous, heavily dowered, passably pretty, and altogether silly Miss Sarah Madden.

  He had a small vial in the pocket of his jacket, his portion of the aphrodisiac, though he had done nothing himself to obtain it. He did not begrudge Eva the lion's share of the stuff; if she needed it to bring down tyrants of power, to force marriages that would benefit America, to do whatever i
t was she needed it to do, well, that was her prerogative. He patted his pocket; he had his prerogatives, too.

  "More tea, my lord?" asked Miss Sarah, lifting the teapot.

  He nodded, watching as she refreshed his beverage. She turned away to address a footman, and it was then, while she wasn't looking, that Gerald discreetly tapped a few drops of the potion into her own cup.

  He had it back in his pocket before she returned her attention to him.

  The footman approached. "Miss Madden — "

  "Not now, Perkins."

  "But Miss Madden, I must have a word with you — "

  "Later, Perkins!" Irritated, she turned back to her guest. "So, as I was saying," she babbled, taking a few sips of the brew and setting the cup down in its saucer, "this is my very first Season, and Mama was determined that I should be dressed in the very finest that Madame Boulanger had to offer. She thought that I might set a new style with this particular style of sleeve. What do you think, Lord Somerfield?"

  "It is charming," he said, far less enamored of her sleeve than he was of her money — which, if things went according to plan, would soon be his.

  How long did it take for the damned potion to work?

  Perkins was still trying to get her attention. Fed up, Miss Madden waved him away, her face pinched and annoyed. "I rather think that this sleeve will be all the rage in London this year, too. And this lovely shade of blue . . . Mama says it sets off my eyes to their best advantage, would you not agree, my lord? Do you remember when Lord Charles de Montforte's wife, Amy, made her debut last year wearing that brilliant peacock gown? And how everyone was wearing peacock after that?" She gave a twittering, grating little laugh. "Well, I was thinking that if Lady Charles could set a fashion, then so could I. In fact . . ."

  She trailed off, her face going suddenly white.

  "What is it, my dear?" asked Gerald, setting down his cup and feigning concern when inside, his every muscle was tensed and waiting for her to attack him and rip off his clothes. Waiting for her ferocious mama to come storming in from the room next door. Waiting for the two of them to be caught in a compromising position so that she'd have to marry him and he'd finally have his hands on a fortune.

  "I . . . suddenly don't feel very well," she said faintly, her hand going to her stomacher and tiny beads of sweat breaking out on her brow.

  He rose. "Here, let me assist you."

  "No!"

  "I insist."

  But she leaped to her feet, her cheeks pasty beneath their rouge, and with a panicky look, bolted from the room.

  Moments later, the formidable Mrs. Madden swept in. "Lord Somerfield," she said gravely. "I fear I must beg your forgiveness. My daughter has suddenly become quite violently ill and has taken to her bed. Perhaps you will call again tomorrow, when it is hoped she will be feeling better?"

  Gerald bowed, confusion and anger warring within him. "Of course, madam. Please convey my best wishes for a full recovery to Miss Sarah."

  He turned and left, the footman, Perkins, escorting him to the door and handing him his hat.

  It was only after the door had shut behind him that a troubled Perkins begged a private word with his employer.

  "I don't know what is wrong with Miss Sarah," said the man, unaware that the subject of his query was, at that very moment, squatting upstairs over a chamber pot while ferocious cramps purged her insides, "But I do know I saw something a few minutes ago that I tried to warn her about, something I'm thinking you ought to be aware of."

  "And that is?"

  "That Lord Somerfield tapped a few drops of something into her tea right before she fell ill."

  "You don't say!"

  "I do say. And I'll swear it on my life, ma'm, that I saw him do it."

  ~~~~

  Eva de la Mouriére arrived in Paris later that evening and was immediately ushered into the young queen's private chambers.

  "Ah, mon amie!" cried Marie Antoinette, rushing forward. "You are here at last! You have the potion, no?"

  "Yes, Your Majesty," said Eva, curtseying. "I have the potion."

  Or that part of it, in any case, that she was willing to part with. She had retained a good half of it in preparation for whatever the future might demand of it. But at the moment, America's future demanded it, and so Eva sacrificed part of her trophy. She stood watching with veiled triumph as the queen all but grabbed it from her hand and held it up to the light from the window, her face flushed with excitement.

  "Ah, Eva!" she cried, clasping the bottle to her bosom and looking as though she was actually going to hug her benefactress. "Thanks to you and this English inventor, perhaps I shall succeed where time and nature have failed! Ah, you are splendide, trés splendide! You have ensured the succession of the monarchy, and your generosity will not go unrewarded. I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for me! What you have done for France!"

  Eva hid her satisfied smile. Marie Antoinette had good reason to be thankful; she had been desperate to provide the king with an heir, desperate to disprove, once and for all, the ugly rumors that he was incapable of great passion. Let the young queen be grateful. Eva knew just what she wanted as payment for the trouble she had gone through to get the potion.

  She inclined her head. "I am delighted to be of service," she said diplomatically. "And I am sure that I, as well as Mr. Franklin, would find ourselves deeply in your debt, Your Majesty, should France lend her weight to our struggle to throw off the yoke of Britain forever."

  "If this potion," cried Marie Antoinette, holding up the bottle, "produces the next king of France, your country will have all the aid we can give! You want ships? We supply them. You want an army? We send one! You want a war? We make one! And now you must excuse and forgive me, Eva, for I am eager to see my Louis!" Her voice dropped to an excited whisper. "Eager to see if this famous love potion works on French kings as well as it does on English nobility, ha!"

  Laughing gaily and leaving Eva to smile in savage triumph, Marie Antoinette swept from the room in a rustle of silk and perfume and headed for her husband's bedchambers . . .

  Never knowing — as Eva did not know, as Celsie did not know, as Lord Andrew himself did not even know — that the bottle did not contain the aphrodisiac at all . . .

  But something very, very different.

  ~~~~

  Lady Brookhampton wasn't the only society matron who had a mouth.

  Two hours after Gerald took his leave of his prospective heiress, all of London knew of his attempt to "poison" her. By that evening, the news was spreading out into the countryside as fast as couriers could speed a letter. But it wasn't until Gerald walked into his club that evening and straight into a reception as warm as the Arctic that he realized something was wrong.

  Horribly, dreadfully, wrong.

  Conversation immediately ceased. A roomful of faces all turned to stare at him. And there, at the table nearest the fire at which were also seated Sir Roger Foxcote, the earl of Brookhampton, and a very cold-eyed and intimidating Major Charles de Montforte, lounged the duke of Blackheath.

  A glass of brandy dangled from his hand. His coat was of midnight blue velvet, and he was gazing at Somerfield with a smile that did nothing to align itself with the total lack of warmth in those chilling black eyes.

  Gerald swallowed.

  "I say, Somerfield, is it really true that you tried to poison a certain young heiress this afternoon?" he said, still smiling that terrible little smile.

  Gerald's glass of brandy slipped from his nerveless fingers and hit the floor with a tinkling crash. "What?"

  "Oh, do you mean you haven't heard?" The smile broadened. "My dear boy, it is all over London."

  Gerald's mouth fell open. His panicked gaze shot to the crowd of hostile faces, all watching this horrifying drama unfold. Back to the duke of Blackheath. "I — I don't know what you're talking about —"

  "Certain sources close to me" — the duke's black gaze flickered to the army officer beside him — "have a
lso told me of a recent . . . robbery. Dear me. The lengths to which some men will go in order to get a woman into bed with them. I do wonder if that bottle of love potion that . . . disappeared . . . causes illness such as Sarah Madden is suffering?"

  Nausea rose in Gerald's gut and his brow exploded in sweat. Oh, God. He knew! But how the devil could he know?!

  And now, all around, people were getting to their feet, a low murmur like a swarm of angry bees going through the room.

  "Do you mean he poisoned the gel with a love potion?!"

  "Ain't letting him anywhere near my daughters, I tell you!"

  "Don't even want him in my house!"

  "Is this claim of yours true, Blackheath?"

  The duke, still lounging in his chair, merely picked up his glass and smiled.

  Lord Brookhampton walked forward, his eyes hard. "You had best be away from here, Somerfield, if you value your health. You will find no friends here."

  Gerald stared around him at men he had known for years, people he had gambled, socialized, got drunk, and grown up with, and fought down panic as he sought out a friendly face, a sympathetic smile. But there were only icy stares, hostile eyes, and a wall of black, tension-charged silence.

  And now, at another table, the earl of Tetford was setting down his glass and getting to his feet. The marquess of Morninghall was clearing his throat and rising. Around them, others, too, began to push back their chairs.

  Gerald fled the club. In a state of rising panic, he went to his friend Taunton's house and was refused an audience. He pounded on the door of Mrs. Bottomley's bawdy house in hopes of finding another group of acquaintances, only to be denied entrance. Even Bonkley refused to see him, and as one door after another slammed in his face, Gerald sunk further and further into a nightmare from which there was no awakening, clawing futilely for the remains of his life.

  The truth hit him.

  Andrew de Montforte's potion had cost him not only Miss Sarah — but every heiress in the country. Andrew's potion had cost him his place in Society, his friends, his honor and his respect. Andrew's potion had cost him not only his present — but his future.