"Did you?"
"No."
"Did you ever want to?"
"No."
"Why not?"
He shot her a quelling look from over his shoulder. "Because I found my studies and lessons far more fascinating than the juvenile pursuits that so intrigued most of the other undergraduates." He moved around a large table, Esmerelda following loyally at his side. "Besides, I am the youngest son, the one who is least likely to inherit the dukedom, the one who must therefore eke out a living by some means other than a fortunate birth. It would not have been wise to waste my education."
Well, thought Celsie, at least she'd got him talking and behaving civilly, instead of snapping out curt replies and shooting her looks of impatience.
"I hope to invent or discover something that will make me famous," he was saying, pausing at the table and one-handedly going through some papers. "Something that will benefit the world, something that will change it as we now know it before my mind —" he flushed — "that is, before I leave this earth. Only a fool would waste his time at university. I may be many things, madam, but I am not a fool."
He knelt down and, bunching the blanket in his fist at one hip, began pawing through more papers on the floor, casting some aside, tossing others recklessly over his shoulder, and treating Celsie to another view of his bare back.
"Ah. Here they are." He extracted several large, slightly crumpled sheets of vellum from the pile and put them on the table, clearing a space through the clutter with his forearm and laying the drawings out for her to see.
She moved up beside him and stared down at one of the drawings. "What is it?"
"An idea I've been working on to improve coach travel."
"I . . . see."
He eyed her narrowly. "Do you?"
"Of course not. Why don't you explain it to me?"
He looked at her as though trying to discern whether she was trying to be sarcastic; then, dismissing her remark, he smoothed the wrinkled paper with the palm of his hand.
"This is my double-compartmented stagecoach," he said, frowning as one of the wrinkles refused to flatten. "I've often worried about the poor people forced to travel atop the roofs of coaches because there's not enough room for everyone inside, haven't you?"
"Yes. Exposed to the elements, bounced around, clinging for dear life to avoid being thrown off, and God help them if they are . . ."
"Precisely." He stood close to her, unnervingly so, his finger tracing the drawing, his bare shoulder just inches from her nose. "This coach, as you see, will have a short set of pull-down stairs leading up to the roof and a second story, if you will, built onto where the rooftop passengers currently sit. Instead of one inside compartment, as there is now, my stagecoach will have two, one atop the other. Not only will it enable more people to travel on a single vehicle, but I predict it will cut down on the number of accidents, injuries, and deaths that are currently seen on the roads now."
Celsie stared at the drawings.
Then she looked up at their creator, this talented, surly genius, unable to prevent an awed, incredulous little smile from pulling up the corners of her mouth. "You really are very clever."
"No, just determined," he countered, though she saw a faint tinge of color along his cheekbones and a decided warmth coming into his eyes that hadn't been there a few moments ago.
Best not to embarrass him, Celsie thought. She spied the corner of another drawing poking out beneath the ones of the double-compartmented stagecoach and pointed.
"And what is this?"
He pulled the drawings out, sending the ones for the stagecoach fluttering to the floor. "My idea for a plumbing system that will revolutionize fire prevention in large houses such as this one." He bent his head, his hair flopping over his eyes, and traced some lines with his finger. "This here is a pump, as you can see, which will draw the water from an outside source; the water will be stored in this cask, and fed by gravity into these pipes affixed to the ceiling. At first sign of fire, all one has to do is pull this lever and gravity will release a flood of water, thus dousing the fire and saving the house, and its occupants, from destruction." He shoved the drawings aside. "And this —"
"Lord Andrew."
He came up short, looking down at her with distracted impatience. Celsie had carefully retrieved the stagecoach drawing from the floor and was staring at it in awe.
"Do you have actual models of your inventions? I'd love to see them . . ."
"Just the stagecoach, out in the stable. I'm afraid that building the confounded things is not as much fun as designing them."
"But you designed a flying machine. I remember the sensation it caused when you launched it from the roof of this very castle last year. All of London was talking about it. The king himself said he had never seen anything so spectacular."
The minute the words left her mouth, Celsie knew she'd made a mistake. His expression altered. Irritation and dismay darkened his face, and he began hunting through more drawings, his movements abrupt. "My flying machine was a failure."
"But according to all accounts, it was responsible for saving your life, and that of your brother Charles."
"It did not perform as it was designed to do."
"So are you going to make another one?"
"No. I have other ideas that are far more useful to society, I think."
"Lord Andrew . . ."
He paused then, reached up to push the unruly lock of hair from his brow, and gave her a look of annoyed impatience. "Yes?"
"Why did the duke say you'd been experimenting on animals?"
"I told you, to irritate me."
"But I just don't understand." She looked at Esmerelda, who had lay down at Andrew's feet, her silky shoulders and ribs propped against his bare ankle. "He said something about your dogs being in a state that made them, well, unfit for company."
"Unfit for — " And then his mouth curved in a reluctant grin, and for the first time Celsie saw that he had a very boyish, very attractive, dimple in his chin. "Oh, that."
"That?"
He busied himself collecting the drawings into a pile, as though unwilling to meet her searching gaze. "I had a rather accidental discovery the other day. I was making a solution, and had my mind on something else entirely. I don't quite remember what I mixed together, but moments later, I was rowing with Lucien, Esmerelda and my sister's dog Pork were going insane, and the damned solution spilled onto the floor. Next thing I knew the dogs were lapping it up —"
"Oh, dear God!"
"Yes, that was my reaction exactly. I tried to pull them off, but the damage was done, they had already ingested some. A few moments later, they were . . ."
"They were what?"
To Celsie's surprise, he actually blushed. "They were . . . uh, trying to make puppies."
"Puppies? Was the bitch even in season?"
His cheeks went even darker at her brazen words. "No. She was not."
"And yet they were . . . " She made a little motion with her hands.
"Yes, they were."
"Good heavens, Lord Andrew, you discovered an aphrodisiac! Have you tried it on anything other than the dogs?"
He stared at her in amazement. "Are you bloody serious? What sort of monster do you think I am?"
"Well, I was just curious . . . Something like that would be incredibly valuable, you know. Why, just think of all the uses you might have for it!"
"I would rather hope that my carriage or plumbing would enjoy far greater acclaim," he said, somewhat sullenly.
"I'm sorry. I meant no offense."
"It was an accidental discovery. I could not duplicate it even if I tried, so therefore it is of no value, really, to anyone."
"Can I see it?"
"It is locked in Lucien's safe."
"All of it?"
"Most of it."
"Oh, Lord Andrew, would you consider selling some to me?"
He stared at her incredulously, looking quite shocked. "Whatever for?"
>
Now it was her turn to blush. "Well, you see, I have a lovely stallion at home who seems to have no interest whatsoever in mares. He is very handsome, with splendid bone, a beautiful, crested neck, and an uncommon amount of intelligence. I would like to breed him so that these qualities might be passed on to his get, but since he will not mount a mare, there's not much I can do, really. I'm thinking that a few drops of your aphrodisiac might just do the trick . . ."
"And you accuse me of experimenting on animals?!" he exclaimed, staring at her in disbelief.
Celsie's face flamed. "I love my horse! I would never give him anything that I thought would hurt him!"
"No?"
"No! And — and just to prove it, I dare you to let me try some of your so-called aphrodisiac myself! Why, I wager that there's nothing in it to cause a . . . a reaction, anyhow! No doubt your dogs were just feeling amorous that day, that's all!"
"You want to try my aphrodisiac on yourself."
"I want to try your aphrodisiac on myself, yes, if only to prove to you that I would never give my animals something I wouldn't put in my own body!"
He just looked at her, one brow raised, weighing the idea in his mind. "No."
"And you accuse me of being a coward."
"I dare not think of the consequences if I allow you to sample it."
"What, are you afraid that I might attack you?" She laughed, instantly dismissing such a ludicrous thought. "Really, Lord Andrew, I hardly know you. I am in no danger of falling into your arms, I can assure you."
He looked dubious. She saw his mouth working as he chewed the inside of his cheek, contemplating her challenge, wrestling with himself over whether he should accept it.
"I'll pay you a fortune for those few drops, my lord. And give you one of Sheik's foals just to show my gratitude."
"You're serious, then."
"Dead serious."
He shrugged. "Very well then," he said, going to a cabinet and inserting a key into its lock. "But don't say I didn't warn you."
Chapter 6
Andrew knelt, opened the door to the cabinet, and extracted the tiny, precious vial. Aware of his unfortunate tendency to misplace things, he had given most of the solution to Lucien for safekeeping, but had retained these few ounces, intending them for further study. He really did not want to waste them in a challenge with this woman.
Even if she was the only female besides his sister who'd shown an interest in his work.
Even if she was the only female who hadn't yawned her way through his laboratory-tour after going glassy-eyed with boredom.
Even if she was the only female he found he rather liked having here.
No, he didn't want to give her the potion. But on second thought, noting the aphrodisiac's effect on a human was further study in itself, was it not? The very idea aroused Andrew's scientific curiosity.
His would-be subject was still standing behind him, right where he'd left her. She did not look worried in the least. Her head was high, her eyes bright with reckless defiance. No doubt she was determined to prove him wrong. No doubt she didn't believe a word he'd said about the aphrodisiac.
No doubt they were both going to regret this.
Andrew suddenly wished he had changed into decent clothing, any clothing, and that he didn't stand before her in nothing but a blanket draped loosely around his hips. But then, maybe what had happened with the two dogs had been an accident of chance. Maybe a few days' settling had rendered the solution inert. Maybe Lady Celsiana Blake would drink the stuff and nothing would happen at all.
Maybe.
He poured some water into a glass, tapped several drops of the precious liquid into it, and handed it to her.
Her fingers closed around it. She looked up at him and for the briefest instant he saw a flicker of hesitation, maybe even nervousness, in her eyes before she quickly veiled it with a bravado he was sure she didn't feel. Then, never breaking eye contact with him, she raised the glass to him in mock toast, put it to her lips, and downed it in several quick gulps.
"There," she said, triumphantly handing the empty vessel back to him. "I've consumed it — and I feel just fine."
"I am glad to hear it."
"I feel no urge to tear that blanket from your loins. I feel no urge to ravish you. I feel —"
She paused, blinking, and put a hand to the base of her throat. Her very white, very pretty, very feminine throat. She looked up at him, her eyes widening and registering surprise; and then her hand slid slowly downward, her fingertips drifting over the hollow of her collarbone and out over the rounded swell of one snowy breast.
"— very strange," she finished, obviously unaware of where her hand had gone.
But Andrew was all too aware of where her hand had gone. He was all too aware of where her hand still remained — and what it was currently doing. He looked at her fingers skimming softly out over her breast, touching it through the lime-green silk that covered it, and now circling the nipple, which was, God help him, very aroused and clearly delineated beneath the fabric. Andrew swallowed hard. He could no more take his eyes off the slow, seductive path of her finger than he could have stopped breathing.
Though he did precisely that.
Stopped breathing.
Her lips parted. Her skin took on a rosy flush, and she gazed coyly up at him from beneath heavy lids in a way that made the back of Andrew's throat go suddenly dry. Transfixed, he watched as she licked her lips, a slow, torturous tracing of first the top, then the bottom one, leaving a glistening trail of moisture there that did funny things to his insides as her tongue did a slow circle around the perimeter of her mouth. Her fingers hooked the top of her bodice . . . slowly tugged it, and the filmy chemise she wore just beneath, down.
"Wh-what is in this stuff?" she breathed, faintly.
"I told you, I don't remember."
"Hmmm . . . I suppose it doesn't matter what's in it . . . only how it makes me feel."
"And how does it make you feel?" he managed, trying to remember why he'd let her have the solution, trying to keep his mind on track, trying to give his scientific brain the chance to anchor him in reality when it was obvious that his body — carnal thing that it was — had already given up on the idea.
"It makes me feel . . . tingly."
"Tingly?"
"Warm." She blushed, coyly. "I . . . I don't know how to describe it, really. I have the strangest sensation down between my thighs . . ."
"I —" Andrew swallowed. "I — see."
"It feels — well, rather wet and warm down there." She touched her fingers to her burgeoning nipple. "And warm here, too."
Andrew felt a violent erection coming on. His pulse was starting to pound, his will fading irretrievably into the gray fog of his thoughts. "I uh, think I'd better get you back to your brother now —"
"Oh, but I don't want to go back to my brother," she said, slipping her other hand into her piled-up hair and with a single flick of her wrist, freeing it from its pins. She tilted her head back, shook it, and sent the thick, shining mass of hair tumbling down around her shoulders, her bosom, her breast. Then she smiled up at him, her silvery-green eyes dark with invitation. "I want you."
"Lady Celsiana, you are not yourself, you don't know what you're saying . . . what you're doing —"
"Oh yes, I know what I'm saying." She sauntered closer, her tall, slim body no longer stiff, but fluid and silky and feline as she sidled up to him like a cat begging to be stroked. "And I know exactly what I'm doing." She seized his hand and pressed it to the silk of her gown, all that separated his palm, his fingers, from the hard budding nipple just beneath. "Oh, that feels so much better. Will you make the rest of me feel better too, Andrew?" She gave a shy tinkle of laughter. "Will you touch me in all the places that feel so . . . so strange?"
"God help me . . ."
"God help you?" She laughed, a sound that was low and husky and altogether seductive. "Why, you're not the one who's hot and cold and tingly and warm and — a
nd —"
It was obvious that she couldn't think of the right word. It was even more obvious that she didn't need to, for now her hand was moving shamelessly, sensuously, over the top of her breast and scooping it free of its silken constraints. The nipple was huge. Engorged. Bright, blushing pinky-red like the trim of her gown and hard as the seed of an apple. Andrew stared. Andrew groaned. And now she was rubbing it between thumb and forefinger, looking down at it in fascination, sliding her palm beneath her breast and offering it brazenly to him.
"Would you look at that," she said, with a funny little giggle.
Andrew looked. He couldn't help but look. But oh, if he could only will himself not to touch . . .
"Why is the nipple standing up like that, Andrew?"
"Because it . . . it wants — uh, it needs —"
"Wants and needs what?"
"Nothing."
"Something?"
He stood frozen, the blanket crushed at his hip in one sweating fist, wondering if he ought to make a run for it before it was too late for both of them. In another minute he was going to have to peel her off him; no, in another second he was going to have to peel her off him, for now she was pressing herself up against him once more, molding her body to his, tilting her head back to look up at him, rubbing her naked breast against the soft, wiry hair of his equally naked chest.
Esmerelda, with a look of canine amusement, got up from the floor, padded across the room, nosed the door open, and left.
Left it ajar.
Oh, God.
And now Celsiana was kicking off one of her slippers, hooking a leg around Andrew's bare calf, and caressing it with her toes. The sensation of her silk stocking against his hairy leg, the warmth of her flesh against his own, was enough to make his erection feel as though it was going to punch a hole right through the blanket.
Breathing hard, he shot a panicky glance toward the door.
Still ajar.
"Lady Celsiana —"
"Oh, come now, Andrew. Don't you enjoy this?"
The Defiant One Page 5
