The Defiant One (17 page)

"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."

"You are very intuitive, as that is exactly what I intend to do."

"You know, you're
proof
of why dogs are so much better than men!  They, at least, don't mock the idea of love, and they give it freely, uncomplainingly, and unconditionally.  They have nothing more important in their lives than their humans.  They love you till the day they die.  And they, at least,
want
to spend time with you!"

"I can assure you, madam, that I am quite happy to spend time with you — preferably in your bed, where I can assure you that I will make you far happier than even your precious Freckles could ever dream of doing."

There was no green left in her eyes.  "You're sick."

"Undoubtedly."

"And you'd better understand right now that I'm not kicking Freckles out of my bed for
you
.  If you won't leave your laboratory to make room in your life for me, then I'm not making Freckles leave my bed to make room in it for you."

"Then in that case, I hope your bed is a large one so that it can accommodate the two most important males in your life."

"And I hope
you
can accommodate my wishes that we go out in Society once in a while!"

"Sorry, I don't care for social events.  They're boring."

"They don't have to be.  Why, we can dance.  We can socialize.  We can try to get people to take kindness to animals seriously."

Andrew was sketching again.  A decapitated Lucien was lying on the ground now, another sword sticking through his heart.  "I would prefer to stay home," he murmured, scribbling.  "However, you are quite free to attend as many of these excruciatingly thrilling events as you wish."

"Fine, then.  I will."

"Good."

The awkward silence was back, this time worse than it had been before.  Andrew went back to his sketch — but the fire behind his original idea was gone, his savage delight in making an effigy of Lucien had vanished, and now, only lifeless, empty lines looked back at him. 
Sod this
, he thought, tossing the sketchbook aside.  Now, on top of everything else, he felt guilty for deliberately hurting her feelings.  His guilt fed his anger, and his anger, the ever-present fear about his condition and the eventuality that it would be discovered.

He stole a glance at his companion, who was back to staring out the window once more.  She had a lovely profile.  A nose that made him want to kiss it.  Lips that — Bloody hell, what the deuce did she want out of him, anyhow?  She knew he didn't want a wife.  He had thought she had wanted to go her own way as much as he did his.  And now she wanted to spend time with him, to foster a friendship, to drag him out into Society, where it was all too likely that he would have another
episode
and people would finally know the truth about him.  He wiped a hand over his face.  If that happened, his science would never be taken seriously by his peers.  If that happened, he would be laughed right out of the Royal Society before he even managed to get into it.

"I can see this isn't going to be easy," she muttered, still gazing out the window with a hopeless, sad expression on her face.

That expression was fatal to Andrew's anger.  It was so much easier to shove her away when they were arguing.  But this bald expression of hurt . . .

He just couldn't stand it.

"I'm sorry," he said gruffly.  "I am an unpleasant creature.  Not very good company for you or anyone else."

"I'm sorry, too.  You deliberately baited me and I snapped it up like a beagle would a bone."

She turned her head then.  Their gazes met.  Her mouth curved in a fleeting, apologetic smile — and then her gaze dropped, only to land on the sketchbook on the seat.

She frowned.  Andrew tensed.  And then she reached out, picked it up, and studied Andrew's rendering of his decapitated brother, the headless corpse with a sword through the heart, the drops of blood running from the ragged neck.

Andrew bit his lip, not knowing what her reaction was going to be.  Disgust?  Anger?  Horror?

It wasn't what he expected.

Laughter.

A burst of it escaped her mouth, only to be quickly muffled by her hand.  She kept her hand there and looked up at him, her eyes dancing with mirth.

Andrew felt the corners of his own eyes crinkling.

She took her hand away then, and began to giggle.  Andrew grinned and reclaimed the sketchbook.  And this time, when their gazes met, neither looked away.

Chapter 15

Andrew and Celsie weren't the only ones who felt like killing the duke of Blackheath.

Gerald, along with his valet and Celsie's dog, reached Rosebriar late that evening.  Gerald's temper had cooled somewhat, though anger still simmered just beneath the surface.  He could think now, instead of just react.  And think, he did.

Blackheath, damn his eyes, had hit upon the truth:  Gerald had nothing against Lord Andrew de Montforte personally, as a bridegroom for Celsie, save for the fact that he couldn't control the Defiant One the way he knew he could control Bonkley and a score of other men he could think of.

And as far as Gerald's bailing himself out of debt was concerned, that was a problem.

He didn't know whom he despised more:  the arrogant duke of Blackheath, whose wishes were only one rung down the ladder from God's; the duke's bat-brained brother for creating the love potion that had stolen Celsie right from out of his grasp; or Celsie herself for refusing to lend Gerald any more money than she'd already done.  She was a selfish, ungrateful bitch, no better than her whoring mama.  And now he could hear barking coming from the kennels outside, could see Freckles standing next to his water bowl, empty and dry, and looking up at Gerald in quiet expectation.  Gerald ignored the old dog.  He hated its sorrowful eyes.  Hated the claim it had on Celsie's life.  Bloody hell, his sister cared more for these stupid beasts than she did her own brother.  She was willing to pour all her time, energy and money into them, but she wouldn't lift a finger to pay off his debts.

He despised the de Montfortes, Celsie, even his own father, who'd promptly lost all interest in his only son the moment he'd met and married Celsie's beautiful mama, worshipping her until the discovery of her in bed with another man had broken his heart and hastened an untimely end.  'Sdeath, he felt as though the entire world were against him.

Just as he knew every creditor on earth was banging on his door back in London.  Good thing he could hide here for a while, though after he'd tried to kill Andrew this morning, it was a certainty that Celsie would throw him out when she returned.

He couldn't hide from debtor's prison forever.  He needed blunt, and plenty of it, and if he couldn't get it from Celsie one way or another, he was going to have to find it from somewhere else.

He left the hall and went outside, needing fresh air, needing to think.  Freckles, abandoning his dry water bowl, followed painfully, but sore and tired and unable to keep up with Gerald's long stride, soon fell behind.  The earl didn't bother to wait for the old dog.  He was sick of dogs.  Sick of everything.

It was as he strode out past Celsie's neglected rose gardens that a snippet of the conversation he'd had with His Arrogance the duke of Blackheath came filtering back to him . . .

Really, Somerfield, if you are desperate to get your hands on a fortune, perhaps you should consider marrying an heiress yourself and have done with the matter.

Gerald stopped in mid-stride.

By God, that was it.  That was the answer.

Marry an heiress himself!

Of course, he had to find one first.  And far more challenging, he had to make her fall in love with him enough to want to marry a penniless earl with a less-than-sterling reputation and a penchant for the gaming tables.

But how?

He stared down at one of the garden's last roses, blooming bravely in the moonlight despite the fact that any time now, it might wither beneath the season's first hard frost. 
That aphrodisiac.  I have got to get my hands on that aphrodisiac.

An impossibility, of course.

And then he thought of Eva.

~~~~

By mutual consent, Andrew and Celsie had decided to go to London, to give themselves time to think — away from their families and the troubles they'd left behind.  By the time the coach finally pulled up before the elegant wrought-iron gates of de Montforte House, the moon was a soaring beacon that lit up the night sky.

Andrew, shivering in his sleeveless waistcoat, had spent most of the trip in silence.  He had wanted to be alone with his thoughts, alone with his problems.  The slight softening he felt towards Celsiana was both welcome and somewhat worrying.  He was determined to keep her at arm's length — but she had found a chink in his armor.  Truth be told, he was much happier being friendly with her than antagonistic.  Even now, looking at her on the opposite seat, dozing peacefully beneath the lap rug he'd put over her after she'd fallen asleep, he felt a sharp pang of tenderness in his heart.  He didn't like being so rude and abrupt to her — but it was necessary.  He couldn't let her get close to him.

He had too much to lose.

And now the coach had stopped.  It was time to get out.

"Celsie."

She didn't move.

Andrew leaned forward and touched her shoulder.  "Celsie, wake up.  We're here."

She made a faint, unintelligible sound, pulled the short blanket up around her shoulders, and didn't move any further.

The door opened and a footman let down the stairs.  Andrew didn't know quite what to do — so he did the only thing he could do.

He stood as best he could, slid his arms beneath Celsie's sleeping body, and lifting her from the seat, stepped down from the coach.

She was tall for a woman, but she was all legs, her bones light, her weight insignificant.  She fit easily in his arms.  He liked the feel of her there.  He liked the way that, in her half sleep, she nestled her cheek against his chest, one palm placed trustingly against his heart.  Again, he felt that curious stab of tenderness.  Aware that the footman was standing there trying to remain inconspicuous, Andrew turned and carried her into the house.

Issuing commands to the servants for food, hot baths, and rooms to be made ready, he bore his sleepy burden up the stairs.  He would not, of course, remain with her.  He had no intention of sleeping with her.  He would stay as far away from her as possible.