Gerald spluttered. "How dare you, sir!"
"I dare quite a lot. It is a particular defect in my character — or so I'm told." Smiling faintly, the duke went back to nonchalantly studying his sherry. "Really, Somerfield, if you are so desperate to get your hands on a fortune, maybe you should consider marrying an heiress yourself and have done with the matter."
"You insult me, sir!"
"A thousand apologies," Blackheath murmured. "Perhaps the fact that your sister usurped you on the duelling field this morning has left you feeling a bit deprived? We can rectify that, you know. I can assure you that I wouldn't mind getting up at dawn tomorrow at all —" he turned his head, smiling blandly as he met Gerald's gaze — "if you understand my meaning."
Gerald felt the blood drain from his face. Involuntarily, he took a step backward, sliding a finger beneath his stock and preferring to let the challenge go unanswered. "So you will do nothing to stop this unseemly union, then."
"On the contrary, my good man, I will do all in my power to ensure that it is made."
"Then I have nothing more to say to you," Gerald said, and turning on his heel, stalked from the library.
~~~~
Lady Nerissa de Montforte was in her apartments, tending to her morning correspondence over a leisurely cup of chocolate, when a brief knock on the door signalled the presence of her eldest brother.
"Ah, Nerissa," said Lucien, wearing that self-satisfied smile she had long since come to know and dread. "I am delighted to find you at your letters. You may wish to write both Charles and Gareth, I think, notifying our dear brothers of the impending wedding."
"What wedding?" asked Nerissa, confused.
"Why, Andrew's, of course."
"Andrew's?"
"Surely you didn't think I would allow him to remain a bachelor until his hair goes grey, do you?"
"Andrew's getting married?"
Lucien stroked his chin contemplatively. "Yes, and imminently, I should think."
Nerissa surged to her feet, her correspondence forgotten. "Lucien, what have you done?"
"My dear sister, I didn't do anything. While dueling with Somerfield, Andrew had one of his . . . episodes. Somerfield was about to kill him, so I stepped in, and the fair Lady Celsiana Blake threw herself between us, begging me to spare her brother's worthless life."
"And did you?"
"Yes, but only for a price."
Nerissa's blue eyes narrowed. "What price?"
"Why, marriage to Andrew, of course. Oh, don't look at me like that, my dear. It is all for his own good, as well as the girl's. Lady Celsiana Blake is going to make him very happy indeed. Though of course, he doesn't quite realize that yet . . ."
"I cannot believe I'm hearing this. Andrew is the last person on earth who should be married, who wants to be married, who will benefit by being married!"
"On the contrary, Nerissa, marriage will do him good."
"Lucien, how could you do this to him?"
"My dear Nerissa, I have already told you. He did it himself."
"Oh, and I suppose that you didn't have something up your sleeve at the ball the other night when you set Lady Celsiana on him by telling her he was experimenting on animals and then making Andrew believe your action was anything but innocent?"
Lucien merely smiled.
"And I suppose your having the servant bring poor Celsiana to Andrew's apartments while he was not only still abed, but in a state of shocking undress, was also innocent? You go too far, Lucien!"
"It will be a superb match. Andrew will thank me for it some day, and so will the lady who is destined to be his wife. He is quite smitten with her already, though I daresay he'll never admit it. She is quite smitten with him already, though I daresay she'll never admit it, either. But ah, the eyes tell all . . . 'Twas a good thing there was steel between the two of them this morning, otherwise I fear our two lovers might have caused quite an embarrassing scene, and in front of the entire village of Ravenscombe, too."
"Steel between them this morning? Entire village of Ravenscombe? I thought dueling was a private affair! I thought Andrew was to fight a duel with that odious man Somerfield, not his sister!"
"Well, that was the plan, but the situation went a bit . . . awry."
"How?"
"Why, the lady locked up her own brother and arrived in his place. It would have been injurious to both her and Andrew's honor had he not agreed to fight her. Oh, don't look so appalled, my dear. Somerfield managed to free himself and arrived just in time to take his rightful place on the dueling field. It was only when he attempted to murder Andrew that I thought it timely to intervene." He smiled, obviously pleased with himself. "Celsiana herself declared that she would marry our brother if only I would spare hers."
"Oh, dear God . . ."
"It all happened rather quickly . . . I daresay the lady is as unconventional in her behavior as our brother is in his. But ah, the look on Andrew's face when she, instead of Somerfield, stepped down from the carriage . . . it was beyond priceless. Our poor brother didn't even have time to recover from his shock before she was insisting that he fight her."
"She didn't!"
"She most certainly did."
"And did he?"
"He most certainly did."
"Oh, Lucien!"
"Have no fear, Nerissa. She appeared to be an accomplished swordswoman, though she could not, of course, have hoped to match Andrew in skill or strength. Still, I thought it prudent to suggest that the two of them fight till first blood only . . . though Somerfield was determined to fight for far more than that when he reclaimed his place on the duelling field."
"Oh, dear God . . ."
Nerissa, recovering, took a deep bracing sigh and faced her brother. Everything was falling into place. "So you would have killed Somerfield knowing his sister would do anything to save him."
"But of course."
"And you were doubtless the one who arranged for the whole village to turn out, so that you'd have plenty of witnesses for whatever manipulation you had planned."
"And why not? They see so little in the way of entertainment . . ."
Nerissa, tight-lipped and angry, pushed back from her desk. "Lucien, what you have done is not only upsetting, but totally incomprehensible. Why? Why? Though I do not condone your actions, I can understand your tricking Gareth into marrying Juliet so that her baby could have its proper name; I can understand your giving Charles the push he needed to offer for Amy when his confidence was at an all-time low; but this — this is heinous! It is cruel sport indeed! Andrew is a dreamer, a loner . . . different! He doesn't need a wife! He doesn't want to get married! He simply wants to be left alone!"
"So he has informed me. But what's done is done, I'm afraid," said Lucien, looking anything but contrite.
"And I suppose the next life you're planning to manage is mine?"
"Only if you don't do a good job of managing it yourself."
Nerissa swept up her letters and slammed her chair back against her desk. "Do you know something? I hope that someday, after you've schemed and manipulated all of our lives to your liking, you'll get a taste of your own medicine. That some woman will bring you to your knees. Because when that happens, I'm going to be the first one in line to celebrate your long-overdue downfall!"
Real amusement shone in Lucien's black eyes. "I can assure you, my dear, that it will never happen."
"Ohhhhhh! You are insufferable!" Nerissa snapped, and turning on her heel, marched from the rooms.
Lucien remained where he was, waiting for her angry footsteps to diminish before he allowed his smile to fade. From far away a door slammed, and he let out a sigh of infinite weariness as he picked up her discarded pen and replaced it in its holder.
Contrary to Nerissa's hopes, no woman would ever bring the Duke of Blackheath to his knees.
His time, as he well knew, was running out.
Chapter 14
The carriage was halfway to London.
Th
e effects of the aphrodisiac had long since worn off, leaving only an awkward and very uncomfortable silence in its wake — and no small degree of mutual resentment toward he who had given it to them. Andrew brooded in his seat, one arm outstretched across its back, refusing to look at Celsiana as he chewed his bottom lip in private, sullen contemplation.
Opposite him, Celsie, mortified by her recent wanton behavior, sat with the rigidity of a setter on point, her legs clamped together, her arms tightly crossed, her gaze directed out the window.
The silence continued.
Seemed to stretch into forever.
Presently Andrew decided he'd had enough. If she didn't want to speak to him, fine. He didn't particularly want to speak to her, either. Thinking to shut out both the awkwardness and this woman who was proving to be the ruination of his life, he reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, extracted a notebook and pencil, and, balancing the latter on one drawn-up knee, began to sketch out plans for an idea that had been tormenting him ever since it had taken root in his mind an hour earlier.
He should have known, though, that problems could not be shut out. Especially one whose name was Woman. And typical of her kind, she chose the exact moment he tried to involve himself in something else to break the unbearable silence between them.
"I'm sorry," she stammered, leaving unspoken the subject of her apology. "I — I was not myself . . ."
"Yes, well, I'm sorry too."
He kept on sketching, not wanting to discuss the particulars of their recent behavior, trying to find escape and normalcy in the familiarity of his work.
But that wasn't going to happen.
"What is that?"
"A notebook," he replied, without looking up.
"I can see that. What are you doing?"
"Sketching."
"Sketching what?"
"I don't know yet. I haven't given it a name."
"May I see?"
Andrew tightened his lips. Was she just feigning interest in his work in order to ease the tension, to make conversation when neither knew what to say to the other? Probably.
He ignored her and tried to focus on his drawing.
"Andrew, may I see the sketch?"
He sighed. Any pleasure he might have taken in her curiosity was outweighed by his impatience with her constant interruptions when he was trying to think. Not that he could think, with her sitting just opposite him. Not that he could think with the memory of possessing her lovely, long-legged body still burning a hole in his concentration. God help him, all he really wanted to do was take her back in his arms and make love to her all over again, this time slowly, sweetly, and without a chemical catalyst.
What the devil was wrong with him? Had he been holed up in his laboratory for so long that he was willing to bed even this woman who irritated him like a thorn between stocking and skin? He sure as hell didn't want to marry her. Marry her! Bloody hell. Union with her would be anything but peaceful. Anything but conducive to his dreams and designs. Stony-faced, he turned the notebook face-out so that she could see his crude sketch.
"Well — that's . . . interesting." Her brows drew together in confusion. "What is it?"
"An improved spring system to make carriages more comfortable. I intend for it to absorb some of the bumps —" his gaze bored flatly into hers — "and vibrations — from the road."
Her chin snapped up and bright stains of color appeared in her cheeks. "It was the aphrodisiac, you know," she said, as Andrew bent his head and continued sketching. "I would never have behaved like that under normal circumstances."
"A pity, that."
"A pity?"
He kept on sketching. "If I'm going to be saddled with you for a wife, I should hate it if the only way into your bed is by way of a potion."
"And if I'm going to be saddled with you for a husband, my bed is off limits to you anyhow, so you might as well stop thinking about it."
"Ah, yes. I had forgotten. You prefer the company of dogs, don't you?"
"That remark was uncalled-for and you know it."
He kept on sketching, feeling the angry weight of her gaze upon him, feeling a great churning emotion boiling up inside him. He had never felt so trapped in his life. So hopelessly outmaneuvered, so bitterly manipulated. He was going to kill Lucien with his bare hands. He was.
"Besides," she added, "there is no way I'd allow you into my bed unless my feelings change, and the way you're treating me, that is not going to happen unless you invent another brilliant potion, this one to create artificial love."
"Ah, so artificial lust is not enough, eh? You must have love as well? Hmm. Artificial love. Perhaps that will be my next project."
"The only project you ought to be working on is finding a way out of what looks to be an inevitable marriage destined straight for the pits of hell. And furthermore, I do wish you would stop sketching for a moment. I'm talking to you."
"And I'm talking to you."
"It would be nice to have your attention while we're carrying on this conversation."
"You have my attention."
"I don't have all of it."
He lifted his gaze, quite nonchalantly, and let it settle on her. "There. You have my complete attention."
"It was the aphrodisiac," she repeated, lifting her chin.
"Madam, I suggest you forget the damned aphrodisiac and its consequences. What's done is done. If we can't find a way out of this damnable marriage, we can at least work on making our lives tolerable within it. You'll go your way, I'll go mine, and we can count ourselves fortunate if we don't run into each other more than once a month."
"That doesn't sound like a tolerable marriage to me."
"No?"
She bent her head and found a sudden interest in the button that held her cuff closed. "It sounds like a lonely one. It sounds like you're going to hole yourself up in your laboratory and shut both me and the world out and never go anywhere with me, never do anything." She shrugged, a little, fluttering, embarrassed gesture that showed an odd and unexpected vulnerability. Her voice dropped, and her interest in the button seemed to intensify. "If we're to be married, I'd at least like to see you once in a while."
"Why?"
"Why?" she repeated, looking up at him as though he possessed the intellect of a five-year-old. "Because husbands and wives are supposed to spend time together. Because even though we shall have a marriage of convenience —"
"You mean a marriage of contrivance."
"Convenience, contrivance, no matter what you choose to call it, the fact remains that we could come to at least like each other given half a chance, and people who like each other usually enjoy being together."
"I see. So you think we could end up liking each other."
"Well, we can certainly try to at least be nice to each other," she said sullenly, bending her head and fiddling with the button once more. "I know you're angry with the duke, and you know I'm angry with him as well. Putting the aphrodisiac in the brandy was nothing short of diabolical. Thanks to him, you and I got off to a bad start. Thanks to him, we've been nothing more than puppets in his hand. Of course we're angry — we have every right to be" — she looked up at him then, her eyes almost pleading — "but do we have to take it out on each other?"
Andrew swallowed and looked away, out the window.
"The least we could do is try to get along," she continued plaintively. Neither one of us wants this marriage, but if we put our heads together and try to find a way of preventing it, we'll accomplish far more than sniping at each other. And if we're nice to each other, I should think it a natural course of events that liking comes next."
"And then this absurd thing called love?" he drawled.
She met his flat stare with equal resolve. "Not if you continue to behave like a bear with a toothache."
"Sorry," he muttered, his eyes hard as he looked out the window once more. "I might manage liking, but love is beyond my comprehension."
"It is beyond mine as well, but
it can happen, even in a marriage of convenience."
"Contrivance."
"What ever one chooses to call it."
He leaned back, pulled his sword from his scabbard just enough to sharpen his pencil on it, and resumed sketching. His emotions were unstable. He didn't want to like her. He didn't want her to like him. He just wanted her to stay away from him — nothing more.
And yet why, when she lowered her defenses as she was doing now, and got all nice to him even though he was doing his damnedest to push her away, did he feel a softening toward her that terrified him?
A . . . liking?
"I just want to make one thing clear," he muttered, his attention on the sketchbook. As he watched, the pencil, seemingly of its own accord, sketched a crude rendering of Lucien. "I don't want to be married, and I don't want to share my life with anyone." The pencil was drawing a sword, now — a sword swinging in an arc towards Lucien's neck. "I don't want you coming into my laboratory when I'm working. I don't want you asking me questions when I'm trying to think, bothering me when I'm trying to design. I just want to be left alone. It's bad enough that I'm going to be saddled with a wife I don't want, but one who fully intends to make demands on my time will be nothing short of unbearable. I have work to do, so don't expect that I'm going to escort you to balls, parties, dances, the opera, and all that other rot that I have no use for."
She blinked and stared at him, obviously taken aback. He saw the stains of angry color in her cheeks. Saw the way her face seemed to go taut, and sure enough, her eyes were more silver than green, a clear indication that he was pushing her past her level of patience.
But she smiled.
It was an icy, strained gesture, but damn her, she smiled.
"Do we have an understanding?" he asked mildly.
"No. We do not. Because I have some demands of my own."
"Do you, now? Let me guess. Dog in the bed, dog at the table —"
"This isn't about dogs, it's about us. It would be nice if we could make appearances in Society as a married couple, instead of you holing yourself up in your laboratory all the time, which is what I suspect you intend to do."
The Defiant One Page 12
