The Defiant One

by Danelle Harmon

  "Yes — yes, I suppose we are." She smiled slowly. "Though I don't think friends usually lie together in the same bed."

  "No one will know. I'll be out of here by the time the servants are up."

  "You'd better be. The last thing we need is for anyone to catch you here. There'll be no escaping the matrimonial noose, then!"

  "I promise to leave at first sounds of stirring downstairs."

  "And I'll go back to my own townhouse shortly thereafter."

  "No one will be the wiser."

  "No one."

  She squeezed his hand. He squeezed hers back. Celsie shut her eyes, listening to the rain, taking pleasure in the heavy warmth of the coverlet, the drowsy heat radiating from Andrew's body. Eventually, the sound of the rain began to grow distant. She sighed, turned over, and instinctively curled closer to him.

  Just as instinctively, his arm went around her, heavy, warm, protective.

  Celsie's last thought was one of gratitude. It was nice not to have to sleep alone, after all.

  Chapter 18

  "Oh, bother," muttered Nerissa as the mud-splattered coach drew up outside de Montforte House just as it was growing dark. "There's Perry's mother, heading straight towards us. You'd think she was just waiting for us to get here, the way she's hurrying out of her house. That malicious gossip is the last person I feel like seeing."

  Nerissa was tired and irritable. Charles and Gareth had arrived late the night before, and having left so early this morning none of them had got much sleep. Now, her brothers rode just outside the carriage, Lucien some distance ahead and mounted on his hellish black stallion, Armageddon. Charles, astride his steadfast military mount, Contender, flanked the coach, every so often conversing with Gareth, who was aboard his fleet Thoroughbred, Crusader.

  Their wives, Juliet and Amy, shared the coach with Nerissa.

  "You will excuse me if I don't feel like being sociable where she is concerned," Juliet muttered in her soft American accent, watching the plump harridan rushing across the square toward them. She'd had experiences — none of them pleasant — with Lady Brookhampton before, and Nerissa didn't blame her for disliking the woman who had so maligned Gareth, her husband.

  "She's hailing Lucien," Amy remarked, looking out the window when Juliet would not. "She's curtsying to him. I can see her mouth going."

  "I can imagine," said Juliet, acidly.

  The coach came to a stop. Lucien rode his prancing, frothing stallion up to the window. "Good evening, ladies. Sorry to inconvenience you, but our neighbor has just invited herself in for tea." He gave one of his maddening smiles. "Shall we refuse her?"

  "Yes," said Juliet, tightly.

  "Yes," said Amy, noting Juliet's set face.

  But Nerissa looked away. She didn't like Lady Brookhampton either, but, hoping that Perry would soon ask her to marry him, knew it wouldn't be wise to make an enemy of his mother. Sullenly, she asked, "What is she so excited about, anyhow?"

  "What do you think she's so excited about? Andrew arrived late last night. She thinks he's running from some sort of trouble and wanted to be the first to let us know."

  Nerissa let out her breath on an irritated sigh. "Oh, how I wish that woman would mind her own business for once. I don't suppose she mentioned whether or not he was alone, did she?

  Lucien's expression gave away nothing. "She did not say."

  "Then it seems we have no choice but to invite her in," Nerissa muttered. "Not that I want to, but —"

  "But if you want to marry her son, you'd better stay in her good graces," finished Lucien.

  Moments later, the men were giving their horses into the care of waiting grooms and handing the ladies down from the coach. As a group, they walked through the tall, spiky iron gates, Juliet coldly ignoring Lady Brookhampton, Amy distantly polite, and Nerissa feeling as though this was going to be a tial morning indeed.

  The butler, Harris, met them in the house's marbled entrance foyer, bowing deeply to the duke, and then to the others. He looked vastly uncomfortable. Worried.

  "Your Grace," he said in a low voice, "If I might have a private word with you?"

  "By all means, Harris. Let us go into the library, shall we?"

  The two moved off. Footmen appeared, all silent and tight-lipped, to take the ladies' cloaks and Charles's and Gareth's hats and greatcoats. The two brothers exchanged glances. The three women frowned. Only Lady Brookhampton, chattering away like a magpie, seemed oblivious to the charged tension that filled the house.

  "I say, Lady Nerissa, you really must come over for tea tomorrow afternoon," she was saying, pointedly excluding Juliet and Amy, both of whom she despised — one for stealing Gareth right out from under her enterprising daughter Katharine's nose, the other for stealing Charles. "There's so much I need to catch you up on! Everyone's talking about France, of course — terrible how we might soon find ourselves in another war with them, thanks to those horrible colonists in America. Why, I hear that they've sent their emissary, a Mr. Franklin, to Paris, seeking French aid! Oh, Lord save us if the Frogs decide to start another war because of those vile, treasonous rebels —"

  "Excuse us," said Gareth, taking Juliet's arm before she could respond to the obvious taunt. Charles did the same with Amy, and the two moved off with their American wives, leaving Nerissa alone with Lady Brookhampton.

  "I say, what is the matter with them?" Lady Brookhampton asked, feigning innocence.

  Nerissa opened her mouth to deliver her own tart response — and saw Lucien returning. Unlike the butler, he did not look vastly uncomfortable, or terribly worried, in the least. He looked . . .

  The way he always did when he was up to something unspeakable.

  God help them.

  "What are you two doing standing out here in the foyer?" he asked smoothly. "Come, come inside. Tea will be served shortly in the parlor." He removed his gloves and handed them to a footman. "Oh, by the way, Nerissa. Harris tells me that a package arrived for you last night." He winked. "I suspect it's from some lovesick young swain. He put it on your bed."

  Nerissa flushed, feeling a moment of excitement — and panic. Whoever had sent the package must have known she was coming to London. And the only one who might have known was Perry. Oooh! She was dying to run upstairs . . . but what if Perry hadn't been the sender? What if it had been some other man? She'd have a fine time explaining that to the woman who would probably end up being her mother-in-law . . .

  "Aren't you going to fetch it down?" Lucien asked, grinning. "I am sure we're all dying to know who it's from. In fact, why don't you take Lady Brookhampton up with you?"

  He gave her a look that clearly said, and keep her away from Juliet and Amy for as long as possible.

  Some things never ceased to amaze, Nerissa thought. She could almost — almost — forgive her brother for all his scheming and manipulation of other people's lives in the face of his consideration for not only the situation at hand, but the feelings of his two American sisters-in-law.

  "Of course," she said, trying to hide her dismay at having Perry's mother with her when she unwrapped the package. "Will you come upstairs with me, Lady Brookhampton?"

  She did not expect the older woman to refuse.

  And of course, she didn't.

  Nerissa headed for the stairs.

  ~~~~

  Something had woken her.

  Celsie dragged open her eyes. She was surrounded by a wonderful, drowsy warmth, and it came as something of a shock to find that the warmth came not from a dog, but from the very long, very hard, very male body against which she was curled. Actually, she was more than just curled against that long, hard, male body. Andrew lay on his back, and her head was nestled within the cup of his shoulder, a fold of his shirt tickled her nose, and she could hear his heart beating quietly beneath her ear. He was still asleep and breathing deeply, his arm slung heavily, possessively, across her back.

  She opened her eyes further, looking above the fold of Andrew's shirt and across th
e room toward the window. It was still raining outside, and the sullen grey light coming through the parted drapes made it impossible to tell whether it was an hour past dawn or an hour before sunset. One thing for sure: The room was chilly. Almost too chilly to rise from this bed and make her escape before anyone was aware of her presence.

  She had to leave. Now. Yet she didn't want to crawl from the warm cocoon of covers, to move away from the broad, solid chest upon which she'd been dozing. How very surprising. She ought to be bolting from this bed like a hare from a greyhound. Instead, she found herself thinking that she could not remember the last time she'd woken up to such pleasant coziness. Why, if someone had told her yesterday that sleeping with a man was far nicer than sleeping with a dog, she would never have believed it. But it was true. Sleeping with a man was nicer.

  And you didn't wake up to find paws stabbing into your back.

  Downstairs, she could hear the servants moving about, and from somewhere came a tantalizing waft of toast. Celsie tensed even as her stomach gave a responsive growl. The rumbling didn't abate but continued on, gathering both loudness and intensity until it sounded like an angry mastiff confronting a poacher. Celsie winced, hoping it wouldn't wake her bedmate, but he didn't stir, his long lashes lying against pale cheeks shadowed with reddish-brown bristle, his head turned slightly on the pillow, his chest rising and falling slowly in time with his deep, steady breathing.

  She repositioned herself within the heavy curve of his arm, resting her chin on the rise of his chest muscles so that she could gaze at his face. He was easy to look at. Too easy. She liked the way his nose angled back and met his forehead so that both made a nearly straight line, with barely an indentation to mark the bridge; it gave him a noble, intelligent profile. She liked the way his hair, so thick and glossy, fell in rich waves around his face, its warm, dark-chestnut hue set off by the deep brown color of his long, straight lashes. She liked the way his mouth looked firm and sculpted, even in sleep, the lips sensual without being too wide, now slightly parted and putting thoughts in her head about how nice it would be to lean down and kiss them.

  God help her, she liked everything about him —

  Well, almost everything. His unpredictable moods left a lot to be desired.

  But with him lying asleep on the pillow, it was easy to forget his surliness. It was easy to imagine him how she wished he were all the time; the way he'd been earlier, when they had lain side by side, hand in hand, and talked about their respective dreams just like two old friends. Celsie had met a lot of men in her life. Some were handsome, but empty between the ears. Others were witty and intelligent, but hopelessly unattractive. Yet Lord Andrew . . . He seemed to combine the best of both worlds. He was an attractive blend of sharp intelligence and splendid good looks, of creativity and imagination, of kindness and wit, of courage and vulnerability.

  Vulnerability.

  Yes, she knew he had felt vulnerable last night, when he had all but driven her from the room. Yet, why? Lots of people took ill. Just because he was getting a cold or wasn't feeling well was no reason to feel ashamed . . .

  He was frowning in his sleep now, his breathing changing, his eyelids moving slightly as he dreamed. Celsie couldn't help herself. She reached up and tenderly smoothed the frown lines from his brow. His lashes fluttered, and sleepily, he opened his eyes.

  Oh, Lord help me — I want to kiss him!

  "Good morning," she whispered, smiling.

  He blinked once, twice, before lifting a fist and knuckling his eyes. He looked warm and groggy and positively delicious. "Mmmmm . . . a good morning, indeed," he mumbled, yawning. "To stay inside, that is."

  "Isn't it? My stomach's been growling for the past half hour but I was too comfortable to move."

  "And here I feared I took up too much room in the bed . . ."

  "Well, yes, you do take up a lot of room, but at least you don't snore — which is more than I can say for Freckles."

  "Ah yes, that paragon of comparison again," he said dryly. "I'm delighted to find that I've emerged the victor in at least one contest with that matchless mutt."

  "He's not a mutt, he's a Spanish pointer," she said, returning his own smile. And then: "Do I snore?"

  "No, but you do steal all the covers. I awoke a while ago and I was bloody freezing." Reaching out, he caught the long, golden-brown fall of her hair, dragging his fingers through the silky tresses and admiring them in the faint gray light. The sensation of his fingers combing through her hair was wonderful; it was all Celsie could do not to purr, especially when they left her hair, skimmed the outside of her shoulder, and trailed down the curve of her upper arm and around toward her breast.

  She tensed and caught his hand.

  "You feel awfully damned good," he said. "Told you I wouldn't be able to just sleep, with you beside me all night."

  "You did a good job, so far."

  "I must have been too exhausted to do anything but sleep. But I'm not exhausted now, Celsie. I'm wide-awake. All of me is wide-awake. I think it's best if I beat a hasty retreat back to my own rooms before I start something we both regret."

  She smiled sadly, knowing he was right but wishing he weren't.

  "Yes. And I'd better sneak out and return to my own townhouse before anyone recognizes me." She gazed into his eyes, loving the way they sloped down at the outer corners, giving him a lazy, sleepy look that, combined with the dimple that appeared on those infrequent occasions when he chose to smile, was enough to make her heart melt all the way down into her toes.

  Heaven help her, her heart was melting now.

  And so was her resolve to leave.

  Still comfortably lying against and on his chest, she began to lean down, toward his now-smiling lips, a farewell kiss, nothing more —

  When the door opened.

  Celsie's head jerked up. There, standing in the doorway, was Lady Brookhampton, whom she remembered from her charity ball. With her was a beautiful young woman with bright gold hair and blue, blue eyes that were widening in shocked surprise.

  "Nerissa!" howled Andrew, yanking the covers over Celsie's head to protect both her modesty and his sister's eyes from the implications of what they'd been up to. "What the thundering blazes are you doing here?!"

  Nerissa's chin snapped up. She put her hands on her hips and, equally flustered, glared at him. "Well, this is, after all, my bedroom! I might ask what the blazes you're doing here!"

  "I daresay the answer is obvious, my dear," drawled Lucien, coming up behind them and regarding Andrew with a victorious, maddening little smile. "Lady Brookhampton? Why don't you wait for us in the parlor? We'll join you shortly."

  "Of course," murmured the older woman, narrowing her eyes with gleeful malice as she cast a last, lingering look at the bed. She gave a little hmph, turned on her heel and left.

  The duke shook his head slowly back and forth in a faintly chastising way. "Really, Andrew. The damage you're doing to the family name . . . Abducting a lady without concern for her reputation, ravishing her without benefit of wedlock, coupling in your sister's bed . . . Dear me. What will people think? What, I wonder, did Lady Brookhampton think?"

  Andrew felt as though he was going to burst an artery. "Why the devil was Lady Brookhampton even up here?!" he roared.

  "Because Lucien said that a package arrived last night for me!" interrupted Nerissa, turning furiously on her urbane, unruffled brother. "But there was no package, was there? You just used that as an excuse to get Lady Brookhampton up here, didn't you? You know she has the biggest mouth in all London! You wanted her to catch Andrew and Celsie together!"

  "Dear me," murmured Lucien, grinning faintly and pulling at his chin. "Do you really think me capable of such a diabolical plan?"

  "He's been engaged in diabolical plans since the ball!" shouted Celsie, flinging back the coverlet at last.

  "Ah, there you are, my dear. I knew you were under there somewhere."

  Andrew, still in bed, his blood pressure rising dange
rously, could feel his muscles beginning to constrict with an emotion that went beyond fury. He shut his eyes, balled his fists, and began counting to ten. "Nerissa, please leave us," he said through clenched teeth.

  "Why?"

  "Because what I am about to say to our brother is not fit for your ears. And what I am about to do to him is going to mean years of cleaning in order to remove the bloodstains from the carpet. It will not be a pretty sight, I can assure you."

  "Then in that case, I'm staying. After all Lucien has done to ruin your life, after all I'm sure he'll do in an attempt to ruin mine, I should dearly love to see you do something that will make such a satisfying mess. Would you like your sword? I'd be happy to get it for you."

  "There's a pistol on the highboy that would do equally nicely," snapped Celsie, glaring at the duke.

  "My bare hands will suffice," Andrew gritted, swinging from the bed.

  "Now, now, children, enough is enough," said the duke with infuriating mildness. "You will have to think of creative ways to murder me later on, because right now, there are far more pressing matters that demand your attention. Nerissa, you may leave us now."

  "I will not!"

  "Don't argue with me, my dear."

  Nerissa took one look at Lucien's face, tossed her head, and turning on her heel, stormed off.

  Andrew sat there, his hard stare burning into Lucien's. "I know what this looks like, but I can assure you that nothing happened between Celsie and me. We only slept together, not slept."

  "Yes, that's all we did!" added Celsie, her face quite an incriminating shade of pink.

  "Yes, well, do try telling that to Lady Brookhampton," murmured Lucien with infuriating suaveness. "And everyone else who will soon know about your ruination, my dear." He moved into the room, arms crossed, looking like a king who had just won the last country he had yet to conquer. "Really, Andrew, I do hope you're going to do right by the girl. She did, after all, say that she would marry you. But things have happened so quickly, have they not? Hardly enough time to prepare for such a momentous event . . . Ah, well. I am" — he grinned — "as usual, here to help."