The Defiant One

by Danelle Harmon

  "Coming from anyone else, that would be an insult. Coming from you, I suppose I should consider it the highest of compliments."

  She grinned. "Yes, well, just so that you don't get too high an opinion of yourself, you've got a long way to go before I choose you over Freckles." She turned and headed for the door, but Andrew was still sitting up, watching the sway of her bottom and her mile-long legs in the shockingly snug breeches.

  He was still looking when she, reaching the door, turned and gave him a glare of mock severity.

  He understood. Sliding down beneath the covers, he pulled them up to his chin and gave a long-suffering sigh.

  It was then, and only then, that she left him.

  Chapter 16

  When Celsie tiptoed back upstairs with a tray in her hands twenty minutes later, she half-expected to find Andrew sound asleep in bed. Instead, he was sitting up, his back against the headboard and his notebook balanced against one blanket-clad knee. His pencil scratched rapidly across the page.

  She stood in the doorway for a moment, just watching him. He was so focused on what he was doing that he hadn't seen her. The light from a bedside candle flickered over his intent face, gilding a complexion that still looked more wan than it should. He had untied his queue, and rich waves of dark chestnut hair gleamed in the light and hung in his eyes and about his shoulders. He kept pushing the hair back off his brow. It kept flopping forward. He looked incredibly boyish, unconsciously distracted. Handsome. She stilled, just watching him. There was something eminently fascinating about observing a genius at work, creating wondrous new inventions that would someday change the world. Celsie couldn't prevent the swell of admiration, and for a moment — a brief, insane moment — she had an urge to go to him, to slide beneath the covers with him, and kiss the mouth that looked so grim and unhappy until it was smiling once again.

  What are you thinking?!

  It must be a lingering aftereffect of the aphrodisiac. It had to be. Just like her absurd hope, when she had been about to leave, that he would ask her to stay —

  And her crushing disappointment when he had not.

  She cleared her throat to announce her return. His head jerked up in startled surprise.

  "Hello," he said. To her amazement, he immediately stopped writing, shut the notebook, and putting it dutifully on a bedside table, gave her his complete attention. Celsie raised her brows. Well now, this was a change. Had her little sermon in the coach got through to him, after all?

  "Feeling better?" she asked, smiling in acknowledgement of his improved manners as he took the tray from her hands.

  "Much."

  "Good. Here's a fresh pot of tea, and I found some leftover pork pie in the kitchen, peas, and potatoes boiled in their jackets."

  She'd made up two plates. He took one for himself, along with flatware, and handed the tray back to her so that she would have something on which to eat her own food.

  "No, you take it," she said, trying to wave away his kind gesture. "You're the one who's in bed. You'll have nothing to balance your plate on."

  "I've got my lap."

  "You'll spill something. Here, wait." Holding the tray in one hand, she pulled up the night table and put her own plate on it, as well as the teapot and cups. She handed the empty tray back to Andrew.

  He eyed her wryly, but finally relented and accepted it.

  "I trust you're a very good dog trainer," he mused, setting his plate back down on the tray, straightening up a bit in bed, and tucking in to the pork pie.

  "Why do you say that?"

  "You don't take no for an answer. Dogs will walk all over you if you let them. I bet no one walks all over you — dogs and people included."

  "Is that a compliment?"

  "Do you want it to be?"

  She shrugged. "Compliments are always easier to take than insults, so yes, I think I do want it to be a compliment."

  He smiled. "It was intended as one."

  She poured him a cup, wondering why her hand felt suddenly shaky. She could feel his gaze upon her. Her blood warmed in response, and her heart was doing strange things beneath her pitifully inadequate bosom. It was almost easier to function around this man when he was being surly and brusque. When he chose to be charming, it was flustering. Unnerving. And this whole act of pouring tea for him while he was lying abed felt intimate. Too intimate. Was this what wives did for their husbands when they woke up in the morning?

  "Milk and sugar?"

  "Please."

  She stirred both into the cup and handed it to him. He went to take it, but the cup was hot, and there was nowhere to put his hand, for she was the one holding the handle. Their fingers touched; he drew his back.

  "Sorry," she said, and hastily set the cup down, feeling foolish and awkward and more than a little silly for her sudden nervousness.

  Conversation. I've got to make conversation. But what on earth does one say to a reclusive man of science? What do we have to talk about? And why do I suddenly feel so nervous?

  She watched him sip the steaming brew. "You still look rather pale," she said, noticing how dark his hair looked against his skin.

  He shrugged. "I don't get out much, you know. Comes from spending too much time in my laboratory instead of out of doors."

  That wasn't quite the truth, of course. Andrew spent a fair amount of time out of doors; he liked to ride. He liked to study nature. He just didn't like to wander far from the privacy — and safety — of Blackheath Castle. He sipped his tea, keeping his gaze downcast. Good thing she hadn't wanted to see his notebook. He'd been recording what he'd seen outside the window in the hopes that it might yield something of benefit to science or medicine or those who wanted to remember him long after he became a chained, drooling idiot in Bedlam. He shuddered uncontrollably, nearly upsetting his tea. The fear was there. It was always there.

  "Shall I find you another blanket?" she asked, noting his shudder.

  "I'm fine."

  "You're cold. You don't look well." She set down her own plate. "I think I will send for the doctor."

  "No. Don't."

  "Lord Andrew —"

  "I feel better already. Truly." He turned his most persuasive smile on her. "I'm just tired, Celsiana. I didn't get any sleep last night. I have a lot on my mind. A little food and a good night's rest are all I need."

  "Why didn't you sleep last night? Surely you weren't worried about the duel, were you?"

  "The duel? That was the last thing on my mind. No, madam, I spent the night with my nose buried in a book, trying to discover what I could about my accidental aphrodisiac. I'm exhausted. Nothing more."

  She just narrowed her eyes and looked at him.

  "Really," he added, trying to be convincing as he held her gaze. But there was something in her eyes that was nearly his undoing. Concern. Kindness. She was worried about him.

  His grin faded. As much as he was enjoying this very novel experience of being fussed over by a woman, as seductive as he found her touching concern for him, he felt like a cheat.

  He really ought to tell her. After all, unless he could think of a way to escape the matrimonial noose, she was going to end up marrying him. She deserved to know the truth about what she was getting herself into. And she deserved to know that Lucien had dragged in every researcher, every specialist, every authority on dementia and madness and other mind disorders from every corner of Europe, and that none of them — not one — had been able to come up with a diagnosis, let alone a prognosis for his condition.

  His gut clenched. Yes, he had to tell her. But could he risk her reaction? Could he stand her pity, her certain shudder of fear and revulsion? There was no way in hell she'd want to marry him once she learned the truth about him. So why didn't he tell her? What was stopping him? Didn't he want to call off this marriage?

  Then again, maybe she wouldn't want to call it off — in which case, he'd have to point out the possible benefits of his illness to her. Ha, ha, ha. Laughter was the way to get thro
ugh the worst that life had to offer, wasn't it?

  Just think, Celsie. If your money ever runs out, you can just exhibit me at Bedlam and start charging a fee for people to see me. I can hear them now. Ah, look! There's the famous Lord Andrew de Montforte, creator of failed flying machines and successful aphrodisiacs and mad inventor in the truest sense of the word! And look, he wears a collar and lives in a cage and drools just like one of his wife's dogs!

  Anger seized him, and the bite of pork pie he'd just taken went to sawdust in his mouth. He pushed his plate to the edge of the tray, his appetite gone.

  Her hand was on his brow. "You are ill, aren't you?"

  "I'm fine."

  "Then it must be the peas."

  "Sorry?"

  She gave a pained laugh. "Don't tell me you haven't heard all about the Jinx. How the man I was originally supposed to marry choked to death on a pea. And here I am, serving you peas, and you're probably thinking you're going to choke and die on one as well."

  "Madam, I can assure you that since I detest peas as a rule, the only way I could possibly choke on one is if you were to force it bodily down my throat."

  "I wouldn't force anything down the throat of a man who was feeling ill. Especially a food he happened to detest." She took the tray away, her mood brusque and businesslike once more, in keeping with his own. "I think I should leave. You need to sleep, and I . . . I need to think."

  "Yes — I daresay you should."

  Please stay. I don't want to be alone with my thoughts, with the fear, right now. I need you. Please stay.

  But he didn't voice such thoughts, of course. Instead he said nothing, merely gazing sulkily at the opposite wall, fighting a battle with himself that seemed to have no victor, his fingers clenching and unclenching a corner of the blanket.

  Celsie looked at him in confusion. His was staring broodily past her and toward the window where he'd first taken ill. He looked impossibly virile. Impossibly attractive.

  Impossibly alone with whatever was tormenting him.

  Once again, she could feel the banked anger radiating from him. She could see that he was fighting with something inside. And she could sense that he needed her, and needed her badly, though she knew that loners were the last people on earth who could ever recognize such a need, let alone give in to it.

  She ought to know, of course. She'd spent most of her childhood alone.

  As though sensing her thoughts, he looked up, his eyes stormy, his mouth set. He regarded her for a long moment, then turned his head and gazed morosely into the empty hearth.

  "I thought you were leaving," he muttered.

  She reached out and started to touch his arm, then caught herself. He looked pointedly down at the hand that would have touched him. Feeling a bit sheepish, she drew it back.

  "Go," he said again, jerking his head to indicate the door. "Go, take the tray with you, and enjoy your meal elsewhere so you don't have to contend with my insufferable moodiness."

  "Andrew, do you want to . . . talk?"

  "No, I don't want to talk. I want you to leave. Now."

  "What have I done?"

  "Nothing. I just have a lot on my mind." He threw back the coverlet. "In fact, why don't you sleep in here, and I'll go somewhere else."

  Her hand darted out, stopping him. "No — you stay." She restrained him with a hand on his chest. Beneath his fine lawn shirt, she could feel the mat of crisp hair, the rocky hardness of muscle, and yes, the beat of his heart. His gaze dropped pointedly to her hand, but she did not remove it, though heat crept into her cheeks and made her remember all that they'd already shared. She looked up and unflinchingly met his hard, sullen stare. "You're the one who's not feeling well. You stay here, and I'll go sleep in another room."

  His gaze remained locked on hers for a long moment. Then he looked away. "Fine."

  She reluctantly drew her hand back, curling her fingers upon themselves. "Shall I leave you with your tea, then?"

  "No. Don't leave me with anything — except my bad mood."

  "Maybe your bad mood will go away if you talk about it. You might feel better for having shared your troubles."

  He gave a bitter laugh. "I might, but you most certainly would not. Therefore, let us not speak of it further. Good night, Celsiana. Sleep well."

  The abrupt dismissal stung. Celsie looked at him, quietly suffering, his head turned away and his gaze directed toward the dark window. What was he hiding? Why was he so reluctant to confide in her? She longed to comfort him, but she didn't know how.

  Sighing, she picked up the remains of their dinner. He just lay there staring out the window, clenching and unclenching the blanket. The silence was awful. The tension in the room was even worse. Celsie picked up the tray. Fine then. If he wanted to enjoy his bad mood in solitude, she'd leave him to it. She wasn't about to make things worse by reacting to it or, God forbid, insisting on staying when it was obvious that he wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

  Men! Were they all this impossible?

  "Good night then, Andrew. I hope that morning improves both your appetite and your mood."

  Chin high, she turned and headed for the door, hoping he'd call her back, that he'd relent and share his troubles with her, for it was not good to go to sleep angry, and she knew, even if he did not, that he needed her in a way that he might never admit.

  But he did not call her back.

  He just let her walk out of the room.

  Celsie, deflated, shut the door behind her and wandered off to another bedroom. Hours later, she was still tossing, turning, and staring up at the ceiling. And as she lay there in a strange bed, in a strange room, in a strange house, she began to wonder if marriage to the brilliant, temperamental man who slept just down the hall was going to be the biggest disaster of her life.

  Desperately wishing that Freckles was there to keep her company, she stared miserably out the window across the square to the lights of another town house.

  Dogs were better than men, after all.

  Chapter 17

  At about the time that Celsie left her brooding companion and unhappily sought out another place to sleep, Lucien returned to Blackheath Castle.

  It was late and he was travel-weary. Still, he was not surprised, upon entering the Great Hall, to hear that his brothers had arrived and were waiting up for him in the library. Handing his coat and hat to a footman, he went to join them.

  There was Charles, sitting beside the hearth, the firelight gilding his fair hair as he stared glumly into the flames. He was in civilian clothes. Gareth sat a few feet away, his face troubled. Both glanced up as Lucien entered the room, their expressions changing immediately to ones of relief.

  "By God, where the hell have you been?" Charles demanded with uncharacteristic anger.

  Lucien raised his brows. "Dear me. And here I thought I left the nursery years ago." Smiling, he extended his hand to his brother in greeting. "Really, Charles, I know that fatherhood is a role you're quite enjoying, but if you think that I, of all people, am going to fall under your parental blanket, you are sadly mistaken."

  Charles flushed. "We were worried about you. And, Andrew."

  "Yes, where is Andrew?" Gareth asked, coming forward to greet his brother.

  "In London, from all accounts," replied the duke, accepting a glass of brandy from Charles. "Which is precisely where I have been, obtaining a special license so that he can marry without delay. The bishop owed me a favor or two."

  "So it's true, then," Charles muttered. "Nerissa said you'd been interfering in Andrew's life just as you did in ours."

  "It was necessary to interfere."

  Charles merely leaned against the door molding and regarded Lucien with flat dismay. "I suppose that Andrew is completely unaware of your generosity."

  "Oh, I think he is very much aware. Perhaps he will even thank me one of these days, which is more than the two of you have ever done."

  Charles raked a hand through his hair. He looked tired. Confu
sed. Frustrated. He turned on his brother. "Damn it, Luce, I just don't understand this. None of us do . . . What on earth has possessed you?"

  "The devil, probably," returned Lucien, downing his drink.

  Charles tightened his mouth and turned his pale blue eyes on Lucien, giving him a direct stare that demanded honesty, that demanded an answer, that demanded an end to all pretenses of carefree insouciance. Nothing could have more seriously weakened Lucien's resolve to guard the truth from his brothers. Nothing could have undone him faster. He turned his back on them so he wouldn't have to face them.

  "Lucien?" Gareth prompted. Charles didn't say a word; he just stood there, waiting, every inch the cool army officer, even out of uniform.

  Lucien moved to stand before the fire. He thrust his hands under his coattails and, hands on his hips, gazed silently into the crackling flames. "Charles," he said at length. "From the time you entered this world, you have been groomed to become the duke should I die without issue."

  From behind him, he sensed the sudden tension, but neither brother spoke for a moment. Finally, Charles said, "Are you trying to tell us something?"

  "Of course I am trying to tell you something. I just don't know how."

  "Are you dying?" Charles asked baldly.

  Lucien hesitated. "No. Nothing like that." He turned, walked to the window — anything to avoid meeting Charles's direct blue stare, and Gareth's concerned one — and gazed out over the downs, sleeping under their blanket of starlight. He didn't want to tell them the truth. He vowed that he would not.

  "Do you remember the day we buried our parents?" he asked, still gazing out the window.

  "Yes," said Charles, Gareth echoing him.

  "Well, on that day I made a silent vow to them that I would take care of you. All of you." He turned and faced them. "What I am doing for Andrew is part of that promise."

  "Oh for God's sake, Luce, we're all adults," Gareth muttered, annoyed. "We don't need you to take care of us."