THE DEFIANT ONE

By

Danelle
Harmon

*
* * * *

PUBLISHED
BY:

Danelle
Harmon

The
Defiant One

Copyright
© 2012 by Danelle Harmon

License
Notes

This
ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.  This ebook may not be
resold or given away to other people.  If you would like to share this book
with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.  If
you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for
your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

~~~~

Table Of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

About the Author

More Titles by Danelle Harmon

THE DEFIANT ONE

By Danelle Harmon

Book 3 of the de
Montforte Brothers Series

~~~~

Prologue

November, 1777

Lord Andrew de Montforte hadn't
set out to discover an aphrodisiac.

He was an inventor.  He was a man
of science.  He was an attentive student of the laws of physics, nature, and
God.  He was not a crack-brained amateur, some curious schoolboy mixing
random chemicals in the hopes of making a pretty color or getting a violent
reaction.  However, the discovery of the aphrodisiac was just that,  the
product of random mixing, and it resulted in a very interesting reaction
indeed.

It all started when Andrew and
his impossibly interfering, maddeningly Machiavellian eldest brother Lucien, His
Grace the fifth duke of Blackheath, had another furious row concerning Andrew's
questionable health.  Ever since the fire that had so changed the life of the youngest
of the de Montforte brothers, Lucien been calling in reputed experts in an
attempt to "cure" him and return him to the man that he had been.

All four of the late duke's sons
had been given nicknames by the villagers of Ravenscombe, and Andrew's
sobriquet, "The Defiant One," was well-deserved.  He had been blessed
— or perhaps cursed — with a fiery temper, a strong will, and a blatant
disregard for his brother's ducal wishes, and his only desire was to be left
alone.  He wanted to set about getting a patent for his newest invention, a
double-compartmented coach designed to carry more passengers than the
conventional ones.  He wanted to redeem himself in the eyes of both society and
the scientific community after his flying machine had plummeted to earth eleven
months past, humiliating him in front of not only two hundred onlookers, but
the king of England himself.  And by God, he wanted Lucien to stop calling in
these infernal charlatans — some physicians, some university dons, some men of
the cloth — none of whom had been able to tell him what was wrong.

And now the dogs were barking.
Andrew, standing in the library and making notes from an ancient book of
drawings by Leonardo da Vinci, lifted his head.  He shot a glance at Lucien,
who relaxed near the fire with a book.  His brother never looked up.  Narrowing
his eyes, Andrew gazed out through the leaded windows that overlooked the meticulously
groomed lawns of Blackheath Castle, the copper beeches whose branches were
nearly bare, the sparkling moat beyond.  A gig was coming up the long drive of
crushed stone.

Immediately, his expression
hardened.

Damn you, Lucien!

Incensed, he slammed the book
down on the table, strode past Lucien, and headed for the door.

"Discover something
interesting in that old tome of yours, Andrew?" the duke asked, his
expression benignly innocent as he finally looked up from his own book.

Andrew whirled, his fists
clenched and his eyes full of fire.  "What I've discovered is
another meddling popinjay on his way up the drive, no doubt summoned by you to
poke, prick and prod me, and I'm having none of it."

"Ah, but perhaps Dr. Turner
will be able to cure your problem."

"The devil he will.  My problem
is only getting worse and you know it as well as I do.  There is no cure, I am
a marked man!"

"Which is exactly why I have
asked Dr. Turner to attend you.  He is a most respected authority on —"

"Perhaps I don't want
Dr. Turner to attend me.  Perhaps I don't want any more
bacon-brained pillocks examining me as though I were some freak at the village
fair.  Perhaps I'm sick to death of being treated as if I had no feelings,
thoughts, or dignity, and perhaps you should damn well start minding
your own bloody business for once!"

Andrew stormed out of the room,
slamming the door behind him.

His anger, his resentment, and
yes, even his fear that one of these "experts" would give him the
diagnosis he dreaded burned hotter with every stride he took.  Determined not
to let this latest fool have so much as a glimpse of him, he stalked down the
hall, his height and bad temper making him a formidable presence indeed.  Even
a trio of comely young chambermaids, who usually giggled and blushed behind
their hands when he passed, curtsied and shrank back against Blackheath's
forbidding stone walls, silently staring after his commanding figure as it
moved down the castle's ancient corridors . . .

"'E must've 'ad another row
with 'is Grace, I reckon," said one, sighing as she watched those broad
shoulders round a corner and disappear from sight.

"No doubt about that.  An' I
wager I knows what it's about, too.  Lord Andrew's far smarter than all these
doctors and other learned men that 'e's consented to let examine 'im!  Ye know
'ow well 'e did at Oxford!  Why, I 'spect 'is patience with the lot of 'em must
be pretty well exhausted."

"Can't blame 'im there . .
.  'E's so smart 'e could probably teach them a thing or two!"

Their whispers were lost on
Andrew, who didn't stop until he'd reached his new laboratory on the second
floor of the recently-rebuilt west wing.  Barricading himself in the room, he
splashed port in a glass, drained it I one swallow, and finally threw himself
down at his worktable where he wished both his brother and his manipulations to
hell.

It was only as he stretched his
long legs out beneath the table, and his toes bumped something soft and
yielding, that he realized he was not alone.  He peered under the table and saw
a pair of caramel-colored eyes, sleek, shining fur that was only slightly
redder than his own tousled queue, and a long tail, now thumping the floor in
greeting.

"Esmerelda.  What in blazes
are you doing under there?"  Andrew kept a jar of biscuits on his desk;  opening
it, he took one out and offered it to the elegant red and white setter.  Always
the lady, she took it from his fingers, chewing it thoroughly before swallowing
and pleading with her eyes for more.

She was not alone.  Pork, her fat
companion, was down there, too.  Pork belonged to Andrew's sister Nerissa, and
he was as common as Esmeralda was aristocratic.  Seeing that Esmerelda had
received a treat and feeling left out, the bulldog heaved himself out from
beneath the table and waddled up to Andrew.  Pork was in no need of a midday snack, but Andrew was a fair-minded man.  He took another biscuit, gave it to Pork,
and watched as the bulldog bolted the morsel without bothering to chew.
Disgusted, Esmerelda turned her head away from Pork with lofty disdain, one lip
curling as the bulldog sniffed her muzzle.  She was nearly as well bred as the
dukes of Blackheath, and would not suffer the attentions of a common cur like
Pork.

The dogs might have softened
Andrew's surliness if the crunch of gravel outside hadn't reclaimed his
attention.  Moving to the window and craning his neck, he could just see the
doctor's gig, empty now, standing in the drive.  His ears burned.  He knew they
were downstairs discussing him as though he were an object instead of a man,
perhaps, even at this moment, on their way up here to invade his private
sanctuary.  And he could just imagine Lucien walking along with the physician,
describing his "condition" in that suave, careless drawl that could
be so bloody irritating . . .

"You see, Doctor, my brother
was perfectly all right until he was caught in the fire last year.  That's when
he changed . . ."

Andrew clenched his jaw.  Why
don't you just go ahead and say it, Lucien?  Why don't you just go ahead and
tell him what we all know is really wrong with me!

His anger, a worthy defense
against the fear that always lurked beneath, blazed back into force.  The
hell with Lucien.  The hell with all of them.

Mouth hard, pulse starting to
hammer, Andrew turned from the window, smashed a space through the papers and
notes that cluttered his worktable, and dumped a measure of sodium carbonate
into a glass beaker.

"Miserable bastards,"
he snarled, trying to take his mind off the discussion he knew was occurring
downstairs as he absently splashed oil of vitriol into the beaker and watched
it fizz to the top.  "Miserable, interfering bastards . . ."

He poured himself another glass
of port.  It had come from Lucien's private stock and was vintage 1754, the
year Andrew had been born.  He polished off two thirds of the glass in one
swallow and then, as if to show his absent brother just what he thought of both
him and his port, dumped the rest of it into the beaker.  The devil take it.
He threw in some vinegar and some harmless indigo dye and something left over
in a long-forgotten jar, and sat there stewing in his anger as he stared into
the solution without really seeing it.

A loud rap at the door jolted him
from his sullen reverie.  Barking furiously, the dogs shot out from beneath the
table, Pork's stout body catching one of the legs.  The beaker tipped.
Cursing, Andrew grabbed it just in time to save most of the contents, but a
stream of purple-garnet liquid spilled onto the floor, where it hissed and
bubbled and fizzed like a live thing.  The dogs immediately fell on it.
Andrew, desperate to haul them off before they could poison themselves,
immediately fell on the dogs.

"Andrew, open the
door."

"Go to the devil!" he
shouted over a fresh outbreak of barking as he pushed the dogs away, grabbed a
cloth and tried to wipe up the spill.

The duke's voice, still mild, had
an edge to it now.  "Andrew, for the sake of you and you alone, Dr. Turner
has left his research and traveled all the way here from Paris.  Surely you can
spare him a few moments of your time.  After all, we only want what is best for
you."

"I am tired of people who
think they know best for me!"

"Andrew, must you
behave like such a . . . juvenile?"

Balling the damp cloth and
hurling it across the room, Andrew stalked to the door and tore it open.

There stood the duke, looking as
impeccably contained as ever, one black brow arching in that unique mixture of
reproach and hauteur that he'd probably mastered by the time he was old enough
to crawl.  He was gazing most intently beyond Andrew's shoulder.

With him stood an erect,
white-haired gentleman whose kind, intelligent eyes were widening with shock as
he, too, stared at something behind Andrew.

Andrew scowled, turned on his
heel —

And froze.

His jaw dropped open.  For there
was fat, drooling, bug-eyed Pork, struggling quite valiantly to climb up on
Esmerelda's aristocratic haunches.

And she was not only letting him,
but crouching to make his amorous ascent easier!

"Good God above,"
Andrew breathed, in astonishment.  "I daresay I've discovered an
aphrodisiac!"

Chapter 1

Rosebriar Park

Near Windsor, England

"I don't care how much he
claims to adore me, I am not marrying him, Gerald.  He has no chin.  He has no
teeth.  The only thing he does have is a surname that would make me the
laughingstock of England were I to accept his offer.  I'm telling you right
now, I am not accepting it."

"Now really, Celsie, you're
being ridic —"

"I'm being
ridiculous?  How would you like to be known as Celsiana Bonkley?
I've told you once, and I will tell you again.  I will not marry Sir Harold.
Not now, not next week, not ever."

Trying to keep a rein on his
patience, trying to ignore the headache that some thirty or forty barking,
baying, chaos-causing dogs running loose across the dance floor were bringing
on, Gerald, the third and very-much-in-debt Earl Somerfield, stared angrily out
over the crowded ballroom of Rosebriar Park, his stepsister's vast Berkshire
estate.  Here was the cream of the English aristocracy in all its glittering
array.  Here were decorated generals, French princes, Scottish lairds, famous
statesmen.  One would think that with such splendid pickings to choose from,
she wouldn't have any trouble finding an acceptable mate.  But not Celsie.  She
had standards, and Gerald was beginning to doubt there was a man in the kingdom
who could meet them.

"Besides," she added,
playfully swatting him with a fan upon which was painted a trio of Russian
wolfhounds, "he hasn't yet asked me."

"And what are you going to
say to him when he does?"

"Why, the same thing I say
to every man who asks to marry me."

"Blazes take it, Celsie, not
that —"

"Yes, that."  She
grinned, enjoying his discomfort.  "Honestly, Gerald, I cannot understand
why you're so upset.  I know Bonkley's a friend of yours, but I really don't want
to get married.  You know what happened the last time I tried to become
someone's wife."

"Listen, Celsie, just
because Lord Hammond died at your betrothal feast doesn't mean that every
prospective bridegroom is going to choke to death on a pea!"

"Yes, well, you're
forgetting the marquis de Plussons."

"The marquis reneged because
that damn dog of yours bit him!"

"Regardless, Gerald, my feet
are tired from walking to altars, and I am not inclined to try it again.  To be
quite honest, I was not inclined to try it the first — let alone the second —
time, but Papa, God rest his soul, thought he knew best for me.  I am tired of
people who think they know best for me.  And now here you go again, trying to
pass me off on yet a third one, and what will he succumb to?"

"Dogs, probably," said
Gerald, acidly.

"Probably not, as none of my
dogs would deign to lick the face of one whose breath smells worse than the
inside of a chamber pot."

"For God's sake, would you
lower your voice?"  He shooed off a merry-eyed little turnspit dog that
had taken a sudden interest in his shoe.  "It's bad enough that tongues
are already wagging about you!"

She smiled sweetly.  "Are
they?"

"Yes, and you know it!
Sometimes I swear you delight in making a spectacle of yourself!  In making
people talk!  Only you would dare throw a ball to benefit homeless animals!
Only you would stand up in front of all Society and make a ridiculous speech
about the plights of cart horses, stray cats, and kitchen dogs!  And to ask
people to not only donate time and money towards such nonsense, but to invite
them to bring their pets along to this . . . this debacle!  Get off my shoe!
I swear, Celsie, if I step in one more pile of —"

"I do believe I'm
thirsty," she said breezily, only the sudden glitter in her eyes belying
her anger with Gerald and his endless diatribes.  God in heaven, why was he so
intent on trying to marry her off?  Why did he feel that her business was his
own?  And plague take it, her speech imploring her guests to consider the sad
plight of turnspit dogs had not been ridiculous, it had been . . .
impassioned!  Men!  Scooping up the little turnspit, she turned her back
on Gerald and moved off through the crush, leaving her stepbrother standing
there with his cheeks turning a dark, ugly red.

Whispers followed her across the
ballroom, and through the chaotic barking, the laughter of dancers, the strains
of the music, Celsie thought she heard every one.

"My God, would you look at
her.  A damned pity she wasn't born a man.  She could teach the lords in
Parliament a thing or two about putting some fire in their speeches, ha ha
ha!"

"I just can't believe that's
the same shy little chit we all wrote off when she was presented for her first
Season."

"Well, she was ugly,
uglier than the arse end of a mule."

"Gawkier than hell,
too."

"Remember how you tripped
her and made her cry when she was presented at Court, Taunton?  My God, that
was funny!"

"Well, she had more spots on
her face than eyes on a spud."

"And no tits, either."

"And now look at her."

"Still hasn't got any
tits."

"No, but she owns half of
southern England.  To hell with the rest of her!"

Yes, to hell with the rest of
me, Celsie thought bitterly, cuddling the little dog and leaning her cheek
against its grizzled head as she walked.  And to hell with you, too.

Cradling the turnspit to her
sadly-deficient bosom, she continued past the group of swains with head held
high.  Though she was named for a variety of that most romantic of all flowers,
Celsiana knew she was no English rose.  She was too tall.  She was too skinny.
Her face was a collection of angles, with a thin blade of a nose, high
cheekbones, and frosty, peridot eyes as cool as a leaf of spearmint.  People
say you look like your dog.  Well, she looked like an emaciated greyhound.

But she was rich, wasn't she?

And that, she thought woefully,
made her far more desirable than a full bosom, rosy cheeks, and one of those
curvy little bodies that men seemed to so adore.

Yes, to hell with all of you.
She reached the refreshment tables, put the turnspit down, and coaxed a
frightened whippet out from beneath the cloth with a handful of sugared almonds
plucked from a nearby dish.  Her own dog, Freckles, a large brown and white
Spanish pointer who'd been just a pup when Papa had given him to her for her
tenth birthday, lay beneath the table.  His dark eyes were now cloudy with age
as he watched the other canines crowding around his mistress, the whippet
nuzzling her hand for more treats.  Celsie swallowed hard and hugged the
animals to her, trying to forget the hurtful words she's just heard.  At least
Gerald made no secret of the fact that he despised her.  Even her own mama, who
hopped from bed to bed like fleas on a foxhound, had openly disdained and neglected
her once it had become apparent that her infant daughter hadn't inherited her
own famous beauty.  Hurt, hurt, hurt.  Dogs, at least, were loyal,
non-judgmental, and loved you for who you were — not for what you looked like,
or how you behaved, or how much money your dear papa left you when he died.

Oh, if only there were such a
thing as a man who loved as unconditionally as dogs did!

Straightening up, Celsie brushed
the sugar from her hands and gazed out over the sea of powdered heads.  Dancers
whirled and spun in a maelstrom of color, the women laughing gaily, the men —
well, a depressing few of them, anyhow — tall, handsome and elegant in their
powdered wigs and rich satins and velvets.  She felt detached, excluded, an
outcast in her own house.  But she would not ruin the evening by thinking about
how cruel and shallow people really were.  Better that she return her attention
to this ball she had given to raise awareness about the plight of the
turnspits, those tiny dogs enslaved by cooks to turn the spits that roasted
their meats.

She had just pasted a smile back
on her face and accepted a glass of punch when she spotted both Gerald and Taunton
pushing their way through the crowd from opposite directions and making their
way toward her.  Oh, bother!

"Time for some fresh
air," she declared, handing her glass to Gerald, who reached her first.
"Here comes Taunton, homing in on me like a beagle on a hare."

"Really, Celsie, must every
analogy you use have to relate to dogs?"

She was just opening her mouth to
deliver a tart reply when the latest arrivals were announced.

"His Grace the duke of
Blackheath . . . Lord Andrew de Montforte . . . Lady Nerissa de
Montforte."

Instantly, all movement in the
ballroom seemed to stop, and even the barking dogs quieted as anyone who was
Anyone — and anyone who wanted to be an Anyone — converged on the newly arrived
trio, bowing, scraping, posturing, smiling.  Sycophants, all of them,
thought Celsie, who had no patience for opportunists and hangers-on.  Nevertheless,
she was grateful that the duke and his siblings had come, for the presence of
the de Montfortes, a family renowned for its generous contributions to society
and famed for its extraordinary good looks, would put the seal of approval on
her charity ball.  Only the king of England himself might have endorsed it
better.

"I say, Lady
Celsiana!"  Celsie nearly leaped out of her gown.  She had forgotten all
about Taunton, who had managed to corner her behind the refreshment table.  He
was dark-haired, with merry blue eyes and a slightly lopsided smile, saved from
classic handsomeness by a nose that was too big for his face and a certain lack
of chin.

Celsie frowned.  What was
it about these chins tonight?

He was also drunk.

Disgustingly so.

"I say, Lady Celsiana!"
he repeated, falling — quite literally — to his knees and clutching her hand
for balance.  He pressed it to his lips and immediately frowned; it had just
been licked by the turnspit and was still faintly slimy.  "Would you do me
the honor of becoming my wife?"

Taunton's earlier words came back
to her.  No, but she owns half of England.  To hell with the
rest of her!

Celsie gazed down at him, arched
a brow, and said in a high, clear voice, "And would you, Lord Taunton,
allow my dogs to sleep in the marriage bed if I were to accept your
offer?"

Taunton sobered.  Shocked gasps
nearly drowned out his stunned reply.

"S-sorry?"

She smiled sweetly.  "I
said, would you allow them to sleep in the marriage bed?  I would be much
obliged if you would, for I'm told that her wedding night is a most
frightening event in a woman's life and I would like the comfort of their
company."

The hinges broke in Taunton's
jaw.  Then he leaped to his feet, his cheeks turning as pink as the inside of a
spaniel's ear.  He managed a curt bow, then shot off into the crowd, loud
guffaws following him all the way.

Celsie, her dog-painted fan
pressed to her smirking lips and her eyes twinkling with mirth, smiled
triumphantly after him.

Yes, to hell with the rest of
me.  And my fortune too, you grasping cad.

"I say, madam, that was the
most charming rejection I have heard in some time."

Celsie turned, the smile still
dancing on her lips.  "Your Grace!" she said, curtseying.  "It
is good of you to come."

The duke of Blackheath bowed over
her hand.  "I am glad I did, otherwise I would have missed the delightful
setback you just gave that pup Taunton.  Really, my dear.  You can do better
than him . . . why, the lad has no chin."

Celsie frowned.  Now how on earth
could he have known about her feelings about chins?

"Chins aside," she
said, raising her own, "he doesn't like dogs, either.  I could never marry
a man who doesn't like dogs."

"Ah, yes.  Especially one
who won't tolerate them in your marriage bed."

Celsie stiffened.  The duke had
eyes like nightshade, black, unfathomable . . . omniscient in an unnerving sort
of way.  Was he laughing at her?  Mocking her?  Flustered, she added,
"Never mind that, he would never take in a homeless or suffering
creature as I would  — and do."  She gestured toward the open doors on the
far side of the room.  "Why, I have kennels outside and shelters set up
throughout Berkshire just so these poor little animals will have a second
chance.  I've started a program here in the local village to educate the
children.  I plan to create more of these programs throughout the county, until
every animal is saved."

He was listening intently,
perhaps too intently, his black-ice gaze studying — no, assessing — her
in a way that was making Celsie feel vaguely, inexplicably, uneasy.  Rattled,
she was just about to excuse herself when he gave a slow, spreading, smile that
might have put her at ease if the cunning gleam hadn't remained in his
compelling black stare.  "It seems, my dear, that you have a quite a soft
heart for . . . shall we say, the cast-offs of society?"

"As a castoff myself, I
suppose my empathy is quite natural."

"Surely that is not how you
perceive yourself?"

Her mouth tightened, and,
suddenly fanning her hot face, she gazed stonily at a group of young bucks
gathered around Lady Nerissa de Montforte.  "These are the same people who
took a savage delight in taunting me when I made my debut.  Then, I was just
another young chit on the marriage mart.  But now that Papa has died and left
me everything, they find me irresistible.  Or they pretend to."
She turned and regarded him with defiant eyes.  "Is it no wonder I prefer
the company of animals?  The unconditional love of a dog?"

"My dear girl, you must pay
no attention to Taunton and his sort.  Why, there are plenty of eligible young
men in England, probably right here in this room, who not only could care less
about your fortune —" again, that slightly unnerving smile —" but
would quite happily let your dogs sleep on the bed."

She looked down, finding a sudden
interest in her fan.  "You flatter me, your Grace."

"Do I?  Well, I purposely
sought you out in order to do just that.  Flatter you, that is.  How much more
interesting our world would be if every woman had the sort of courage and
creativity you have displayed here tonight."

"I beg your pardon?"

Raising a hand framed in
expensive lace, he indicated the swell around them, the dogs dashing between
people's legs, the general air of gaiety and carefree abandon.  "Why, this
grand affair, of course, all on behalf of homeless and abused animals.  And
what a novel idea, inviting everyone to bring along their favorite canine to
support your cause . . . though I must confess I had to leave ours at
home."  He gave a rueful sigh.  "Two of them are not, shall I say,
fit to bring out in public at the moment, I am afraid."

"Sorry?"

Blackheath, casually
straightening his sleeve, was gazing out over the crowd from his superior
height.  "It is all quite tragic, really . . ."

"What is quite tragic?"
demanded Celsie, growing alarmed.

He was still looking out over the
room, obviously preoccupied with something else.  "Why, what happened to
them, of course.  They have been most bizarrely affected by a certain solution
of chemicals that my brother Andrew forced them to imbibe.  They are not . . .
themselves."

"A solution of chemicals
that your brother forced them to imbibe?  What do you mean?"

The duke turned his heavy-lidded
stare on her and smiled.  "My dear girl.  Their particular ailment is not
an appropriate topic for a young lady's ears."

"Are you saying that your
mad inventor of a brother has been experimenting on animals?!"

"Did I say that?  Hmm.
Well, yes, I do believe that about sums up the situation.  Experimenting on
animals . . .  Yes.  Andrew always did do things that I heartily disapproved
of, if only to defy me . . .  Ah, there is Mr. Pitt.  If you will excuse me, my
dear?"

He bowed deeply and, leaving her
open-mouthed with indignation, moved off through the crowd.

Celsie stared after him for a
moment.  Then, as her temper flared to life, she drew herself up to her full
height.

Preparing for battle, she went in
search of Lord Andrew.

Chapter 2

She saw him from well across the
ball room.

The first thing she noticed was
that he had a chin.

The second thing she noticed was
that a ring of females surrounded him.

And the third thing she noticed
was that Lord Andrew de Montforte had changed since the last — the only —- time
she'd seen him.  That had been back in '72, when she'd come to London for her
first Season.

She had been a shy, spot-ridden
sixteen-year-old, slouching beneath the awareness of too much height.  He had
been a tall, rather gangly youth with a sullen, lazy insolence about him that
had made him all but unapproachable.  Though Lord Andrew was anything but
gangly now — with shoulders that filled out his frock of dark olive silk and a
height to rival his brother the duke's — time did not seem to have improved his
disposition in the slightest.  Then, as now, a crowd of blushing beauties had
surrounded him like dogs all fighting over the same bone.  Then, as now, Lord
Andrew paid them only the slightest of attention, present in body, perhaps, but
little more.  With his weight slung lazily on one hip, arms crossed, a glass of
champagne dangling from his fingers and the occasional flicker of a distracted
smile — or was it a grimace? — twisting his mouth as he acknowledged each
giggling remark, he gazed out and over the heads of his ardent admirers, his
sleepy, down-turned de Montforte eyes betraying a look that screamed of
boredom.

Not just boredom, but defiance.

It was all too obvious that he
did not want to be here.

It was all too obvious that in
all ways but one, he wasn't.

Probably thinking of his next
way to torture those poor dogs, Celsie thought, recovering her anger.

And for some reason, all those
brainless ninnies swarming around him like wasps on a September apple, drawn by
his broody autumnal looks, his air of ennui, his classic de Montforte
handsomeness — or perhaps a seductive combination of all three — only stoked
the flames of her temper higher.

Well, she was immune to
his broody autumnal looks!  She was immune to his air of ennui!  And she
was immune to classic de Montforte handsomeness, even if he did have a . . .
did have a . . . chin!

Smiling acidly, Celsie slid
through the crowd and came right up to him.

"Lord Andrew."

He took forever to turn his head
and acknowledge her, and when he did, his gaze moved over her in a slow,
assessing way that made her wish that someone made fire shields for the human
body.  "Good evening, Lady Celsiana," he drawled, finally taking his
gaze from her bosom and bowing over her hand.  Was he silently
considering her lack of tits, too?  Something about his negligent,
offhand manner made it seem as though he regarded the gentlemanly courtesy as
the greatest of efforts.  Or sacrifices.  "Interesting party, this."

"Really?  You look about as
interested as an Irish setter over a plate of boiled mushrooms."

"A strange analogy, perhaps,
but nevertheless an honest, and accurate observation.  No offense, of course.
Social events are not my cup of tea."

"Yes, so I gather," she
said tartly.  "I understand that conducting experiments on helpless animals,
is?"

Several women gasped.  Lord
Andrew, ignoring them, raised a brow.  "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, don't try to pretend
ignorance.  I'm fully aware of what you've done to your dogs!"

"My dear madam, I haven't
the faintest idea what you're babbling about."

"Well then, let me refresh
your memory.  I've heard all about how you force them to drink chemical
solutions so you can note the effect on their poor bodies.  You ought to be
ashamed of yourself."

He stared at her as though she'd
just told him she'd discovered a bridge to the moon.  Around them, all
conversation had ceased.  Celsie's fan beat the air a little faster, and
dampness filmed her palms.  She was getting a crick in her neck from glaring up
at that cool, remote face, but she did not back down.  Neither did Lord
Andrew.  Finally, his mouth, so sullen and angry before, curved into the barest
hint of a smile.  A very dangerous, unpleasant smile.

"Ah.  That."

"Yes, that."

"And just where did you come
by such information, hmm?"

"Your brother."

"My brother."  The thin
smile faded.  "Of course."

Lord Andrew gazed once more over
the heads of the crowd, finally locating the informant, and Celsie swore that
if looks could kill, the duke of Blackheath would have to be carried out in a
coffin.

Not that the duke appeared to
care in the least.  He seemed too busy conversing with Pitt and several Members
of Parliament to pay any notice to the drama that was dominating Celsie's
corner of the ballroom.

She folded her arms.  "So,
what do you have to say for yourself, my lord?"

"Nothing, madam, that must
also be said to you."

"This is a charity ball!
The welfare of animals is the whole reason I'm holding it, and if you're
abusing them, then I'm going to have to ask you to leave!"

He shrugged and took a negligent
sip of his champagne.  "Very well, then.  Ask me, and I will be more than
happy to go."

Celsie stamped her foot.  "Are
you experimenting on animals?"

"It all depends on what you
mean by experimenting."

"You know what I mean by
experimenting, you . . . you mad inventor, you!"

Something in his demeanor
darkened.  It was in the barest tightening of his lips, the chill that suddenly
seemed to emanate from his tall, powerful body.  Though he remained the very
image of unruffled calm, of well-bred élan, there was anger glittering in those
lazy, down-tilted eyes now — and it was directed fully at Celsie.

"Very well then, yes, I
suppose I have done.  Experimented on animals, that is.  Do you want the sordid
details?  Perhaps you wish to hear that I pry open their jaws and pour
solutions down their throats so that I can note the effect on their insides.
Or that I strap them into flying machines before going up myself.  Yes, I
suppose that is experimenting, wouldn't you say?"

His circle of admirers gasped in
horror and stepping back, began twittering amongst themselves.

Lord Andrew smiled and fixed
Celsie with a look of malevolent innocence.

And Celsie was struck speechless.

He saluted her with his glass,
looked once more out over the ballroom, and was just lifting the vessel to his
lips when he suddenly went still.  Frightfully still.  His face lost its color,
he looked up at the ceiling, and for the span of several seconds, his gaze
seemed to turn vacant, as though the man behind those intent,
far-too-intelligent eyes had gone away for a moment or two.  With an unsteady
hand, he put down his glass, shaking his head as though to clear it, and then,
giving Celsie a look of confusion and irritation, he swept her a curt bow.

"Excuse me.  I must
go."

"Go where?  I'm talking to
you!"

He didn't bother to answer,
instead turning smartly on his heel and walking away, through his slack-jawed
admirers, through the crowd, past the gossipy Lady Brookhampton, and towards
the door.

"What's the matter with
him?" whispered one fresh-faced girl.

The others clustered close,
staring after him.  "I don't know!  But did you see the way his eyes got
all distant?  What a pity that one so handsome is also so very strange .
. ."

"Perhaps he is ill?"

Celsie, alarmed, thrust past
them.  "Lord Andrew!  I want to talk to you!"

He never slowed, impatiently
waving aside the servant who ran forward with his hat, desperate to reach the
great doors that led out into the frosty night.

"Lord Andrew!"

He ignored her and pushed through
them, so anxious to get outside that he didn't even wait for a footman to open
them for him.

Celsie picked up her skirts and
ran down the hall after him.  She burst outside — and stopped short in dismay,
her breath frosting the night air.  Over one hundred carriages were lined up
out there on the drive, torch light gleaming from their polished paintwork, from
the bits and buckles of the horses' bridles, from iron wheels and windows that
reflected the clear black night.  Somewhere, a horse whinnied.  A few giggles
came from a nearby coach, where a footman was no doubt dallying with one of her
housemaids.  From inside, she could hear the now-distant sounds of the
musicians, the laughter of the guests.

Lord Andrew was nowhere to be
seen.

Celsie took a deep breath, let it
out, and shivering, sat down on the top step of the stairs, her hoops belling
out around her.  Her frustrated gaze swept the darkened lawn, the distant copse
of trees, the low, black horizon filled with stars.

He didn't really strap
animals into flying machines . . . did he?

She put her head in her hands,
blinking, trying to make sense of his strange behavior and wondering what had
caused him to suddenly flee the ball.  Oh, what a night this was turning out to
be, what a —

"Why, Lady Celsie.  There
you are.  I've been looking for you all evening!"

— bloody, awful night.

"Good evening, Sir Harold,"
she murmured, with all the enthusiasm of a hound with heatstroke.

"Celsie, sweetheart, you
shouldn't be out here without a cloak," the baronet chided, sitting down
beside her and taking her hand.  You'll catch your death of a cold!"

"I'll catch my death anyhow,
because that breath of yours is enough to fell a horse," she grumbled.

"I'm sorry, my dear.  What
was that?"

"I said, I'll catch my
breath now, because air is a wonderful resource."

He laughed.  "What a silly
thing to say.  Come, my dear.  Why don't we go back inside?"

"Because I don't want to go
inside.  I want some fresh air."

"Shall we walk, then?"

"I prefer to be alone, Sir
Harold."

"Yes, but being the
gentleman that I am, I am obligated to protect you.  To look after you.  Especially
since I have a very important question that I must ask you, Celsie."

"I'm not answering questions
tonight."

"This is a very easy one, my
dear.  It only requires a simple yes-or-no answer."

"No, then.  That is my
answer."

He laughed, indulgently.  "My
dear Celsie.  I haven't asked you the question, yet."

"No matter, sir, I've still
answered it.  No."  She got up.

He reached up, caught her hand,
and quite roughly yanked her back down.

She fixed him with a frosty
glare, her anger mounting.  "Sir Harold, I insist that you release
me, now.  I have neither the time nor inclination to play games with you."

"I can assure you, Celsie,
this is no game.  I am in earnest."  Still clutching her hand, he went
down on one knee, which cracked with the sound of a pistol going off as he bent
it.

"My dear Lady Celsiana,
would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

"No, Sir Harold, as I
already told you.  Now if you'll excuse me, I must get back inside.  As the
hostess, it's ill mannered of me to be out here when I have guests to entertain."

His face hardened.  "You
would spurn me, just like that?"

"I would spurn anyone, just
like that.  I have nearly been down the aisle twice, and that's two times too
many.  I don't want to get married."

"But your brother said . . ."
He trailed off.

"My brother said what?"

Sir Harold closed up like an
oyster guarding a pearl.  "He said nothing.  Nothing at all."  And
then, his face taut with anger, he grabbed both her wrists in one hand, yanking
Celsie off balance and against him.

His mouth snaked towards hers —

And was brought up short by the
flat blade of a sword, an inch before he would have lost his lips.

"I say, sir, you are obstructing
the door."

Both looked up, only to see the
lean form of Lord Andrew de Montforte blocking out the stars above.

"I seem to have forgotten my
hat," he said, never lowering the sword nor losing eye contact with Sir
Harold as his free hand sought Celsie's and lifted her to her feet.  "Will
you stand and step aside, sir, so that I may go back inside and retrieve
it?"

In a strange, scuttling motion,
Sir Harold leaped up and backward, away from the deadly blade that never
wavered in Lord Andrew's capable hand.  "Wh-why yes, of course, my
lord."  He grinned and bowed deeply.  "Please, be on your way."

"After you, of course."

Sir Harold stopped grinning.
"But I —

Andrew smiled that same dangerous
smile Celsie had seen back in the ballroom and, with his sword, gestured toward
the door.  His grip on her hand made her feel as though it were caught in the
jaws of a trap.

"I said, sir, after you."

Sir Harold's face went cold.
Then, without another word, he turned and strode angrily back through the doors
and inside.

Celsie, her face flaming, was
finally able to yank her hand from her unexpected savior's.  Oh, the
embarrassment of having been caught in an embrace with Sir Harold Bonkley,
of all people!  And the indignation that she'd had to be rescued by the very
man who had been so rude to her just minutes before!   "Really, Lord
Andrew, was that quite necessary?"

He shrugged and slid his sword
back into its scabbard.  "You looked as though you needed rescuing."

"And you looked as
though you were leaving!"

"I was.  I forgot my
hat."

"Well, let me tell you
something, my lord.  I am no spineless ninny, no birdbrained puff of feathers who
needs some man around to protect her.  I can fight my own battles, thank
you very much!"

And with that, she turned on her
heel and stormed back inside.

Chapter 3

So much for gratitude,
thought Andrew, watching her march back toward the ballroom.  He noted the
stiffness of her back beneath shimmering peach silk, the way her petticoats
flirted with her trim ankles, the purposeful manner in which she moved — like a
general taking command of his troops.  A door slammed and she was gone from
sight.

Shrugging, he retrieved his hat,
tucked it under his arm, and strode back out into the frosty night.

Prickly witch.

Bloody irritating little
bluestocking!

He wished the devil he'd taken
his own carriage.  Now he was forced to wait out here in the cold for Nerissa
and Lucien for God only knew how long.  Why the hell had he ever allowed them
to talk him into coming to this foolish ball, anyhow?

He should have just stayed home.

He located the ducal coach near
the front of the line of vehicles, its paint as black as the sky above.  An
alert footman ran to let down the steps for him.  Andrew vaulted inside and
threw himself down on the seat, his breath frosting the cold air.  Pulling a
blanket around himself, he sat staring into the close darkness.

His anger did not last long.  It
couldn't, not with the ever-present fear that lurked just below the surface,
keeping him aware of the fact that he was flawed, reminding him all too often,
as it had done tonight, that there was something very, very wrong with him.  Something
that was not getting any better with time.  Without the anger to sustain him,
and surrounded by the darkness of a quiet night while the faraway strains of
music and laughter — making him feel excluded, reminding him of the normalcy
and safety of other people's lives, making him feel all the more alone —
reached him, he felt the fear clawing for a hold on his heart.  His nerves.  His
composure.  He thought about the incident in the ballroom, and wiping a hand
over his face, found it damp with nervous sweat.

God help me . . . I feel so
alone.

He thought about going back
inside to try and lose himself in the gaiety of the crowd, but immediately
discounted the notion.  Someone must surely have noticed his strange behavior.

He thought about getting out of
the coach and walking and walking and walking until he was too tired to be
afraid, but the idea was not appealing.

Finally he pulled out his
notebook and tried to lose himself in his work, trying not to think of what the
inside of Bedlam must look like.

He shuddered.  Lucien would not
commit him, would he?

Would he?

Putting the notebook down, Andrew
leaned his cheek against the cold glass of the window and, shivering beneath
the blanket, stared miserably out into the night.

~~~~

As he crossed the foyer, Gerald
saw his stepsister storm upstairs, her old dog Freckles, hampered by equally old
joints, trailing in her wake.  A moment later he heard a door slam.  The noise
was so loud that it was clearly audible over the music that had a hundred
people out on the dance floor.

He suspected the worst.

And sure enough, there was Sir
Harold Bonkley, his face equally flushed, but with what looked like
humiliation, stalking towards him from out of the ballroom.

"Well?" said Gerald,
impatiently.

Bonkley snared a drink.
"She refused me."

"Damn it, man, I thought you
were going to publicly compromise her so that I could come upon you and demand
that you marry her!"

"Well, things didn't work
out as we planned."

Gerald was furious.  "We had
an agreement, Bonkley.  You marry her, get your hands on her wealth, and
bail me out of debt.  What the blazes is so difficult about that?"

"Getting her to say yes, for
one thing.  And perhaps I might have succeeded in my quest if that deuced de
Montforte fellow hadn't interfered just as things were heating up."

"What do you mean,
interfered?  The duke has been discussing politics with Pitt for the last
fifteen minutes!"

"I'm not talking about the duke,
I'm talking about that damned brother of his, Andrew.  He came upon us outside
on the stairs just as I was about to ravish her.  So much for ruining her
reputation!  I swear, Somerfield, if I'd been armed, he wouldn't have lived to
regret it!"

"If you'd been armed, I
daresay you wouldn't have lived to regret it," muttered Gerald.
"He is a master swordsman, Bonkley, and you'd do well to remember it.  Now,
if you'll excuse me, I must go find my sister and try to talk some sense into
her."

Sir Harold fumed at the insult as
he watched the younger man go.  He had been so sure of success where everyone
else had failed that he'd told half the people in the room that he was as good
as betrothed to the eccentric heiress.  Now she'd made both him and her brother
a laughingstock.

His fists clenched with rage.

Draining his glass, he stalked
off through the crowd.

~~~~

Upstairs in her apartments,
Celsie waved off her maid, threw herself down on her bed, and still fully
clothed, lay on the silken coverlet, trying not to scream with frustration,
trying not to hurl something across the room, trying not to think about Bonkley
molesting her and how she'd felt when she'd looked up, only to discover that
Lord Andrew de Montforte had been her gallant rescuer.

God help her, why did it have to
be him?

She loathed him!  He was surly,
arrogant, and ill-mannered!  He experimented on animals!  Why, he'd said
himself that he sent them up in flying machines and poured evil solutions down
their throats!

The tears came, damn them.  She
felt them wetting the coverlet beneath her hot face, felt them burning inside
her nose and making the back of her throat ache.  She did not understand them.

Why am I so upset?

Because Sir Harold Bonkley has
ruined my evening, she wanted to shout at herself.  But Herself didn't
quite believe it, so her grasping mind tried something else.  Because men
are constantly trying to order my life to their own wishes, patronizing me,
treating me as though I lack a brain and will of my own.  No, that wasn't
it either.  Toenails clicked on the floor and a moment later the bed sagged as Freckles
heaved his big body up beside her.  She sat up, wrapped her arms around his
neck, and hugged him fiercely.  Because Freckles's face is now completely
grey and he can't walk very well anymore and now I've found a strange lump just
below his ear and I am scared to death.

Yes, that was it.  That
was why she was crying.  It had nothing to do with the fact that, as usual, nobody
had taken her impassioned pleas on behalf of animals seriously.  And it had
nothing to do with the fact that when Lord Andrew had saved her from Bonkley,
she'd had a mad inclination to hurl herself into his arms and let him
kiss her instead.

It had nothing to do with Lord
Andrew!

She buried her face in Freckles's
neck and sobbed.  "Oh, Freck  . . .  What is wrong with me?"

He was too old and too dignified
to lick her face.  He merely sat there and stoically let her hug him, leaning
his body slightly toward hers.

"Nobody wants to hear about
the poor little turnspits who run their legs off in hot kitchens so that
people's meat might be roasted," she told him brokenly.  "Nobody cares
about the way cart horses are beaten until they drop, or how hundreds of
unwanted, unloved dogs and cats are starving in the streets because there
aren't enough homes for them.  No, nobody cares.  All they want to do was drink
my expensive wine, eat my expensive food, try to win my expensive — and
oh-so-wealthy — hand.  Oh, how I wish that I'd been born a man instead so that
people would take me seriously.  How I wish that Papa had had a brother or a
son so that I wouldn't have inherited everything."  She buried her face in
the side of the old dog's neck and hugged him tightly.  "And how I wish
that there was such a thing as a man capable of loving me as much as you do,
Freckles."

With a groan of pain, Freckles
lowered his big body down beside her, molding his back to the curve of her
body.  She stroked his long, floppy ears and wiped her eyes with the back of
her hand.  Dear old Freckles.  That was the thing about dogs, wasn't it?  They
always understood.  They never let you cry all by yourself.  They insisted on
sleeping with you at night to keep you safe and warm, they were always there
whether you wanted them to be or not, and they always knew exactly how you were
feeling.

If only she knew exactly
how she was feeling.

Damn you, Lord Andrew!

That was it.  Tomorrow she was
just going to have to leave for Blackheath Castle and there, finish the
conversation he'd so abruptly ended.  Tomorrow she was just going to have to
make the journey to see for herself what he was doing to the de Montforte dogs.

Tomorrow she was just going to
resolve this matter, for better or worse, and life would get back to normal.

She hugged Freckles, and tried
not to think of the lump.

It was not growing bigger, she
told herself.

But Herself didn't quite believe
that, either.

~~~~

Outside in the carriage, Andrew
must have long since fallen asleep, for the sound of Lucien's voice just beyond
the door jolted him with a start.  He sat up, blinking, as the sway of the
carriage heralded the duke and Nerissa's entrance.

"Ah, Andrew.  There you
are.  We were wondering what became of you," murmured Lucien, taking the
seat opposite him and pulling off his gloves.  "Too much excitement for
one evening?"

Nerissa bounced into the seat
beside Andrew.  "You really should have stayed.  Lady Brookhampton's dog
jumped onto the refreshments table when no one was looking and managed to eat
the whole cake.  It was hilariously funny!"

"Yes, especially when the
poor beast got sick all over Bonkley's shoe," Lucien observed dryly.
"Rather put an end to things, I daresay."  He rapped once on the roof
of the vehicle, signalling the driver to move on, then turned his enigmatic
black stare on Andrew.  "Pray tell, why did you leave?"

Andrew set his jaw and stared out
the window.  "Because," he bit out.

Silence.

If Andrew weren't gazing out into
the night, he might have seen the quickly veiled look of concern in his
brother's eyes.

He might have seen the ache in
Nerissa's suddenly sympathetic gaze.

Instead, all he saw was the tall,
pointed, dark tops of the conifers swaying gently against the stars.

"Ah," said the duke,
softly.  "Another episode, I take it?"

Andrew's silence was affirmation
enough.

Nerissa and Lucien exchanged
glances.  "And here I thought it was Lady Celsiana who might have caused
your hasty departure," Lucien mused.

That got Andrew's
attention.  He turned angrily on his brother.  "Yes, speaking of that
belligerent little witch, why did you set her loose on me like
that?"

Lucien raised his brows with feigned
innocence.  "My dear Andrew, I haven't the faintest idea what you're
talking about."

"The devil you don't.  You
deliberately told her I was experimenting on animals, and the next thing I knew
she was tearing me apart, limb from limb!"

"Oh.  You mean you
minded?"

"Of course I minded!  It was
damned embarrassing."

Lucien sighed heavily, affecting
an air of long-suffering patience.  "And here I thought I was doing you a
favor."

"Doing me a favor?"

"Really, Andrew, how many
times have you told me you have no wish to get married?  That you are sick to
death of pesky females buzzing around you at every social event you deign to
attend?  That you want nothing more than to get on with your science?  The girl
seemed to be quite interested in you, you know.  Asking me rather personal . .
. questions.  I merely said what I did to put her off."

"What?"

Lucien crossed his arms and gave
a sigh of satisfied boredom.  "You ought to be thanking me for my
assistance, not condemning it.  She did leave you alone afterwards,
didn't she?"

Andrew met Lucien's blankly
innocent stare.  Why did he have the feeling his brother was up to something?
"I suppose she did," he murmured, frowning.

"So there.  I was only
acting in your best interest."  The duke sighed and closing his eyes,
leaned his head back against the seat as the coach left Rosebriar behind.  In
the darkness of the carriage, nobody could see that he was smiling.
"Besides," he added, "I highly doubt that you will see her
again."

Chapter 4

Which was wishful thinking, of
course.

For Andrew did see Lady
Celsiana Blake again — a scant thirty-six hours later.

He was still abed when he heard a
carriage outside on the drive, and the dogs barking, and a small commotion
somewhere beneath his window.  His first thought was that Lucien had brought in
another charlatan to examine him.

Upon hearing a female voice, he
realized it was no charlatan at all, but Lady Celsiana Blake.

A charlatan, he thought
irritably, would have been preferable.

Andrew pulled the coverlet back
over his head and tried to go back to sleep.  Bloody hell, what time was it?  Eight?
Maybe nine o'clock?

He heard the low murmur of
Lucien's voice somewhere downstairs.  The duke slept no more than four hours
per night.  Of course he'd be up.

Sure enough, the anticipated
knock on his door came moments later.

It was James, his valet.  "My
lord?  His Grace asked me to inform you that you have visitors.  Lady Celsiana
Blake and her brother, Earl Somerfield, are here.  Your presence is requested
downstairs."

Andrew flipped onto his side,
pulled the coverlet up over his shoulders, and shutting his eyes, burrowed more
deeply beneath the blankets.  "My presence be damned.  Tell His bloody
Grace that he can deal with her ladyship.  I'm of no mind to ruin my day
by starting it off in an argument with some irritating female."

"As you wish, my lord."

Andrew waited until he heard the
servant retreating down the hall, then, stretching lazily, went back to sleep.

Or tried to.

Moments later, he was jolted
rudely awake by a blinding light hitting him in the face.  Lucien was at the
windows, yanking the heavy drapes back and letting in the ruthless morning
sunshine.

"Really, Andrew.  It is
frightfully ill mannered to keep guests waiting."

"It is also frightfully ill mannered
to get a fellow out of bed only to throw him to a damned carnivore,"
retorted Andrew.  The harsh light seemed to drive through his eyeballs and
straight through his head into the pillow beneath him.  He sat up, knuckling
his eyes and squinting against the flooding brightness.  "What the deuce
is she doing here, anyhow?"

"Why, I invited her, of
course."

"You invited her?"

"You seemed rather upset
that I . . . shall we say, stretched the truth about your experiments, so I
took it upon myself to issue her an invitation to Blackheath just to set the
record straight."

"Lucien," gritted
Andrew from between clenched teeth, "I am perfectly capable of handling
Lady Celsiana Blake without your assistance."

"Yes, why don't you?  Handle
her, that is.  She and her brother are in the Gold Drawing Room awaiting
you."

"Gerald is in the
Gold Drawing Room awaiting him," snapped a tart female voice from the
doorway.  "I am not."

"What are you doing
here?!" shouted Andrew, bolting straight up in bed, which, given the fact
that he slept without a nightshirt, without a cap, without anything, in fact,
save for the auburn hair that curled crisply on his chest, was a mistake.  Lady
Celsiana Blake got an eyeful of bare skin, sinewy arms, and a lean, flat belly
laddered with hard muscle.

"A servant brought me
up!" she cried, staring at his chest and blushing furiously.

"Here?"

"The duke said I was
being taken to your laboratory!"

"Damn you, Lucien!"
roared Andrew.  "What the bloody hell is the meaning of this?"

Lucien's casual cross-armed
stance, his innocent expression, never changed.  "Really, Andrew.  I do
wish you'd watch your language.  There is a lady present."

"Not anymore there's
not!" Celsie raged, and jerking her chin up, turned on her heel and
marched down the hall in a rustling fury of agitated skirts and petticoats.

"Ought to go after her, I
think," mused Lucien.  "She's probably heading for your laboratory .
. . Wouldn't want her to find any animal experiments going on, now, would
we?"

"You cursed bastard!"
Leaping out of bed, Andrew swept up a blanket, wrapped it around his hips, and
ran barefooted down the hall in pursuit of his visitor.

Celsie was halfway down the hall
when she heard him pounding after her.  She picked up her pace, turned a corner,
and whirled, her face flushed with fury and embarrassment as she confronted the
source of her distress.  "Don't your servants even know the way around
your house?" she howled.  "Your brother said the servant would bring
me to your laboratory!  That was no laboratory, that was your — your —"

"Bedroom!"
Andrew shouted, equally furious.

"I have never been so
humiliated in my life!"

"Well, don't look at me, I
wasn't the one who invited you into my blasted apartments!"

"Had I known they were your
blasted apartments, I would never have set foot in them!"

"And yet you would have set
foot in my laboratory?  Without my express invitation?"

"Your brother said I
could inspect it!"

"My brother be damned!  I
don't want you or any other nosy, annoying, interfering, female in my
laboratory!"

"What, do you have something
to hide?" she challenged.

They stood glaring at each other,
Celsie quivering with rage, Andrew's fists clenched and his eyes blazing.
Celsie tore her gaze from his face.  But instead of landing on a place of
safety, it fell to his magnificent chest, rising in a perfect inverted triangle
of lean muscle and male strength from the blanket wrapped around his hips.
Appalled, she jerked her gaze up, and saw instead a clenched jaw cloaked with
dark auburn bristle; a set, angry mouth; and rich, sleep-tousled hair that
gleamed like burnished chestnuts in the light coming in from the window.

"Oh!" she cried,
and ripped her gaze from his face.

Instead, it dropped to his feet.
His bare feet, with their bare toes and their bare ankles and their bare calves,
which were, like that splendid, oh-so-manly chest, sparsely cloaked with auburn
hair.

"I'm leaving," she
announced, doing an about-face and storming off down the hall.

Andrew marched right after her,
his long shadow completely dwarfing her and the path ahead of her so that she
could not escape it no matter how fast she walked.  "Good."

"I knew I should never have
come here in the first place!"

"You are entirely correct,
you never should have come here in the first place, and at such an
ungodly hour, besides."

She spun around so fast that he
collided with her chest.  She shoved him away. "What do you mean, ungodly
hour?  It's nearly noon!  How was I to know that you sleep the days away?  Do
you practice your evil experiments by light of the moon, then, so God himself
can't see the wickedness that you're up to?  Do you?"

"I practice my evil
experiments at all times of the day, except, of course, when I'm being harassed
by meddling females."

"So now I'm a meddling
female!"

"You've been a meddling
female since the moment I met you."

"And you've been a surly,
arrogant recluse who's nothing short of strange!  Look at you," she
spat, tossing her head and letting her contemptuous gaze rake his body.  "Standing
there before me, a lady, wearing nothing but a blanket!"

She struck a nerve with the word strange,
knocking him mentally off balance.  Andrew drew back, his eyes narrowing.

"Would you prefer I slip it
off, then?" he taunted.

"I'm leaving!"

He held himself still as she
stormed off down the hall.  Nothing short of strange.  Her remark had
shaken him.  Infuriated him.  Frightened him, for it showed that certain
aspects of his behavior had not gone unnoticed.  Emotion boiled up inside him
as she marched away from him, her little rump swaying beneath yards of
shimmering green satin, her shoulders stiff, her nape white and elegant beneath
the pinned-up piles of shiny, tawny-brown hair.  He felt an insane desire to
call out, to let the damned blanket fall and really unsettle her.  But
no.  He was unsettling her enough just the way he was, and, given her
unprecedented attacks on him, he was determined to enjoy what revenge he could
take.

She was about to round the
corner.  In another moment she'd be on her way downstairs.  Andrew couldn't let
her leave without having the last word.  He waited until she was nearly to the
stairs before he rashly, recklessly, tossed out a challenge that would change
the course of his life.

"I say, Lady Celsiana,"
he called out, mockingly.

She kept walking, her back as
stiff as if someone had poured starch down her spine.

"I say, madam, would you
like to see the evil experiment I'm working on now?"

That brought her to a
stop.

She spun around.

"I thought you didn't want
nosy, interfering females in your precious laboratory," she blazed.

"You forgot annoying."

"That's because I don't
consider my efforts on behalf of suffering animals annoying, though I
suppose dog haters like yourself would be inclined to disagree!"

"Oh, I am entirely inclined
to disagree.  You are by far the most annoying female I've encountered all
year."

Celsie bit back an angry retort
and turned her head, refusing to look at him.  His near-nakedness was having an
effect on her that she didn't quite understand, a hot, short-of-breath feeling
that partnered her thumping heart.  She wished she could stop thinking about
his naked chest.  Wished she could keep her thoughts off what must be concealed
by the blanket.  Wished she could think — at all.

"So," he taunted.
"D'you want to see my laboratory or not?"

"No, I don't want to see
your stupid laboratory after all.  It will only upset me.  You upset
me.  I was a fool to even come here in the first place."

He crossed his arms, one downbent
hand anchoring the blanket low on his hip.  "Coward."

Her head whipped around.  "I
beg your pardon?"

"You profess to be some
savior of animals, yet look at you, bolting because you just might see
something distressing.  Some dog defender you make."

Her chin snapped up with renewed
pique.  She trembled with the urge to fling something at him.  And then she saw
the challenge in his far-too-intelligent eyes, and what looked like a teasing
smirk dancing about his mouth.

Celsie folded her arms and
unflinchingly met his mocking stare, her eyes narrowing.

"Fine then.  Since you're so
eager to show off your hideous experiments, you can just lead the way!"

Chapter 5

He offered his arm.

Stiffly, Celsie accepted it.

And wished that he would put on
some clothes.  Any clothes.  Lord, even a coat would have done wonders.

Stop thinking about what lies
beneath that blanket!

But she couldn't.  Any more than
she could will away this annoying, hot-and-prickly feeling that had so
unexpectedly come over her.  And as she walked mutely beside him, the air between
them stiff with tension, she was disturbingly aware of how tall he was.  How
refreshing — no, how strange — it felt to find someone whose height surpassed
her own, whose very stature made her feel as tiny as she wished she actually were,
who made her feel less of a . . .

Well, less of a gawky freak.

Was his — she glanced furtively
at the blanket cloaking his hips — anatomy of full stature as well?

She blushed furiously.

"I don't think this is such
a good idea after all," she snapped, all too aware of the way her body was
responding to her handsome, dog-abusing escort and not liking it one bit.

"It is a brilliant
idea."

"What, you clad in nothing
but a blanket, me without my maid or suitable escort, and you leading me to
God-only-knows-where?  I am not sure it is quite so brilliant at all."

"It is brilliant because it
is obviously not in Lucien's plans."

"What on earth do Lucien's
plans have to do with anything?"

He marched her out of the main
house and through the doors to another wing.  "Really, madam.  Do you
honestly believe that the servant who brought you to my bedroom didn't do so on
purpose?"

"Perhaps he got lost whilst
trying to find your laboratory."

"Rubbish.  That servant has
been working for us for the last twenty years, and his father worked for us
before that.  He knew perfectly well where he was taking you.  I would bet
everything I own that he was merely following orders.  Lucien's orders.  After
all, my brother invited you out here, didn't he?"

"No, I took it upon myself
to come.  I wanted to see for myself what evil cruelty you practice in your
laboratory."

His lips thinned in an unamused
smile.  "I see."

"Well, I'm glad you
do, because I'm feeling very confused right about now . . . Why do you say your
brother invited me here?  And why would he direct the servant to bring me to
your apartments when it was obvious you were in no state to receive
visitors?"

"Because he's a
troublemaking monster who delights in making me miserable, that's why."
He shoved open a set of carved oak doors.  "Here we are.  Watch where you
step."

Celsie pulled away from him and
came up short.  She found herself in a grand chamber, with bookcases built into
the walls, a high, plastered ceiling, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a lovely
floor of gleaming teak.  A huge worktable, crowded with bottles, jars,
notebooks, burned-down candles, crumpled-up papers, open books, and a discarded
coat, dominated the room.  An easel, upon which were scribbled some
mathematical or chemical formulas — Celsie had not a clue which — was pulled up
beside a high stool.  The room smelled predominantly of new paint, new floor,
new everything, though Celsie could detect the underlying scents of sulfur,
vinegar, and something that had been recently burned.

There was not an animal in sight.

Not a cage, not a leash, not a
dead dog anywhere to be found.

"But . . ."  She looked
up at him in helpless confusion.  "Where are the animals you are
experimenting on?"

"I do not experiment on
animals."

"But you said at the ball
that —"

"No, those were my brother's
words, and after you attacked me as you did, and in such an embarrassingly
public way, I was so angry that I chose to let you believe them.  But I never
confirmed such codswallop, did I?"

Celsie could only stand there
staring at him with her mouth hanging open.  Then she blushed and looked away.

"Oh," she said, in a
little voice.  "Oh — I am so sorry . . ."

"I do not get out in public
much, madam, but when I do, I would prefer that people do not get any worse an
impression of me than they already have."

"I was not aware that people
already had a bad impression of you," she mumbled, still unable to meet
his gaze.

"You yourself called me strange,
did you not?"

She suddenly felt very small.
"Well . . . yes, I did.  I'm sorry, now.  It was an unkind thing to say,
but you weren't the only one who was angry."

He merely looked at her, turned
his back, and walked a few steps away, unwilling, perhaps unable, to accept her
apology.

"I said I'm sorry," she
said.

Nothing.

She had never felt so embarrassed
in her life.  Because she had jumped to conclusions and humiliated him in
public, he had been forced to leave her ball.  And people probably did
have a bad impression of him now, thanks to the fact that she had been blinded
by her concern for his dogs, and thus let her temper get the best of her.

As usual.

Celsie scrunched her hanging,
embroidered pocket in one fist.  If anyone deserved her anger, it was the
duke.  He was the one who had made her and Andrew the butt of some cruel
joke.  He was the one who had made Andrew positively loathe her.  He
was the one she ought to have been confronting, and by heavens, she was going
to have that confrontation right now.

She raised her chin, determined
to make as dignified an exit as possible under the circumstances.  And then she
heard it:  toenails, clicking lightly in the hall just outside.  It was a
welcome sound in the midst of so much awkwardness.  A moment later, a tall,
rangy red and white setter, tail wagging gently, padded into the room, went up
to Lord Andrew, and insinuated herself beneath his hand.

Celsie saw his fingers begin to
stroke the dog's head.

"I guess if the dog likes
you, I've got nothing to worry about," she said lightly, trying to fill
the uncomfortable silence, trying to make amends for her horrible blunder.

He didn't bother looking at her.
"This is Esmerelda."

"That's — a pretty
name," she said lamely.

"My brother gave her to me
as a birthday present three years ago.  Thought I'd want to take her
bird-hunting, but I don't like to shoot."

"Guns?"

"Birds."

"Oh."  She gave a
nervous laugh, feeling unsettled by his brusqueness.  "I thought all men
liked to kill things."

"Yes, well, I'm different.
Or, as you said yourself, madam —" he finally turned to look at her —
"strange."

His moody, challenging stare
burned into hers.  Celsie flushed and looked down at Esmerelda, who was bending
her body into Andrew's leg, trying to get closer to him, her great dark eyes
softening with love as she gazed worshipfully up into his face.  Celsie felt
awkward.  Excluded.  Soundly chastised.  She began to wish she had made
her exit.  She was starting to grow very hot beneath her chemise, and more than
a little uncomfortable by Lord Andrew's brusqueness.  Was he incapable of
forgiving?  Incapable of understanding?  For heaven's sake, Taunton, even
Bonkley, was easier company than this man.  At least she knew how to handle
them . . .

"I think I'd better take my
leave," she said.

"Why?  I thought you wanted
to see my laboratory."

"Yes, well, I wouldn't want
to bother you any longer with my nosy, interfering presence," she said,
trying for a lighthearted sarcasm that failed miserably.

"You forgot annoying."

Celsie began to take a deep
breath, intending to count to ten.  Twenty, if she had to.  "Lord Andrew —"

"Go, leave, then," he
interrupted, making an impatient, shooing motion toward the door.  His eyes
looked almost savage.  "I never wanted you in here in the first place.  I
never want any females in here, because every single one of them is
bored within minutes, and I'm sure you'll be, too.  So go, before your eyes
start glazing over."

"I'm not bored, merely
uncomfortable.  Your manner does not exactly make a person feel welcome."

He bowed mockingly.  "A
thousand apologies.  My manner is far too honest."

Celsie raised her chin and glared
at him.  He gazed down at her from his superior height.  And she saw then, in
his eyes, something he was trying desperately to conceal, something that hid
behind his pride, something that was as plain as the hair on his broad,
hard-muscled chest, before he glanced away.

He was wrong.  Honesty lay not in
his manner, but in his eyes.  His defiant, surly, and yes, hopeful, eyes.  They
said everything his brusqueness didn't.

He didn't want her to leave.

He would never admit it, but he
didn't want her to leave.

"Apologies accepted."
She took a deep, steadying breath and let it out on a tentative smile.
"Now let's stop bickering, shall we?  I want to see your laboratory.  I
promise I won't be bored —"

"Women never keep their
promises."

— "and besides, I've never
met any men of science before," she said, ignoring his gruff words and
trying to force geniality from him.  "Did you write the formula on that
easel over there?"

"Yes," he said,
shooting her a glance that said, Well, who the devil do you think
wrote it?

"And did you design and
build that great, complicated machine down there on the floor?"

"Yes."

"And look at all those books
you have . . . They appear to be texts on science and math and alchemy . . .   Do
you understand them all?"

Again a look of long-suffering
impatience.  "I wrote several of them," he muttered, pulling
one down and thrusting it into her hand while he bent over a table and began
rifling through a large stack of papers.  "That one's my doctoral
thesis."

"What is it about?"

"What does it look
like it's about?"

"It looks like it's
written entirely in Latin," she said tightly, but with a cheerful smile so
that he would not see how much his rudeness and sarcasm were unsettling her.

"Anyone can see that it's a
treatise on the components of air."

"Anyone who's a male and
thus privy to an education."

"And what is that supposed
to mean?"

"Exactly what it implies.
You men think of us as silly, frivolous creatures when you're the ones
who get to go off to Eton, to Cambridge, to Oxford;  you're the ones who
get to do Grand Tours of Europe; you're the ones talking politics in
every London coffeehouse, in every private club, in every private dining room
over your brandy after sending us women away because you think such talk would
overtax our frivolous little brains.  How do you expect us to know Latin and
understand the components of air when our education consists of learning
the proper use of the fan, taking care of babies, and how to sew?"

He stared at her, his expression
inscrutable.  He had the most intent, focused, single-minded gaze she'd ever
seen.  It was almost unnerving.  And it remained on her for far too long.

"Stop looking at me as
though I'm some bug under a microscope," she said, feeling uncomfortable.

He finally turned away, heading
across the great room.  "I'll grant that men have an advantage," he
said levelly, "but most of those who go up to university waste their time
drinking, gambling, and whoring instead of studying."

"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
— and —"

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 damned door is
open!"

"No one will come.  Besides,
don't you like to live dangerously?"

Her hips were pressing against
his, pressing against his already straining erection.  And now she was reaching
out, dragging her fingers down the cleft of his chest, running her fingernail
around his nipple and down over his ribs, following the thin arrow of dark
auburn hair toward —

"Madam, please contain yourself!"

"Why?  I've been wanting to
touch you from the moment I saw you lying there in that bed.  You have such a
splendid physique, you know . . .  Such taut, powerful muscles . . . such a
perfectly masculine form.  I think I am very glad that you are not wearing any
clothes, after all."

"You must stop this,
now!"

"Stop what?  Let go of the
blanket, Andrew.  Take it off and let me see if the rest of you is as
magnificent as what I can see . . . what I can feel . . ."

"No, this is not a
good idea," he said, then let out a choked gasp as her fingers brushed
teasingly over the blanket, which he clutched to himself like a shield.

Her fingers settled on the upper
edge, her knuckles pressing into the point of one bare hip, her smile coy,
teasing, a mixture of virginal innocence and pure, female intuition.  "Of
course it's a good idea.  Surely, you don't have something to hide, do
you?"  She tugged persistently at the blanket.  Andrew, his hand shaking,
clenched it at his hip.  And then she grinned and sidled closer to him, rubbing
her bare breast, her aroused nipple, against the crisp hair of his chest.

"And you accuse me of
being a coward," she teased, with a little smile.

Andrew groaned.  He was losing
control of his will.  Of his body.  He felt his muscles liquefying as Celsiana
began kissing his chest, looking up at him through her lashes, her fingers
still tugging at the blanket.  He tightened his hold.  And now her knuckles
were sliding across his bare, taut abdomen, going out to one hip, and then,
agonizingly, back to the other, as she traced the blanket's folded rim.

A blanket that Andrew was
clutching desperately against himself.

Help, he thought,
muddily.  Frantically.  He backed up, wondering if he could make an escape,
knowing, with some carnal part of his no-longer-scientifically-inclined mind,
that escape was really the very last thing he wanted.

What he wanted was —

He took another step back.  She
moved right with him.  And then the back of his thighs came up against the
worktable.  Through the blanket, he felt its hard edge.  He felt Celsie's
fingers tickling, brushing, teasing his belly . . . skimming the bony points of
his hips . . . coming back around again and now touching the huge, rigid bulge
that he was helpless to hide, helpless to prevent, jutting up through the
blanket in proud, unmistakable arousal.

"Oh, my," she said, her
eyes widening.  "Now this is interesting!"

"Madam, please, come
to your senses, you will regret this, I tell you, this is —"

Her fingers wrapped around him
through the blanket.

"This is . . ."

She squeezed him, and Andrew's
knees threatened to buckle.

"This is wonderful,"
she finished for him, as he reached behind him, and with his free hand, caught
the edge of the table.  His knuckles felt as though they were going to burst
their skin.  His grip on the tabletop was the only thing keeping him on his
feet.  Where his knees had been there was only water.

"Isn't it, my Lord
Andrew?"

"Isn't it . . . isn't it
what?" he managed weakly.

"Wonderful."

"Oh God, please help
me."

"Let go of the blanket,
Andrew."

"No, madam, you will regret this
. . . we both will."

For answer, she merely began
rubbing his arousal through the blanket, touching him, squeezing him, inciting
him, and Andrew thought he was going to explode into a thousand pieces.  He
wanted her to rip the blanket off.  He dreaded what would happen when she did.
His eyes began to close.  His fingers all but left dents in the tabletop.  She
bent her head, and he felt her silky hair against his belly, felt her fingers
cupping his testicles, and knew he was lost, even as she reached out and pulled
the bunched blanket from his slackening fist and slowly dragged it down, off
his hips, and off his huge and very hot erection.

Andrew, his senses all at sea,
could do nothing to resist.

Absolutely nothing.

Her hand found him.  His knees
buckled and, letting go of the table, he sank to the floor in defeat, pulling
her with him, kissing her desperately.

"The devil take it . .
."

They fell sprawling into a pile
of drawings.  Andrew groaned, trying, with the last part of his mind that could
still reason, with the last shreds of will that remained to him, to slide
backward away from her ruthless seduction, from her maddening touch, but he
couldn't hear himself think, couldn't feel himself feel, and knew nothing but
the sweetly torturous feel of her hand, her gentle, exploring fingers.  It was
too much, even for him.  His outflung hand managed to snare the leg of a chair;
he tried to pull himself to safety, but he was trapped by his own passion.  He
let go of the chair.  He let go of his will.  And then, catching Celsiana
around the waist, he yanked her up and atop him, rucking up her petticoats as
he slid his hand beneath them and up her long, smooth-as-silk thighs.

Oh, God, she was right.  Warm
and wet . . . oh, so very, very wet. . . .

He heard her moan deep in her
throat, felt her sigh against his cheek as his fingers sank into her moist
cleft and began to stroke her.

"Yes, oh, that feels so much
better," she breathed, showering fervent, inexperienced kisses all over
his brow, his nose, and finally, his mouth.  Andrew claimed her lips, quickly
showing her how it was done, devouring the innocent sweetness of her mouth.
His own breathing grew shallow.  Erratic.  He felt her palming his abdomen, and
now her hand slid down to wrap itself around the base of his manhood, squeezing
him oh so gently, oh so firmly.  He sucked in his breath on a raw gasp; but
when her fingers started to flicker over the engorged tip, he knew it was all
over for him.  His eyes flying open, he drew his lips back in a silent scream
and made a wild grab for the chair leg to anchor himself.

It came over with a crash,
hitting the table, then the floor near his ear, with a sound that nearly
deafened him.  A beaker fell and shattered on the floor, along with several
bottles and a half-finished cup of tea.  "Bloody hell," gasped
Andrew.  "Sweet, bloody hell!"  And as he shut his eyes and tried, oh
dear God, tried to delay his climax, Celsie began making little sobbing gasps
that heralded her own coming release.  The sound was enough to annihilate
Andrew's control.  Feverishly he seized her around the waist with both hands,
plunked her down atop his rigid manhood as she helped guide him in, and,
impaling her all the way to the hilt, began thrusting up into that tight,
blessedly wet haven with desperate, frenzied, abandon.

"Oh!" she cried.
"Oh, I think that is what I needed . . . what I wanted — oh,
please . . ."

She met his savage thrusts with
equal abandon.  Her kisses rained down upon his hot forehead, his lips, his
face.  "Oh, please, Andrew — go faster!"

Her voluminous skirts and
petticoats shrouding his body, her hair swinging wildly about his face as she
rode him for all she was worth, he felt her inner muscles beginning to contract
all around him.

"Faster!"

"Oh, Goddddddddddd —"
Andrew shouted through clenched teeth as the white-hot explosion finally ripped
through his loins.  Carried along by her movements, he gave a final upward
thrust, his senses splintering as she cried out and hung poised above him, her
head thrown back, one breast jutting free, tears of unexpected ecstacy rolling
down her cheeks as climax seized her as well.

Then she fell, panting and exhausted,
across his bare chest just as the door crashed fully open.

Shocked silence.

Shocked, stunned, awful silence.

And then a calm and perfectly
unfazed voice penetrating it:

"Dear me.  This is certainly
a most interesting experiment you are conducting, Andrew."

Still weak and dazed, Andrew
raised his head.  There was the duke of Blackheath.  There was a handful of
staring servants.

And there, God help them both,
was Celsie's brother, the earl of Somerfield.

"Bloody hell,"
Andrew said, and throwing a hand over his eyes, let his head thump back to the
floor.

Chapter 7

"You rutting bastard!"
howled Gerald, drawing his sword and charging forward.  "I'll kill you for
this, so help me God!"

Lucien calmly reached out and
caught the earl's elbow before he could decapitate his youngest brother.
"Now, now, Somerfield, if you feel compelled to kill him, please do so
outside.  Bloodstains are so hard to get off a new floor, you
know."  He gazed down at the hapless pair, his angry sibling flat on his
back, stark naked, and covered only by Celsie's petticoats.  Not to mention her
partially clothed body.  "Besides, I am sure that my brother has a
perfectly reasonable explanation . . ."  He gave a maddening little smile.
"Don't you, Andrew?"

"Damn right I do!"
snarled Andrew, hooking a finger around a damp lock of Celsie's hair that
webbed his face and glaring up at the intruders from beneath her prone body.

"I, for one, would like to
hear it," said Lucien mildly.

"She drank the damned solution!"

"What solution?"
thundered Somerfield.

Lucien came forward, retrieved
the blanket from the floor, and tossed it over the couple.  "My brother
here devised an aphrodisiac," he explained conversationally, as though
such discoveries were commonplace amongst English inventors.  He crossed his
arms and looked down at his brother, a faint smirk playing about his mouth.
"Really, Andrew, you disappoint me.  I would have thought you had more
sense than to test such a . . . dangerous composition on a pretty young
woman."

"I didn't test it,
she asked to try it!"

Lucien shrugged.  "Well
then, I would have thought you had more sense than to say yes."

"What do you mean, she asked
to try it?" raged Somerfield.  "How dare you accuse my innocent young
sister of such vulgarity!"

Andrew met the other man's glare
with hard eyes.  "I daresay your sister is no longer innocent, and
I must wonder, indeed, whether she ever was."

Somerfield's cheeks mottled with
outrage, and at that moment, Celsie finally raised her head.  Pushing herself
up on one hand, she blinked and looked weakly around her, her expression one of
confusion and slowly dawning horror.  "Good heavens . . . what
happened?"

"You ravished me,"
snapped Andrew.

"I what?"

"I said, you bloody well ravished
me."

"You'll die for that
accusation, de Montforte!" howled Somerfield, advancing with drawn sword.

The duke sighed and casually
snared the earl's sleeve once again.  "Given the circumstances,
Somerfield, I do think it wise to retreat to the library so that you may
calm down, and our young lovers here can recover both their wits and their
dignity.  Andrew?  If you and Lady Celsiana would meet us downstairs in a
quarter of an hour, I'm sure that reasonable satisfaction can be had for all
parties involved."

"I daresay that reasonable
satisfaction has already been had by at least one of them!" roared
Somerfield, glaring pointedly at Andrew.

"Really?  Well, it wasn't
me, I can tell you that much."

Somerfield went for his sword yet
again, and this time Lucien's eyes lost their amused glint as he seized the
earl's arm once more.  "Really, Somerfield, you are beginning to annoy
me.  It would benefit us all if you would demonstrate a little self-restraint.
Now come along.  I trust that some cognac will steady you and allow you to
address this matter in a mature and rational way."

Steering the hot-tempered earl
from the room, he strode toward the door, and it was only as he crossed the
threshold and paused to look back over his shoulder, one brow raised and a
faint smile on his lips, that Andrew caught the telltale gleam of satisfaction
in those fathomless black eyes.

And then he was gone.

"Bastard," Andrew
muttered beneath his breath — and in that moment, he would have wagered
everything he owned that Lucien was — in some way, for some reason — behind
this entire debacle.

~~~~

The "mature and
rational" way that Lucien suggested, once Andrew and an upset,
embarrassed, and very, very angry Celsie were seated in the library, was an
immediate marriage.

Lucien gazed thoughtfully at the pair,
sitting as far apart from each other as the placement of chairs would allow,
neither looking at the other, both quietly furious.  "Regardless of the
circumstances that led to the act, Andrew, there is no denying that you have
ruined the girl," he said, pouring another glass of cognac and handing it
to his now fully clad brother.  Andrew adamantly refused to take the glass and
sat staring mutely out the window, his jaw clenched, his eyes blazing as Lucien
continued.  "You have robbed her of her virginity, her innocence, and any
chances of making a successful marriage.  Therefore, I think you owe it to her
to do the right thing."

Andrew leaped to his feet.
"I will not marry her!"

"And I will not marry him!"
cried Celsie, also leaping to her feet.

"Sit down, both of
you," said the duke, irritably.  "Lord save us, you'd think I just
sentenced the two of you to the gallows, the way you're carrying on."

"I said, I am not
marrying her," Andrew repeated hotly.

"And I said, I am not
marrying him!"

"Well, then," said
Lucien, smiling and gazing calmly at the earl.  "What do you
suggest we do, Somerfield?"

"He ruined my sister!  If
he's any sort of a gentleman, he'll do the right thing!"

"I wasn't the one who
told her to take the damned solution!"

"But you were the one who
damn well invented it!"

Celsie could feel herself losing
her already frayed control.  "Gentlemen —"

"And you were the one who
allowed her to take it!" Gerald continued.

"Gentlemen —"
Celsie bit out, louder this time.

"And furthermore, you
were the one who was lying stark naked beneath her," thundered Gerald,
advancing on Andrew with fists clenched.  "Your brother's right — your
judgment is to be questioned, and so, by God, are your motives!"

Celsie slammed her own glass
down.  "Damn it, listen to you!  The two of you go on as though I am
invisible, as though I have no brain or will of my own, as though I'm nothing
but a — but a — flea on a dog's ear!"  She rounded on her brother.
"Gerald, I told you before and I shall tell you again, I was the
one who asked Lord Andrew to give me the solution.  I was the one who
doubted its efficacy.  I was the one who attacked him, and I am the one
who is responsible for this . . . this mess, and I will not have you
forcing us into some ill-advised union when it is obvious that Andrew has no
more wish to marry me, than I do to marry him!"

"And what if you're with
child?" shouted Gerald.

"If I am with child, that's
my responsibility, not Andrew's!  He didn't ask for me to . . . to . . .
."

"Ravish him," finished
the duke urbanely, topping up his glass.

"Damn you, Lucien!"
exploded Andrew, as Celsie flushed crimson.  "Must you be so damned
crude?"

The duke merely smiled and lifted
a brow.  "My dear brother, I am merely repeating the words you used
earlier."

"Did I ravish
you?" demanded Celsie, her insides clenching.

Now it was Andrew's turn to go
red.  "Don't tell me you don't remember."

"I don't remember a thing
except opening my eyes to find myself — "

"On top of him,"
finished the duke, smoothly.

"Curse it, Lucien!"

Celsie was trembling with
mortification.  "Thank you, Your Grace, for stating the matter so
succinctly," she ground out.

Blackheath merely inclined his
head and lifted his glass to her as Celsie turned angry, desperate eyes on
Andrew.  She saw his own gaze soften, momentarily, before he looked away, his
jaw hard.  He was as much a victim of this entire debacle as she was.  He had
warned her not to imbibe the solution, had even tried to talk her out of it.  But
no.  She had taken his warning as a challenge, and now look at what happened.

"Did I?" she
demanded, anger and self-disgust making her voice brittle.

He cleared his throat.
"Well, let us say that your manner was nothing short of predatory,"
he allowed.

"Did you resist?"

"Really, Celsie!"
thundered Gerald.

"Did you?"

"Well, I did at first, but
to be truthful, madam, you were rather . . . well, persuasive in your
designs."

"Oh, dear God,"
she moaned, momentarily covering her face with her hands.  Then, raising her
head, she looked Andrew directly in the eye.  "Well then, since it was your
honor that was compromised, your body that was — was —"

"Ravished," supplied
Lucien, helpfully.

"Ravished,"
fumed Celsie, eyes flashing, "then I think that you ought to decide
what should be done."

"This is highly
irregular!" stormed Gerald, his complexion mottling.  "Really,
Celsie, I have never heard of anything so preposterous in my life!"

"Be quiet, Gerald.  After
all, I was the one who coerced Lord Andrew into giving me the solution,
so therefore, it is up to me to deal with the consequences."

"I thought you said you
didn't remember what happened!"

"Well, I remember that
much!"

"Regardless, he was the one
who deflowered you!"

"Maybe I deflowered
him!"

"Highly unlikely,"
interrupted the duke, idly studying his cognac.  "I daresay Andrew lost
his virginity long ago."  He smiled and slanted a benignly innocent grin
at his brother.  "Is that not right, Andrew?"

Celsie saw Andrew turn and glare
out the window once more, his eyes like flint.

"So you see, my dear?  That
settles that."

"That settles nothing,"
Celsie snapped.  "Lord Andrew?  What are your wishes in this matter?"

"I have already stated
them.  With all due respect, madam, I have no need or wish for a wife.  Indeed,
I would prefer to forget this matter ever happened and simply get on with my
life."

"Well then, as I also have
no need or wish for a husband, I daresay we are of like mind, and I, too, would
prefer to forget it ever happened.  Please take me home, Gerald.  I find that I
am developing quite a headache."

The duke sipped his cognac.
"Really, my dear, that's an excuse you should have used an hour
ago."  He turned to his brother, eyes gleaming.  "I beg your pardon.
Perhaps you should have used it, Andrew."

Celsie thought — hoped — that
Andrew was going to kill the duke right then and there.  He shot to his feet,
his face darkening, his fists clenching at his sides.  "The lady has
stated her wishes, I have stated mine, and I am leaving."

"So am I," snapped
Celsie, also rising.

"But what about my brother's
compromised honor?" asked Lucien, raising an innocent brow.  "It
would be most embarrassing if word got out that he was attacked by a woman and
did not enjoy it."

"I never said I didn't enjoy
it," Andrew ground out.

"Oh.  Well then, that
changes things immensely, doesn't it?  As you are of superior strength to the
lady, and did nothing to defend yourself from her — what did you say? — ah yes,
persuasive designs upon you, then I daresay we can conclude, after all,
that you are as much responsible for this predicament as she is.  I really
think that one of you, at least, should offer marriage."

Celsie had had enough.  She
strode angrily up to the duke of Blackheath, who remained sprawled negligently
in his chair, an amused little smile playing about his mouth as he looked up at
her.

"You seem to be rather hard
of hearing, Your Grace," she said tersely.  "I have already told you
that I have no wish to get married."

"And you, my dear, seem to
be ignorant of the gravity of this situation.  Perhaps if you explain why the
idea of marriage to a handsome young man like my brother here is so revolting,
I will suddenly find my hearing quite restored."

"Because marriage doesn't
suit me, that's why."

The duke was back to examining
his cognac.  "Ah, yes.  I seem to recall that the last two fellows you
tried to marry expired under rather extraordinary circumstances, the former, if
I remember correctly, by choking on a pea.  Hmm.  Perhaps marriage doesn't suit
your prospective bridegrooms, my dear."

"Only one of them
expired," said Celsie icily.  "But even so, we wouldn't want your
poor brother here succumbing to the Jinx."

"Rubbish," said Lucien,
smiling.  "He is a de Montforte.  'Twill take more than a pea to do him
in."  He looked at Andrew.  "Surely, you are not afraid of being done
in by a pea, are you, Andrew?"

"Why the devil should I be
afraid of being done in by a goddamned pea when three drops of my
solution seem to have done the trick well enough?"

"Ah, but surely it is not as
bad as all that.  You do not find the lady wanting, do you?  She is quite
lovely," the duke murmured, lifting his glass to Celsie.  "She has
spirit, intelligence, and enough money to finance any disastrous little
experiments you should choose to . . . test in the future.  Truly, I
cannot see what the problem is."

"The problem is, I do not
need some female interfering with my time, my work, my schedule, my
life.  I do not have time for a wife, and I do not want the responsibility of
having to look after one."

"Ah, but you should have
thought of that before you allowed her to take the solution.  Now, you may find
yourself facing the responsibility of looking after a child.  Would you want
any son or daughter from this union to be born a bastard, Andrew, simply
because you are too stubborn, foolish, and proud to do the right thing?"

Celsie slammed her hand down atop
a small table.  "Stop harassing him!  It is obvious that he has no wish to
get married, and I will say once and for all that I don't want to get married,
either!"

"Ah.  Do you find him
wanting, then?" asked the duke, smoothly.

"That is not the point!  And
I have had enough of this absurd conversation.  Gerald, I demand that you take
me home.  Now."

"Celsie —"

"Now.  Before I grow
even angrier than I already am."

Gerald put down his glass, but
his jaw was rigid, his eyes glittering with fury.  "Very well then,
Celsie.  If you will await me in the carriage, I will join you as soon as I
have concluded my business here."

She rose to her feet.  The
gentlemen did as well.  Then, with a short curtsey to the duke, Celsie turned
and marched from the room, leaving an awkward silence in her wake.

"That settles it,
then," said Andrew.

Somerfield put down his glass.
"That settles nothing, de Montforte."

Even Lucien, still casually
ensconced in his chair, lifted his brows.

"The fact remains that you
have dishonored my sister and ruined her beyond repair.  If she will not accept
restitution, then I demand it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"My second will be calling
upon you this afternoon.  I will see you tomorrow at dawn, sir — where the two
of us will settle this matter like men.  Good day."

Chapter 8

"Really, Andrew.  I fail to
understand why you look so damned gloomy.  'Tis only a sword fight, and I'm
sure it will be over well before breakfast.  Just long enough to work up a good
appetite, I should think."

The two brothers had had a
blazing row just moments after Celsie and the earl had departed.  Or rather,
Andrew had had a blazing row with Lucien, accusing him of deliberately orchestrating
the debacle.  Lucien had merely sat there in total calm, an infuriating little
smile on his face as Andrew raged and howled and tore about like a December
gale.

Dinner had been a tense, charged
affair.  Now, the evening meal had long since finished, the table had long
since been cleared, the musicians who supplied His Grace and his vast household
with the latest and most fashionable music from the Continent had long since
retired.  Even most of the servants had gone to bed.  As well they should; it
was ten minutes past midnight.

"I am gloomy for many
reasons, but I can assure you, fear of death on the morrow is not one of
them," Andrew snapped, not looking up as he pored over the
seventeenth-century tome on alchemy that had occupied his attention for the
last two hours.

"I am relieved to hear
that.  You are, after all, a de Montforte."

Scowling, Andrew flipped a page
and jotted something in the notebook at his right elbow.  "A de Montforte
who's been damaged beyond repair."

"Rubbish.  You spent hours a
day rebuilding your strength once you were able to breathe normally again, and
we both know how you accomplished that."

Indeed.  After the fire had so injured
his lungs, Lucien had forced him into a ruthless regimen of hard exercise,
challenging him to practice his fencing skills even on those days when Andrew
had felt too weak or dispirited to even lift the rapier.  As much as Andrew
hated to admit it, there wasn't a man in England who could match Lucien's
prowess with the blade . . . and as his fencing partner, Lucien had good reason
to believe in Andrew's own skill as well.

"Yes, well, if you're
looking for gratitude, you're not going to get it," he said curtly.
"Not tonight.  I'm totally fed up with you and your confounded
manipulations.  Why don't you just bugger off and leave me alone?"

"Ah, Andrew.  You wound
me."

"Do I?  Well let me tell you
something else.  I refuse to go to any more balls, parties, or public
gatherings of any sort.  I am not normal, and know it.  I will never be
normal.  One of these days someone outside the family will find out.  It's a
damned miracle someone didn't find out or at least raise an eyebrow at the
ball.  You may be able to command just about everything except the weather, but
even you cannot protect me if people start getting suspicious."

"I have done a commendable
job so far."

"Yes, well, I'd rather just
stay home.  Unlike the rest of you, I hate going out in Society anyhow.  Always
have.  Nothing but a bunch of twittering fops and fools who have nothing better
to talk about than politics, scandal, and fashion."

"Well, what would you
have them talk about?  The composition of drinking water?  The effect of heat
on various gases?  The formula to determine the exact distance the earth stands
from the sun?  Really, Andrew.  Your mind dwells in different and far higher
places than do ours, indeed, than do those of most people you're likely to
meet."

"My point exactly."
Andrew flipped a page.  "And another thing.  I would rather die at
Somerfield's hand tomorrow than endure any more of those so-called doctors you
keep dragging here to examine me."

"Very well then.  I will
drag in no more doctors to examine you."

Andrew rested his brow in the
heel of his hand and turned a page, trying to focus his attention on the question
of why his random mix of chemicals had produced an aphrodisiac that had come
close to ruining his life — if it hadn't already.

But he kept seeing Lady Celsiana
Blake, so interested in his work when every other lady he'd ever brought into
his laboratory had been bored to tears.  He kept seeing her looking seductive
and oh-so-desirable in the throes of passion.  He kept seeing her bravely
trying to retain what dignity she had left while Lucien had baited her and
tried to force her into a marriage she didn't want.  And he kept seeing her
leaping to his defense, taking the blame for the day's disaster instead of
allowing him to shoulder it, as any other woman probably would have done.

As any other woman probably would
have demanded.

"Well, Andrew," said
his brother, pushing back his chair.  "Now that we've reached an agreement
of sorts, perhaps we can call a truce and be civil to one another?  I for one
am finding this brotherly strife infinitely wearying."

"Then you should have
thought of the consequences before playing games with Celsie's and my lives."

"Games?  My dear brother.
You're the one who fails to see the gravity of this situation, not me.  If
you'd only done the gentlemanly thing and offered to marry the girl, you could
enjoy a leisurely stay in bed tomorrow morning."

"I'd sooner marry one of her
dogs."

"Hmm, yes.  I am sure that whomever
marries the fair Lady Celsiana will be marrying her dogs — that is, if
he does not first choke to death on a pea."

"Yes, well no danger of that
with me, as I have no intention of marrying her and I hate peas."  Andrew
shut the book, poured himself a generous measure of brandy, and fixed Lucien
with a hard glare from across the table.  "Stay out of my life, Lucien.
I'm warning you."

"You're what?" asked
Lucien, raising his brows.

Andrew's eyes glittered.  "I
said, I'm warning you."

"Dear me.  That's what I
thought you said."

"You manipulated both Gareth
and Charles into marriage, but I won't have you doing so to me.  Do I make
myself clear?"

Lucien gave a dismissive wave of
one lace-framed hand.  "My dear boy.  Charles and Gareth needed to be
married.  You. . . .  well, as you have said time and time again, you have
contributions to science to make.  You have great things to invent.  A wife
would only get in the way of such lofty ambitions."

Andrew clenched his jaw.  Lucien
was only echoing words that he had often uttered himself, but for some reason,
they sounded mocking when his brother repeated them.  He felt his temper
starting to ignite.

"Besides," Lucien
added, before he could fashion a suitable retort, "I did not tell you to
give the girl your potion.  I did not tell her to ravish you.  And I certainly
did not tell her foolish brother to challenge you to a duel.  Forgive me for
pointing out the obvious, Andrew, but this trouble is of your own making, not
mine.  The fact that I find it all rather . . . amusing, is neither here nor
there."

"I wonder," muttered
Andrew, pouring more brandy.

"Well, do wonder over
something other than a bottle of spirits.  A little is good to steady one's
nerves before a duel, but moderation is prudent."

"There is nothing wrong with
my nerves.  Merely my temper."

"Ah.  One hopes your temper
will improve by morning, then."

"It will improve the moment
you and every one else in the world stops interfering in my life.  I just want
to be left alone to do the things I want to do.  That is all I've ever wanted.
To be left alone."

"It is not good to be
alone."

"You should
talk."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me," Andrew
gritted, his intent russet-green eyes blazing into Lucien's black stare.
"You couldn't wait to get Gareth and Charles married off, and I'd bet my
last breath you're trying to do the same to me, but what about you?  You're the
duke.  You're the one with an obligation to this family, to your title, to your
holdings, to our ancestors.  Yet you stubbornly refuse to take a wife and
produce an heir.  At the rate you're going, the sixth duke of Blackheath will
have to come down through Charles."

"Hmm."  Lucien was idly
stroking his chin.  "Perhaps the sixth duke of Blackheath will be
Charles."

Andrew narrowed his eyes.
"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Why, absolutely
nothing."  Lucien's tone was far too dismissive, far too blithe, but
before Andrew could question such enigmatic words, the duke suppressed a yawn
and got to his feet.  "I will leave you now, since that is your wish.  Only
sporting of me to grant it to you."  He gave a devilish little smile.
"After all, it might be your last."

"I thought it was a second's
duty to bolster the courage of his principal, not undermine it."

"No need.  As you said
yourself, there is nothing wrong with your nerves, merely your temper.  Even
so, I am off to bed.  You ought to be too, I think.  Morning comes early."

"Yes.  Tomorrow's earlier than
usual.  Good night."

"Good night."

Lucien, looking down at Andrew's
bent, sullen figure, paused to briefly clap a hand to his brother's shoulder as
he passed behind his chair.  His displays of affection were rare, and it was
the closest that he was prepared to come to an apology, but Andrew only
flinched irritably, shaking off his hand and never taking his attention off the
glass of brandy into which he was brooding.

Silently, Lucien walked from the
dining room and out into the hall.  Taking a sconce from a wall bracket, he
made his way down the long, shadowy corridors.  They were deserted, his
footsteps echoing eerily against the walls of stone as he made his way toward
the tower that housed the ducal apartments.

Past the lonely rooms that had
once been Charles's.

Past the empty rooms that had
once belonged to Gareth.

Past the rooms — lonely, empty,
soon enough if he had any say about it — where Nerissa, even now, slept so
innocently.

He paused outside her bedroom for
a moment, his palm flat on the door, a poignant little smile softening his
severe and unforgiving features.  And then he continued on, toward the tower,
steeling himself for the climb up the stairs where he had discovered his father
lying all those years ago, his neck broken, his eyes glazed and staring, the
tears wet upon his still warm cheeks.

It was a memory that still had
the power to unnerve him.  Even now, twenty years later, it was as vivid as it
had been that night he'd flung himself upon his dead father, overcome with fear
and anguish at finding himself suddenly and unexpectedly saddled with the
weight of adulthood, the responsibility of an ancient dukedom, and, when his
grieving mother had succumbed to childbed fever three days later, the care of
three brothers and an infant sister.

He had been ten years old.  It
had been the end of his childhood, and as he had silently watched his parents'
coffins interred side by side in the ancient de Montforte vault, his little
weeping brothers huddled around him, his baby sister in his arms, he had vowed
to his parents that he would take care of his siblings till the day he died.
That he would never, never fail in his responsibilities to them.

They came before the dukedom and
his obligations to it.

They always would.

He reached the top of the tower
that housed the immense ducal apartments, the huge rounded bedroom walled on
all sides by tall, leaded windows that commanded a superior view of the downs
and valleys for miles around.  The November wind whistled mournfully outside.
He sent his sleepy valet off to bed and, wrapped in a robe of black silk, went
to one of the windows to look out over the night.  In the distance, the lights
of Ravenscombe twinkled.

It was a long time before he
finally retired, sliding wearily beneath the sheets of the great, medieval bed
of carved English oak.  He blew out the candle and stared up into the darkness
above his head, listening to rain beginning to slash against the windows.  In
this same bed had slept every lord of Ravenscombe and, after the family had
been elevated to the next echelon of the aristocracy, every duke of
Blackheath.  In this bed had also slept every duchess, but Lucien knew, deep in
his soul, that this bed would never see his duchess.

He held no fear of death, of
course.  He never had.  But he was very concerned that he might not live long
enough to see his vow to his dead parents carried out — and each of his beloved
siblings happily and safely married off — before dreams became reality.

You will marry her, Andrew.

Upon my life, I will see it
done.

Far off in the darkness, a
nightingale called.  Moonlight parted the clouds and sparkled upon the ancient
moat.

And high in his lofty tower, all
alone in his vast, cold bed, the mighty duke of Blackheath finally closed his
eyes and slept.

Chapter 9

Dawn broke along the eastern
horizon in fiery bands of red, orange, and gold.  The timeless, high downs
glowed with it.  Morning mist sparkled upon their grasses like thousands of
scattered diamonds, the bare face of chalk rubble here and there marking a road
or farmer's path over the majestic hills.

Andrew had not bothered going to
bed.  He had passed the night in the dining room where Lucien had left him,
immersed in books, trying to find something, anything, that might help him
understand the potion he had unwittingly created.  The ruthless pursuit of
answers was the only way he could focus his thoughts.  Lady Celsiana Blake had
been much on his mind.  The impending duel had not been on it at all, and now,
at daybreak, surfaced only as a minor irritation that needed to be dealt with.

Despite his toils and a total
absence of sleep, Andrew looked none the worse for wear.  As he emerged from
his apartments dressed in a loose white shirt beneath a sleeveless waistcoat,
snug leather breeches that all but matched his carelessly waving auburn hair,
and tight-fitting riding boots, his entire manner was one of brooding
impatience and boredom.  Nevertheless, he was a sight that made every maid in
Blackheath's employ who was up and about her duties sigh with admiration as he
strode briskly past.

Andrew, oblivious as always to
the excited commotion he caused amongst members of the fairer sex, found Lucien
waiting for him in the Grand Hall.  He was not in the least bit surprised to
see that the duke, freshly shaved and elegantly turned out in black, looked as
unruffled and unperturbed as ever.  The sight of faint shadows, however,
beneath those all-knowing, all-seeing, dark eyes took him slightly aback.

"Sleep poorly?" Andrew
couldn't resist taunting, accepting his cocked hat from his valet and tucking
it under his arm as the two of them headed toward the door.

"Really, Andrew.  And here I
was under the hopeful impression that morning would have improved your temper .
. ."

"My temper will not improve
until I have ousted all annoyances, interruptions, and interferences from my
life, of which this infernal woman is one."

"Hmm, yes.  And what happens
if you are not the victor in this morning's affair?  Provided you survive, you
are still honor-bound to marry her."

"In which case I hope to God
I lose.  Anything is preferable over marriage.  Even death."

Lucien only gave him a falsely
pitying look as they made their way down the steps and climbed into the
carriage waiting just outside.  There the duke picked up the morning newspaper
that lay neatly folded on the seat, opened it, and began to read as the
coachman, with two liveried footmen riding behind, cracked his whip over the
horses' heads.

Across from him, Andrew gazed
mutinously out at the neatly clipped lawns as the coach began to move.  The
moat into which he and Charles had fallen from the sky in his failed flying
machine sparkled in the first weak shafts of sunlight.  Then they were through
the gatehouse and the coach was picking up speed as it left the crenellated
walls of Blackheath Castle behind.

Lucien remained buried in his
newspaper.

The duke's nonchalance only
irritated Andrew all the more.  Leave it to his brother to calmly lose himself
in a paper whilst he, Andrew, might soon be lying disemboweled in the field
behind Ravenscombe's only public house.

"You have nothing to worry
about," Lucien remarked from behind his newspaper.  He turned a page.
"It is my understanding that Somerfield can handle a sword no better than
he can handle a coach and four, so do cheer up, my dear boy."

"Somerfield is the furthest
thing from my mind," Andrew bit out.

"Then shall I presume that
Lady Celsiana Blake is the closest thing to it?"

Andrew flushed and looked away.
There was no way in hell he was going to be drawn into a conversation about her.
Nor was he about to give his far-too-omniscient brother the satisfaction of
knowing his remark was a damn sight too close to the bone.  He stared sulkily
out the window, not meeting Lucien's eyes, letting his body rock and sway
against the velvet squabs with the movements of the coach.  "My annoyance
has nothing to do with Lady Celsiana Blake," he snapped.

"Oh?"

Andrew's angry gaze flashed to
Lucien's and met only the back of the newspaper.  "It's because I cannot remember
what the devil I put into that damned potion," he muttered, which was, at
least in part, the truth.  "I spent the entire night trying to find
answers, trying to discern why the solution behaved as it did.  And what did I
learn?  Nothing.  Nil.  I should have just given you the whole deuced lot of it
for safekeeping instead of holding some out for further testing.  Had I done
so, I wouldn't be in this damned predicament."  He gazed moodily out the
window.  "Between the fire and now this, I swear, accidental mixes of
chemicals are going to be the ruination of my life."

"Perhaps, then, you should
stop messing about with them."

"Like hell.  I'm a man of
science.  I can no sooner stop messing about with chemical solutions than I can
stop breathing."

Lucien said nothing, but Andrew
sensed he was smiling behind his newspaper.

Down through the blunt, noble
chalk hills, the coach traveled.  Looking out the window as they entered the
tiny village of Ravenscombe, Andrew was relieved to see that no one was about.
Good.  The last thing he needed this morning was a damned audience.

But his relief was short-lived.

As the coach slowed through
Ravenscombe's muddy High Street, he saw people moving from behind cottage
windows, running out the doors, waving . . . and all hurrying in the same
direction in which they themselves were headed.

"Bloody hell," he
muttered, sitting up.

Lucien lowered his paper.
"Is there something amiss?"

"Yes, there's something
wrong.  Look outside.  This was supposed to be a private affair, not a deuced
sporting event."

Lucien followed his gaze.  "Hmmm,
yes."  He went back to his paper and turned a page.  "I daresay
you'll have to give them a good show, then.  You are a de Montforte.  They
would hate to be disappointed."

"How the hell did
they find out about any of this?"

"My dear boy.  Servants
talk.  How do you think they found out about it?"

Angry amber-green eyes glared
into coolly unruffled black ones.  Then, with a curse, Andrew sat back in the
seat, quietly seething, quietly sulking.  All too soon, the coach pulled up at
the place of rendezvous.  Sighing, Lucien lowered and folded his paper,
consulted his watch, and waited while the footmen opened the door and lowered
the steps.

As the two brothers descended
from the coach, a rousing cheer went up from the villagers, most of whom were
dressed in their finest clothes, children on their shoulders, dogs barking
around their heels.  An air of festivity prevailed, and there were even a few
vendors selling pastries and pies.  The villagers surrounded the rapidly
angering Andrew, bowing and scraping and wishing him God's own luck, and it was
all the Defiant One could do not to turn on his heel, climb back into the
coach, and return to the Castle, where he longed to lock himself away in his
laboratory until the Second Coming of Christ.

He would, too.  Just as soon as
this infernal nonsense was over.

Glaring straight ahead, he walked
beside Lucien to the field, glistening with dew, just behind the Speckled Hen
Inn.  The crowds followed, yelling encouragement and good wishes.  There were
more people gathered in the field.  Too many.  They milled about, several rows
deep, all of them shouting, cheering, toasting Andrew's impending success.

"This is bloody
preposterous!" Andrew snarled, over the noise.  He glared at his brother.
"Were you behind this as well?"

"My, my, you have been so
full of accusations, my dear Andrew, that if Somerfield had not challenged you,
I might feel compelled to do so myself.  Ah.  There is the earl's carriage.
And I see that Dr. Highworth's gig is here as well.  Shall we get on with
things, then?"

"Might as well,"
grumbled Andrew, wishing he were back in his laboratory or putting the
finishing touches on his double-compartmented coach. "I have work to do
back home."

He glanced toward Somerfield's
coach.  His opponent was nowhere to be seen, though an old brown and white dog,
its noble head bleached with hoarfrost and lying on its paws, reposed beside
one of the rear wheels, blinking sleepily in the thin morning sun.

A rather effeminate young man,
his eyes growing round with nervousness as he glanced up and saw not only
Andrew, but the infamous duke of Blackheath approaching, stood by the door.  Must
be Somerfield's second, Andrew thought grumpily.  No wonder the fellow
looked petrified.  He would be no match for Lucien, if it came down to it.

And then the door opened and
Somerfield descended.

Except it wasn't Somerfield.  It
was Lady Celsiana Blake, and she was wearing a loose-fitting blouse, tight
breeches molded to her long, shapely legs, and what looked like a very
confident smile.

Andrew stopped as if hit by a
flying wall.  He had thought he was over his lung ailment.  He had thought he
was quite recovered.  But now, as his gaze glued itself to those shockingly
clad legs, the slim hips and slightly rounded bottom, he found he couldn't
breathe.

"I say, this is a
surprise," murmured Lucien, lifting his brows and speaking for Andrew, who
found, suddenly, that he could not.

"Is it?" challenged
Celsie, but she was returning Andrew's stunned gaze with haughty contempt.
"My brother is indisposed, and so I am fighting in his place."

"What?" cried
Andrew, recovering.

She had her long, tawny,
golden-brown hair in a queue much like his ownl, and this she tossed saucily
over one shoulder.  Hands on her hips, she met Andrew's stare.  "You heard
me.  He is indisposed.  Or, to put it more concisely, locked in his room at the
Lambourn Arms with a guard stationed outside his door.  On my orders, of
course."  She smiled sweetly.  "There is no need for anyone to be
risking his life on my account.  After all, Gerald was not the one who was
dishonored.  I was."

"You can't be serious!  I
will not, I cannot, fight a woman!"

"Why not?  I will, and
certainly can fight, a man."

"Bugger this, I'm leaving!"

Lucien calmly reached out and
caught his arm as Andrew, his temper flaring like a bonfire doused with
gunpowder, spun on his heel and tried to storm back to the coach.

"Really, Andrew.  It is not
like you to back away from a challenge, and one delivered so prettily, as
well."

"She's a goddamned female!"

"Hmm, yes.  I can see
that."

"I refuse to take part in
something so completely and utterly ridiculous.  I have more important things
to do back in my laboratory!"

Celsie stood nearby, head held
high, though she was starting to feel the same hurt, the same sinking
embarrassment, she'd felt at the ball when everything had turned into a
disaster.  She would not let Andrew see her faltering.  She would not let him
see how much his rejection hurt.  And it did hurt to be passed off so
lightly.  It did hurt, not to be taken seriously — yet again.  She had
thought — hoped — that he would give her all due respect by agreeing to fight
her, but he was turning out to be no different than any other man.  Condescending.
Arrogant.  Bloody-minded.  She swallowed hard and raised her chin.

"So," she called
loudly, making sure everyone around them could hear her brazen challenge.
"You would leave, then, and humiliate not only me, but yourself, in front
of all these people who have turned out to watch what otherwise promises to be
quite the novel sporting match?"  She gave a mocking laugh.  "My oh
my, how their respect for you and your family will suffer, not to mention their
liking.  Imagine!  A de Montforte, running away from a woman!"

Andrew rounded on her, fists
clenched, eyes blazing.  "So, inviting three hundred people to watch this
debacle was your idea?"

"But of course.  I wanted
added insurance that you would not back out."

Nearby, the duke of Blackheath
was idly rubbing his mouth, trying without success to contain a helpless smirk
as he regarded Andrew's rapidly escalating plight.

"Of course, she did
have the smallest bit of help," he allowed.

"I am not doing this,"
Andrew snarled.  "I am not."

Again he turned and, bristling
with fury, stormed back toward the coach.  Celsie's heart fell.  Murmurs of
disappointment echoed all around.

She would not let him humiliate
her a second time.

She waited until he was nearly
back to the carriage.  And then:

"For all the brains you supposedly
possess, you, my Lord Andrew, are naught but a coward!"

That stopped him dead in
his tracks.  For a moment he just stood there, seething, refusing to turn
around.

"Had it been a man
you found here today, you would not be so quick to retreat," she accused,
her voice ringing out for all to hear.  "But no.  Because I am a woman,
you deny me the respect you would have given my brother had he been here
instead.  Because I am a woman, you think I cannot match you over two silly
strips of steel.  Because I am a woman, you think I am incapable of defending
my own honor.  Well then, go ahead and take yourself back to your laboratory,
my Lord Andrew."  She tossed her head, letting her contempt, her bitter
disappointment, show in her eyes.  "Maybe all the rumors about you are
correct, after all."

Slowly, he turned around.  "What
rumors?"

She smiled.  "Rumors that
you don't particularly like women," she challenged, her eyes hard
with anger.  "If you know what I mean."

Andrew felt every blood vessel in
his head starting to throb.  He felt every artery in his body constricting
dangerously.  And he felt what control he had left on his temper getting ready
to explode.

"I should think,"
he ground out in a voice that had gone deadly soft with menace, "that my
behavior toward you yesterday would dispute any such codswallop you might
feel compelled to believe."

"Your behavior towards me
yesterday is the sole reason we are both standing here —" she bowed
mockingly — "my lord."  She turned slightly, flashed a wide, white smile
to the grumbling crowd — and came sauntering toward him.  Andrew tensed.  She
had drawn her sword.  She was not backing down.  She came right up in front of
him, stopping so close that he could look down and see the way her breasts
pushed against her shirt, taut and firm and high, and the little valley between
them.  And then she lightly touched the point of her sword to his chin, forcing
his gaze away from her bosom, forcing him to slowly raise his head until he
looked down at her, his eyes glittering from beneath lowered lashes.
"Prove to everyone here that the rumors are not true —" she
smiled — "and that you care more for a lady's respect than you do for a
lifeless jumble of chemicals, compounds, and solutions."

Andrew, the point of her sword
still held firmly to his jaw, clenched his fists and shut his eyes, trying to
contain his rising fury.  Yes, the explosion was coming.  He could feel it.
God help him, he could.

And then, over by the coach,
Lucien cleared his throat.

"I say," he called,
black eyes gleaming.  "The most marvelous idea has just occurred to
me."

Celsie and Andrew were still
locked eye to eye in glaring combat.  Neither one moved.

"And what is this marvelous
idea, Your Grace?" Celsie bit out, never taking her gaze from Andrew's, or
the point of her sword from his chin.

"I do believe my brother
just might be afraid of killing you.  Or of being killed by you.
Therefore, I propose that the two of you go ahead and fight until first blood
only, for benefit of both the crowd and your ladyship's own wounded
pride."

"The idea has merit,"
Celsie ground out.

"And furthermore, I suggest
that you lend a certain gravity to what might otherwise be considered a rather
frivolous matter by playing for stakes.  If you win, Lady Celsie, you will
never have to hear another word about marriage to this brother of mine you find
so odious, ever again."

"And if I win?"
Andrew bit out.

"Why, if you win, then you
earn the right to go back to your laboratory and never be bothered by the
outside world, ever again."

"Ever again."

"Ever again."

Andrew's lips curved in a slow,
satisfied smile and he was seized by the absurd temptation to throw back his
head and laugh like a madman.  Oh, this was easy, too easy.  These were the
best stakes he had ever played for.  All he had to do was nick her skin and no
one would ever bother him, ever again?  One tiny drop of blood and he would be
forever left in peace?

Oh, yes.  He would be a damned
fool to resist such an overwhelmingly tempting offer.

Still holding her challenging
stare, he calmly reached up, pushed the sword to one side, and gazed
triumphantly down into those sparkling, silver-frost eyes.  "Very well
then.  I will fight you."

"Good."  She backed
off, eyes flashing. "And when I beat you, I don't want to hear any more
nonsense about marriage.  Is that clear?"

"Very clear.  And when I
beat you, I want you out of my life for good."

Chapter 10

Gerald, mounted on a fleet
chestnut mare, galloped onto the duelling field just as his stepsister, damn
her eyes, was preparing to fight.

Incensed, he sent the horse
charging through the spectators, not caring who he hurt or nearly trampled, not
caring about anything but a blind need to reach the field in time to redeem himself.
Not only had Celsie humiliated him by locking him up, she was stealing his only
chance to permanently dispose of Lord Andrew de Montforte and remove the threat
he presented to Gerald's financial well-being.  Gerald just couldn't let that
happen.  Thank God he had been found by his valet, who had released him.

If he could only kill Andrew in
the duel, he could keep Sir Harold Bonkley in the picture as a prospective
bridegroom.  And if Celsie continued to refuse the baron, well, Gerald could
think of a score of other desperate suitors who wouldn't mind being married off
to an heiress . . . at his price, of course.

He burst through the last of the
crowd.

"What are you doing
here?" cried Celsie, glaring at him as he yanked the mare to an abrupt
halt.  "This is my affair and I don't need your interference!"

"You are my sister
and therefore it is my duty to defend your honor.  So put the sword
down, Celsie.  Put it down now."

"Get off my dueling field,
Gerald.  Get off it, and get off it now."

He flung himself off his horse,
the indignity of having this ridiculous argument in front of not only the de
Montfortes, but the entire village of Ravenscombe, sending his temper beyond
control.  He stormed up to his stepsister, fists clenched, teeth bared.  He
wanted to throttle her.   "I was the one who challenged de
Montforte.  He was the one who accepted.  This is not your fight, damn
it!"

"If it concerns me, it is
my fight!"

"It concerns you only
insofar as you were the cause of it!"

"And I will be the finish of
it!"

"The devil you will!"

Celsie stamped her foot and, with
a snarl of fury, turned away, trying to rein in her temper.  She might have
given in.  She might not.  She was never to know, for at that moment, Andrew,
who was watching her with a mixture of sympathy, disbelief, and — could it
actually be an admiring smile, of all things? — stepped forward.

The two men bowed stiffly to each
other.

"Somerfield," said
Andrew coolly.  "No offense, but I daresay your sister is concerned about
your welfare.  She has just agreed to fight for certain stakes.  I propose that
you and I take up the duel, but allow these stakes to remain."

"And they are?"

"First blood only,"
Celsie cut in.  "First blood only, and then we each win the right to be
left alone."

Gerald frowned, and looked at
her.  "Is that all your maidenhood, your innocence, was worth, Celsie?  A
mere drop of blood?"

She felt herself blush.  "I
don't want anyone dying over me."

"And what would happen if
you were to fight de Montforte here, slipped, and managed to seriously injure
if not kill him?"

"Come now, Gerald.  Eva
herself taught me all I know about swordplay.  That is highly unlikely."

Gerald's frown deepened.  Around
them, the villagers were starting to grow impatient.

"Fight, fight!" someone
began chanting.

"Oi!  I didn't get up at the
crack of dawn just to see a shoutin' match!"

"Get on with it!"

Sensing defeat, Celsie turned and
stormed back to the sidelines, where the duke of Blackheath waited.  He was
smiling, his arms folded loosely over his chest.  The sight of him made Celsie
all the angrier.  How unlike him to stay out of things.  And how like him to
find amusement in the plights of others!

"Pity," he murmured,
watching as Gerald gave his horse into the care of a villager and the two
opponents prepared to fight.  "I daresay I would have enjoyed watching you
give my brother a run for his money."

"I would have won," she
said mutinously, unable to forgive him for the way he had treated both her and
Andrew in the library.  "I would have won, because he would not have taken
me seriously enough to give me a real fight, would he?

"I think he takes you very
seriously indeed, madam.  He would not be here, if he did not."

Celsie ground her teeth and
looked away.

"You do realize, my dear,
that if you had only consented to marry him, we all could have stayed abed this
morning?"

"I am not marrying
him.  The subject is closed."

"Hmm.  Yes.  I suppose it is
. . .  And now, I must beg your pardon."  He bowed and pulled out an
elegant silk handkerchief.  "It appears the fight is about to get underway.
A second has his duties, you know."

"Don't let him hurt
him," she ground out, trying not to sound as desperate as she suddenly
felt.

"Don't let who hurt
whom?"

"Andrew.  Don't let him hurt
my brother."

He inclined his head and walked
away.  Celsie's heartbeat began to quicken, and she felt the muscles in her
back starting to clench, nausea seizing her stomach.

Of course I'm worried about
Gerald.  But oh, Lord . . . I could never live with myself if something
happened to Andrew.  It is my fault that things have come to this.  Maybe I'm
the one who ought to be fighting Gerald.

Oh, this was getting more and
more ridiculous.

And she was feeling more and more
sick.

She sat down on the grass and
plucked a gone-to-seed dandelion, twirling its stem between thumb and
forefinger, taking deep breaths to try and calm herself even as a nervous film
of perspiration broke out all down her back.  Don't think about the duel,
she told herself.  Don't think about the fact that someone might get hurt.
Instead, think about the animal shelter you plan to open in Windsor
next week.  Think about the classes you've scheduled for the village children
on proper pet care and management.  Think about the turnspits, and how you'd
buy up every one in England if only it would save them . . .

A charged hush had fallen over
the crowd.  She heard Lucien's smooth, urbane voice reciting the rules of
dueling.  She heard him calling for first blood only — thank God.  And
as she sat there, bravely watching this horrible affair and beginning to shake
with unexplained terror, Freckles ambled up beside her and sat down, leaning
his body into hers.

She pulled him close, taking
comfort from his presence.  "Oh, Freck, I can't believe such foolishness
has come to this!"

"En garde!"

The fight began.

Celsie wanted to cover her eyes.
She wanted to run back to her carriage and drive until she reached the end of
nowhere.  Around her, the villagers began shouting, cheering, yelling
encouragement.

She didn't want to look.

She couldn't not look.

The two men circled each other,
each trying to maneuver the other so the sun was in his eyes.  Andrew moved
with an easy, dangerous grace that caused Celsie's heart to catch in
admiration.  Gerald was clearly nervous.  Neither men was smiling.

Gerald broke first.  He charged
forward, lunging hard, and in that moment Celsie knew that he was fighting for
more than just first blood.

He was fighting to kill.

Horror filled her.  She leaped to
her feet and would have run forward, but no, that would be foolish, that would be
fatal, she could not, would not, dared not break either man's concentration.
Again Gerald attacked, and Andrew, grinning, expertly parried his thrust,
moving easily and looking as if he was relishing what must be, to him, nothing
more than a little early morning exercise.  He was toying with Gerald, that
much was obvious, though only Celsie's — and surely the duke's — trained eye
recognized it.  Gerald certainly didn't.  So desperate was he to score a fatal
hit, he was unaware that his opponent was drawing the fight out, allowing him
to salvage his pride and retain his dignity.  Celsie's heart swelled with
gratitude for Andrew's noble gesture, and though her hands were so tightly
gripped they were going numb, she tried to relax.

To simply watch the fluid
movements of a master swordsman.

To almost be thankful for the
fact that she remained on the sidelines, not needing to concentrate, with
nothing else to do but admire what was indeed a very splendid, agile, and
breathtaking male body in action . . .

A very splendid, agile, and
breathtaking male body that had, only hours ago, made her a woman.

Steel rang against steel.
Rapiers flashed in the sunlight, carved arcs in the air.  The tip of Andrew's
sword caught Gerald's sleeve, slicing it from cuff to elbow, though no blood
appeared, and Celsie knew, with mounting awe, that Andrew hadn't intended there
to be any.  Not yet.  Oh, bless him!  Gerald made a clumsy charge.
Again Andrew neatly sidestepped it, his own blade singing in to tear a matching
slice in Gerald's other sleeve.  He began to maneuver Gerald into the sunlight
. . . prepared to deal the coup de grace . . . and suddenly staggered back, the
sword falling from his hand, his staring gaze fixed somewhere in the tree
branches overhead.

"Andrew!" Celsie
screamed, thinking he'd been hit —

And then all hell broke loose.

"Cheat!" cried Gerald.
"You knew I was winning and thought to turn the tables by faking an
injury, you cowardly wretch!"

Everything happened at once.
Andrew, still staring up into the trees, sank down on one knee.  Gerald lunged
forward, ready to drive his blade straight through his heart.

And then Lucien was there.

Celsie never knew how the duke
moved so fast, or just how he managed to snatch up Andrew's blade from the
ground and deflect Gerald's killing blow with a ringing clash that nearly broke
her stepbrother's sword in two.  Gerald paled and staggered back, his eyes
bulging with terror.  Never, never, had she seen such murderous fury on
anyone's face as she saw in Blackheath's.

And unlike Andrew, Blackheath
wasn't toying.

He was going to kill Gerald.  And
he was going to take a savage enjoyment out of doing it.

"No!" screamed
Celsie, running headlong onto the dueling field.  "Don't kill him!  He's
no match for you and you know it!"

The duke ignored her.

Andrew was shaking his head,
getting to his feet, his face paling with alarm as he realized what was
happening.

And Blackheath — cold, ruthless,
vengeful Blackheath — was smiling a thin little smile that made Celsie's blood
turn to ice as he circled her brother.

Celsie hurled herself between
them, her sleeve catching Gerald's sword and ripping a bloody swathe across her
arm.

"Stop it!" she
screamed.  "Stop it, Blackheath!  Spare Gerald and I swear to God I'll
marry your brother!"

Chapter 11

He had known.

In that heartbeat of an instant,
as time seemed to stop and all eyes turned to her, Celsie felt her world sway
sickeningly.  God help me, Blackheath knew all along that I would sacrifice
myself to save Gerald's worthless hide.  He knew it.  He was counting on it.
Why else did he not slay Gerald immediately?

He was waiting for me to rush
in and save him!

A roaring started in her ears.
Some three hundred people were all staring at her.  Gerald, pale and shaken,
looked like he wanted to murder her.  The duke's cold black eyes were
triumphant.  While Andrew . . .

She couldn't read his
expression.  And it was so terrible that she didn't even want to try.

The field of spectators began to
revolve slowly around her.  The clamor in her ears rose, drowning out the hum
of voices, becoming as one with the roaring.  Celsie, shaking, turned away, her
head high.  She briefly shut her eyes so she could not see her world spinning,
and bravely, determinedly, began the long walk back toward her carriage.

Please, God, don't let me
faint in front of everyone —

But God didn't seem to be looking
out for her today.

For at that moment, she happened
to catch sight of her sleeve, upon which a very red, very bright, very gruesome
blotch of her own blood was seeping through the bleached linen.  She
staggered.  Swayed dizzily —

"Celsiana, are you all
right?"

And heard Andrew's voice, seeming
to come from very far away, though he was only a few steps behind her, running
to catch up.

"Celsie?"

"I think I am going to
swoon," she managed in a little voice, and the last thing she felt before
darkness claimed her was his strong arms catching her before she could hit the
ground.

As indeed they did.

For a moment, Andrew stood in
surprise, for he hadn't thought that the mettlesome Lady Celsiana Blake was the
sort of woman given to fits of the vapors.  But then, he really couldn't blame
her.  Subjected to the near-slaughter of her brother, a sudden and unwanted
betrothal, and worst of all, the knowledge that her prospective bridegroom was
something of a freak, it was no wonder she had lost her senses.

He felt a flash of sympathy.  Of
protectiveness.  And then he happened to glance up and see Lucien approaching
with his sword, and all tenderness exploded into fury.

"An heiress," the duke
murmured benignly.  He slid Andrew's blade back into its sheath.  "Well,
well.  I always knew you'd make an advantageous match.  Shall we post the
banns?"

Andrew's reply caused the blood
to drain from the faces of several nearby spectators, for nobody dared speak to
His Grace the Duke of Blackheath like that.  Lucien, however, only raised an
amused brow.  "Such language," he chided, not blinking an eye as a
red-faced Somerfield galloped past, beating as hasty a retreat as his horse
could give him.  "Really, Andrew, why don't you set the girl down?  Not
only are you making everyone think you enjoy holding her, but I daresay
she'll be none too pleased to find herself in your arms when she awakens."

"And why don't you
wipe that satisfied smirk off your face before I do it for you?"
Andrew seethed through clenched teeth.

"Now, now," the duke
murmured, letting the smirk remain.  "That is no way to speak to the man
who just saved your life."

"You're right.  Speaking to
you is the last thing I feel like doing."

He turned and headed toward the
coach, holding Celsiana close to his chest and feeling oddly, disturbingly,
protective of her.

"Off to procure a special
license, are you?  Ah.  No wonder you're in such a hurry . . ."

Andrew was so angry he thought
his head might explode.  "I am taking her away.  From everyone.  From you.
She's going to be upset enough as it is, without waking up to a crowd of
strangers gawking at her and offering felicitations on her upcoming
nuptials."  He glared at Lucien, thinking it was a good thing his arms
were occupied, because otherwise Lucien wouldn't be looking quite so smug.
"You're a complete and utter sod.  A despicable bastard.  A contemptible,
soulless monster.  I hope you're damned proud of yourself."

"For saving your life?  Hmm,
yes.  I don't think 'proud' is the right word . . ."

Andrew snarled a curse and kept
walking.

Beside him, Lucien reached into
the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a flask.  "Very well then,
go.  But at least take this.  I think both of you could use a little
sustenance."

"What is it?"

"Brandy.  I brought it in
the unlikely event you sustained a wound and needed bracing up, but it appears
to have found a much better use."

Cradling Celsie in one arm,
Andrew snatched the flask from his brother's hand and shoved it into the side
pocket of his waistcoat.  And then he spun on his heel and strode toward the
coach, angry with Lucien, angry with fate, angry that now everyone in
Ravenscombe — let alone the woman in his arms — must know there was something
more than a little peculiar about him . . .

Bloody hell.  At least her
desperate declaration to marry him had distracted people from his own
unfortunate plight.  He had that to thank her for, at least.

Not that he intended to, of
course.  The less attention he called to himself, the better.

He put Celsie on the seat and
climbed up behind her.  Then he took her in his arms, slammed the door, and
pounded a fist on the roof.  "Drive on!" he ordered harshly.

"But His Grace —"

"His Grace be double damned,
I said drive on!"

"Where to, my lord?"

"Anywhere.  Just get us out
of here, and now."

The coach jerked and began to
move, showing Andrew a sea of faces just outside the window as it wheeled
through a wide turn.  Irritably he yanked the shade shut.  The team broke into
a canter and moments later the well-sprung vehicle was hurtling out of
Ravenscombe.

On the seat, Andrew held his
burden and stared straight ahead, his jaw hard, his heart pounding with a
cacophony of emotions, all of them turbulent, none of them pleasant.  He would
not look down at her.  He would not.  No matter how easy it would be to
steal a glance at that splendid bosom without her ever knowing.  No matter how
much he wanted to run his gaze — and his hands — up and down those long,
shapely legs so sinfully wrapped in a man's riding breeches.  No matter how
much the very thought, let alone the possibility, of either caused his manhood
to harden against the taut little bottom that lay so innocently pressed against
it.

It was a fight that even The
Defiant One could not win.  Mutinously, he glanced down — and found himself
looking into a pair of wide, silvery-green eyes that were staring dazedly up
into his.

"Thank you," she
murmured.

"For what?"

"Taking me out of there."
She closed her eyes, her nape resting on the hard curve of his forearm, her queued
hair spilling across his thigh, the seat.  "I've never fainted before in
my life.  How humiliating . . . and to do it in front of several hundred people
. . ."

Andrew said nothing.  He knew all
about how it felt to be humiliated in front of several hundred people.

"Are you all right
now?" he asked gruffly.

"Yes.  No.  Oh, I don't know
. . .  Things happened so quickly, my head is still spinning."

"Yes, well, yours isn't the
only one."

He was angry, and Celsie knew he
had every right to be.  Beneath the back of her neck and head, his arm felt
like a bar of steel.  He was staring out the window, his gaze flinty and hard.
His jaw was clenched.  She could hear his heart beating beneath her ear.  She
could feel his chest rising and falling with each breath that he took.  And she
knew that she ought to get up and move to the other seat.  In another minute or
so, when she felt a little steadier, she would.

"Andrew —"

He stiffened beneath her.
"Yes?" he snapped.

"What happened to you out
there?"

"Somerfield nearly killed
me, Lucien nearly killed Somerfield, and you threw yourself into the fray as
some sort of sacrifice on the altar of our mutual freedom, that's what
happened."

"I'm not talking about
that."

"Then I don't know what the
devil you are talking about, except that whatever it is, I don't
want to talk about it, is that clear?"

"No, it's not."  She
searched his face, undaunted by his anger.  "I just don't understand any
of this . . . such as why you fell out there on the field in the first place.
One moment you were toying with Gerald, allowing him his pride and dignity, and
the next, you were —

"Nothing happened," he
said savagely.

"But —"

"I said, nothing happened."

"It looked like he must have
hit you, stunned you, when I wasn't looking.  Except I was looking — I
mean, I couldn't help but look.  Is that what happened, Andrew?  Did he stun
you with the hilt of the sword or something?"

"Yes, that's exactly what
happened, so now that we've got that clear, let's talk about something else,
all right?  Better yet, let's not talk about anything at all.  I'm sick of
talking.  Just leave me alone."

His abrupt and angry dismissal
stung.  Reality began to press in on Celsie like frozen hands thawing after a
snowball fight.  Except it wasn't her fingers that were thawing.  It was her
head.  Her heart.  Oh dear God, what have I done?  She had just
committed herself to marrying this man, that was what she'd done.  She had just
ruined both his life and her own.  And as the layers of protective shock faded,
her emotions surfaced:  disbelief, guilt, grief, anger, humiliation, denial;
they were all there.  She wanted to curl up into a little ball and shut
everything out.  She wanted to run away and never stop until she reached the
ends of the earth.  She wanted Freckles.  What she didn't want was marriage
to this man.  To any man.

So why did the bitterness in his
eyes, his all-too-obvious resentment, hurt so much?

"Andrew," she said
tentatively, "I know you're angry, but just because I said I'd marry you
doesn't mean you have to marry me."

"And how do you think that
will make me look in front of three hundred witnesses, eh?"

"I wouldn't have thought you
cared."

"Well I do care.  Besides,
my brother obviously wants this marriage, and it's quite clear to me now that
he's been wanting it from the moment we met at the ball, if not before.  Now
that he's got what he wanted, don't think he won't blackmail us both if either
of us tries to back out."

"He has nothing with which
to blackmail me."

"Oh?  Do you mean being
found on the floor with me in the final throes of passion isn't enough?"

Celsie blushed.  "He
wouldn't . . ."

"Trust me, madam, he would.
And as for me, all he has to do is say one word to the right people and my
chances of getting into the Royal Society are ruined.  I can't risk the
scandal, and if you want to continue to move in high circles so that you can
beg the plight of your precious dogs, neither can you."

Celsie pressed her lips together
in rising anger.  He was the most impossible man, equally given to flashes of
temper and random gestures of kindness.  Just when she was starting to warm up
to him, he turned on her like a badly bred cur.  She was getting tired of his
short, one-word answers, his ill manners, his brusque treatment.  She knew he
was capable of being nice; she'd seen glimpses of it in his laboratory, when
she had taken an interest in his work and he'd shown her the drawings.  That
Andrew was a whole lot easier to handle than this hostile, bad-tempered,
bristling one.  That Andrew was actually quite pleasant and engaging.
This one . . .  She knew German guard dogs with better temperaments.

"There has got to be a way
out of this predicament," she said.  "If you're going to sit there
and sulk, at least do something.  You're the intellectual here.  Why don't you
put that superior brain of yours to work, sir, and engineer a plan to save us
both from a fate that neither of us wants?"

"I can assure you, madam,
that I have been putting my so-called superior brain to work on that very
problem since we entered the coach, and so far it has yielded nothing of
value."

"Ah.  So you can design
flying machines and double-compartmented coaches and write complicated
mathematical formulas that no one but yourself could ever hope to understand,
but you cannot outmaneuver your brother."

"That is because it is far
easier to design flying machines and write complicated mathematical formulas
than it is to outmaneuver my brother."

"So you think he's somehow
behind all this, then."

"Don't you?" he fumed,
nailing her with a look of hard fury.

Of course she did.  The look on
the duke's face right after she had thrown herself between him and Gerald had
removed all doubt from her mind that he was behind it.  Oh, what a mess this
was!  If Andrew, with all his intelligence and years of dealing with Lucien,
couldn't figure a way out of this dilemma, how on earth was she going to do it?

"Andrew —"

"Look, I said I just want to
be left alone, all right?"

"You don't have to be so
hateful.  And I'm sorry I interfered with the duel, but I had to save Gerald.
Had it been your brother whose life was in peril, you would have done
the same."

"Depends on which
brother," he bit out, his eyes hard as he glared out the window.

That did it.  Celsie wasn't going
to lay here against him a second longer.  She started to push herself up on one
hand, only to freeze on a hiss of pain.  She looked down and saw the bloody
sleeve where Gerald's blade had caught her, a sleeve previously hidden beneath
the angle of her body against Andrew's own.

Andrew saw it too.  "Devil take
it," he muttered, pushing her back down onto his lap.  "Let me see
that."

She snatched her arm away,
covering the wound with her hand so she couldn't see it and risk fainting all
over again.  "No."

"Does it hurt?"

"It does now that I've been
reminded of it."

"Here, let me see it."

"Your concern is quite
touching, but if you don't mind, I would prefer to have a qualified surgeon
look at it, not a mad inventor."

"And I would prefer
that you leave the 'mad' out of your estimation of me, madam," he snapped,
on a fresh wave of unprecedented anger.  "I may not have had any formal
training in the healing arts, but I can assure you that bandaging your arm is
well within my capabilities."

"You're not a doctor."

"I am a doctor.  Just not of
medicine."

"Of what, then?"

"Philosophy."

"Oh, well, that's helpful,
isn't it?"

"Celsiana, let me see your
arm.  Now."

"Oh, very well then,"
she muttered, uncovering her arm and looking away so she couldn't see how bad
it was.  "Though what you intend to use as a bandage is beyond me."

His hands were far more gentle
than his tone of voice as he caught the ripped edge of her sleeve.  "Hold
still."

With one sharp jerk, he tore the
shirt from elbow to cuff.  Celsie, who was beginning to wonder if she was
squeamish about seeing her own blood, refused to look at the exposed wound.
Instead, she gazed up at his face, grave now as he gave his attention to her
arm, and tried to take her mind off what he was doing.  Looking at his face
made it very easy to take her mind off what he was doing.  Did he have
that same intense, focused look when he was inventing something brilliant?  Did
he give that same single-minded concentration to everything he did?  And oh,
what would it feel like to have that powerful concentration fully directed on her?

In the bedroom?

Now, where on earth had
that thought come from?

Suddenly flustered, she forced
herself to think of her arm instead.  He may not be a surgeon, but he went
about his task in a confident, no-nonsense sort of way that was wonderfully
reassuring.  His hands were warm where they steadied her arm, his touch gentle
but firm.  All too soon he was wrapping the makeshift bandage around the wound,
snugging it comfortably, reassuringly, tight.  His thumb holding the ends in
place, he neatly tied them off, leaving her feeling strangely bereft as he
finally relinquished her arm.

"Thank you," she said,
sitting up a bit and rubbing her arm through the bandage.  "It feels
better already."

"Keep it clean and I doubt
you'll even see a scar from it."

His gaze met hers, and something
warm and undefinable passed between them.  Celsie flushed, a jolt of current
leaping through her, its heat settling in her very bones even as Andrew
stiffened.  They both looked away at the same time, and Celsie decided that it
was long since time she got up and removed herself to the safety of the other
seat.

She slid gingerly off his lap and
took the seat across from him.  The space around her felt cold.  Empty.

The emotions welled up in her
heart again.  She wrapped her fingers together and squeezed, hard, trying to
divert the sudden sting of unshed tears.  Out of the corner of her eye she
could see Andrew, who had lapsed back into sullen silence, his gaze, like hers,
redirected out the window.

Reality was bad enough.  But God
help her, this punishing silence, this awkwardness, was downright unbearable.

"Where are we going?"
she finally asked.

He kept his gaze directed out the
window.  "Where would you like to go?"

"Anywhere, except back
there.  What about you?"

"Anywhere, except the
altar."

"You really don't
want to marry me, do you?"

"No, I don't."

"Which proves that you
really don't want me for my money."

"No offense, madam, but I
really don't want you at all."

Though Celsie didn't want to
marry him either, no woman wanted to be rejected so bluntly, especially when
the one doing the rejecting was without doubt one of the handsomest men in all
of England.  "Well, I can't blame you there," she said breezily,
though there was a hard edge to her voice that she couldn't quite conceal.
"I suppose the idea of marrying an heiress must be quite appealing, but
even a fortune could never make up for the fact that you'd have a wife with no
tits."

His head snapped around.  "I
beg your pardon?"

"You heard me.  I know you
men all like to compare attributes and acquisitions, and my diminutive chest
would be a constant source of embarrassment to you, to be sure."

"Your language, madam,
leaves much to be desired."

"So does my chest, if most
men's opinions are to be believed."

He flushed angrily.  "I
could care less about most men's opinions.  And for what it's worth, I happen
to think you are most prettily endowed."

"And you expect me to
believe you?"

"And why the blazes wouldn't
you believe me?"

"I know what men say about
me."

"Do you, now?"

"I do.  And I am utterly
convinced that I do not measure up, if you know what I mean."

"No, I do not know what you
mean, and I can assure you right now, madam, that the absurd subject which we
are currently discussing has no bearing whatsoever on my reluctance to take you
to the altar."

"Oh, so you're afraid of
choking on a pea, then."

"I am not afraid of
choking on a pea.  I do not even like peas.  What I do like is
the complete freedom to live my life as I please, without feminine encumbrances
of any sort, be they mistresses, admirers, or God forbid, wives.  I have work
to do."

She met his gaze, glare for
glare.  "Well, I have work to do, too.  I have a network of shelters
throughout Berkshire that need constant upkeep, funding, and attention so they
can continue to take in unwanted animals.  I'm fighting for the turnspits.  I
have instituted a program to teach the young people in my village how to
properly care for their dogs and cats so they learn that animals are for life,
just like children, and are not expendable objects to be given away,
killed, or otherwise disposed of simply because they've had an accident on the
floor or are no longer as cute as they were when they were puppies and kittens.
Like you, I do not need encumbrances of any sort.  So you see, Andrew, I
have no wish to get married, either."

He stared at her.

"Besides," she continued,
"I have yet to find a man who loves dogs as much as I do, who would not only
condone but assist me in my efforts to help them, and would also let them sleep
on the bed."

He shrugged.  "I let
Esmerelda sleep on my bed."

"You do?"

"Yes," he said
impatiently.  "What's so extraordinary about that?"

She stared at him, his candid admission
defusing some of her anger.  "Nothing, except that you are the first man
I've ever met to admit to such a thing.  Ha, maybe marriage to you will be
tolerable, after all."

"You'll be miserable, I can
guarantee it.  As would any woman with the misfortune to be tied to me."

"What compels you to say
such a thing?"

"The fact that I can think
of no female who would willingly and uncomplainingly share her husband with his
obsessive pursuit of science."

"Well, I can think of no man
who would willingly and uncomplainingly share his bed with his wife's dog, so I
guess we're even."

He just looked at her, an odd
expression in his eye.  "Very funny."

"Well, I thought so,"
she returned, pleased that she'd managed to break the ice a little between
them.  "Oh, Andrew.  What are we going to do?"

"I don't know."  He
sighed and leaned his brow into his hand, rubbing it as though he was
infinitely tired.  "We could always quit the country in order to avoid
this deuced marriage.  France . . . America . . . no, neither is far enough
away from Lucien.  By God, the Arctic is beginning to look quite
attractive."

"Yes, but you have to admit,
it would be an awfully cold place to build a new laboratory."

He lifted his head and looked at
her.  Again something warm and unexpected leaped between them, but this time he
didn't turn away.  Didn't chase it off with anger.  And as he held her gaze, he
began to smile, and Celsie saw, for the first time, that this fiery,
bad-tempered man actually had a charm that was quite lethal when he chose to
display it.

She looked down at her
tightly-clenched hands, confused by the sudden jumble of feelings bouncing
around in her heart.

"Maybe you'd better take me
back now," she said, a little shakily.  "I need to get
Freckles."

"Celsiana."

Her gaze flashed to his.
"Yes?"

"I'm sorry, too.  I . . .
just want you to know that I'm not angry with you, but with fate."

"Thank you."

"And that it's not marriage
to you that I'm upset about, but the idea of it in general."  He
cleared his throat.  "You have an uncommon amount of courage.  It's hard
not to admire it."

She looked up.  "For a
woman, you mean?"

"For anyone."  His eyes
were warm.  "I want you to know that."

He reached into his pocket then
and extracted a small flask.  "We'll find a way out of this.  Somehow,
some way."  He uncorked the little vessel, and the strong fumes of brandy
assailed her nose.  "In the meantime, I propose a toast."

"To what?"

He smiled, but his eyes were hard
and determined.  "To outsmarting my Machiavellian brother."

Chapter 12

He offered her the metal flask,
still warm from his palm.  Celsie took it.  She wasn't particularly fond of
brandy, so she had only the tiniest of sips.  But it was a toast to which she
was all too happy to drink.  She handed the flask back.  He tipped the vessel,
draining it.

Their gazes met, coconspirators,
allies, on a mutual smile.

And a moment later, it hit her.

Oh, no.  Not again!

"Andrew —"

He must have felt it too, because
at the same moment he shot to his feet, rapping his head on the roof and
cursing loudly.  "Hell and damnation!  That cursed spawn of the devil!"

It was the same thing all over
again.  The same warm languor spreading through her blood.  The same desperate
longing to get her hands on this man, under his clothes, on his skin, all over
his skin.  The same prurient, unfulfilled tingling in her breasts and between
her thighs . . .

Oh, no.

Oh, yes.

Oh, God!

She flattened herself against the
back of the seat, willing herself not to touch him.  "For heaven's sake,
Andrew, this isn't just brandy, it's —"

"The bloody potion!" he
roared, throwing himself back down in his own seat and twisting his face
against the leather squab so he couldn't see her.  His eyes were open, glazed,
as surely her own must be.  She saw his fists clenching and unclenching
desperately.  She saw the fine sheen of dampness breaking out across his brow,
along his jaw and neck, and heard the almost inhuman howl of rage that tore
from his anguished throat.

"I'll kill him, so help me
God, this time he's gone too far!"

"I don't understand —"

"Lucien was the one who gave
me the brandy!  He bloody drugged it!"

He made a desperate lunge for the
door, ready to hurl himself out of the coach at high speed if only to keep his
brother from having the last laugh, but his knee caught the edge of Celsie's
seat and he fell, heavily.  Celsie was never to know whether he grabbed for her
shoulders as he went down, or she grabbed for his in an attempt to catch him.
It didn't matter.  In the next moment, his mouth, hard and angry all over
again, was slanting towards hers.

And then he kissed her.

She had never been kissed so
thoroughly, so hungrily, so aggressively, in her life.  Oh, she'd had the
occasional chaste peck from fortune hunters posing as admirers; she'd had cold,
sloppy kisses from the pea-plagued Lord Hammond and found puppies' tongues to
be drier; and she'd had no cause, based on her own wanting experiences, to
think there was anything more to be had from kissing a man than some vastly
unpleasant sensations they had all seemed to enjoy far more than she.

But this . . .

She melted under the delicious
sensation of his hard, powerful body all but crushing her down against the
seat.  She felt his hand yanking her shirt free from the waistband of her breeches
and sliding up her abdomen beneath the light fabric, his other hand cradling
her cheek, holding her head right where he wanted it, his thumb slowly brushing
her mouth as his lips drove hungrily against hers.  There was nothing cold, wet
or sloppy about the way Lord Andrew kissed; there was nothing chaste about it,
either.  He knew exactly what he wanted and he knew exactly how to go about
getting it, and what he wanted was to put his tongue into her mouth and his
hand beneath her shirt and then all over her suddenly sensitive, suddenly
on-fire, suddenly very eager and happy-to-be-noticed, breast.

Celsie let him.

She moaned deep in her throat as
he caught the nipple between thumb and forefinger and gently rolled it.  And
all the while his tongue thrust against her own, his mouth crushed hers, his
harsh, quickening breath glancing off her cheek and a jutting hardness pushing
against the top of her thigh.

Celsie, gasping, finally broke
the kiss.  She stared dazedly up at him.

"My God," he said,
breathing hard.  "I'm not going to survive this."

"And neither am I, unless
you kiss me again."

"This is ridiculous, I
hardly know you, I hardly like you, I want to do all sorts of wicked things to
you and I can't seem to control myself —"

"I hope you don't even try."

"I don't want to try
. . . Lord save us, Celsie.  I need to touch you.  I need to kiss you."

His lips were against her temple,
feathering down the outside corner of her eye, his breath warm against her
chin.  She shuddered, feeling herself go liquid with answering heat even as her
own arms went around him and her fingers explored the hard ridge of his
shoulders, his nape, the silky queue of his hair.  She didn't know whether to
be thankful or despairing that she'd only had the tiniest sip of the brandy . .
. thankful because she didn't feel drugged as she had the last time, despairing
because she'd had just enough to take the edge off any inclination she might
otherwise have had to shove him away from her and straight out of the carriage.

Andrew, on the other hand, had finished
off the entire bottle.

His mouth found hers yet again,
needy, desperate.  How warm his lips were against her own . . . how good he
smelled, like some exotic spice from a faraway land . . . and how wonderful his
hand felt, driving through her hair, thumbing the velvety skin behind her ear,
tracing the rise of her cheekbone, while his other hand —

She moaned into his mouth as his
hand roved over, then cupped, her breast.

Her small, insignificant breast,
which he would surely find wanting.

"Andrew . . . you're
touching my — my —"

"Breasts?  Ah, yes.  So I
am.  I quite like touching them, you know.  They're high and firm and fill my
hand quite nicely.  Very nice.  Very nice indeed . . ."

"You don't find them . . .
wanting?"

"I do find them wanting.
They want my hands all over them.  They want my mouth all over them.  They want
my tongue and teeth and kisses all over them.  God, you're gorgeous . . ."

He leaned down, his glossy, dark
auburn hair filling her field of vision, his breath hot against her bosom and
making her heart skip and trip and tumble all over itself as it fought
frantically to retain its beat.  And then he caught her shirttails in his hands
and pulled the garment over her head, leaving her naked from the waist up.

His mouth drove between the faint
cleft between her breasts, out over the high, pale rise of the right one.  The
sensation was enough to make her head dizzy with pleasure.

"A-Andrew, what are you
doing?"

"I am kissing your
breasts."

"But I thought kisses are
for lips!"

"Kisses are for wherever one
chooses to put them.  And I choose to put mine, here . . . and here . . ."

He was now suckling the fiercely
erect nipple, causing Celsie to gasp and squirm and tangle her fingers in his
hair in an attempt to find anchorage on a sea of feelings that were totally
overwhelming her.  Oh, don't fight it.  He's not going to stop.  You don't
want him to stop.  Sit back and enjoy it . . . oh, enjoy it, this is never
going to happen again!

His hand skimmed down her waist,
moved out over the soft buckskin of her breeches where they covered her mound,
and drove itself between her thighs, forcing them apart.

"And here is another place
that quite likes to be kissed," he murmured, rubbing her cleft through the
breeches.  "Another place where I shall quite enjoy putting my lips.  My
mouth.  My tongue."

"There?  H-how can
you even think such a thing?"

The coach thundered on, its
rocking movement causing her body to scrape against his, his hand to vibrate
against her intimate flesh, and heightening the wild, prickly-hot sensations he
was creating in her.

"I will do more than just
think it."  He leaned close, so close she could see the starbursts of
green that radiated out from his rust-colored irises, so close that the heat of
his gaze drove right through her and impaled her with its intensity.  "Let
me tell you something, my dear Celsiana.  Aphrodisiac or not, I have been wanting
to peel these breeches off you from the moment you stepped out of the
carriage.  I have been wanting to touch those long, silky thighs, to trace the
curve of your bottom, to slip my hand between your legs and feel you hot and
wet with desire for me for the last agonizing hour."

God help her, she was hot and wet
with desire already; she could feel the moisture dampening her breeches, knew
he felt it against his hand, and knew she ought to be mortified.  But how could
she be mortified when heat was rising from every pore in her skin, burning
every blood vessel in her body, making her head feverish with longing?  She gazed,
fascinated, up into his intense eyes and felt her leg, bent at the knee, sag
back against the squab; her other slid downward, off the seat, the ball of her
foot just resting on the floorboards and leaving her wide-open to his questing
fingers . . .

"And I have been wanting to
strip you naked and take you on the floor of this coach from the moment we
entered it," he said roughly.  "There is nothing you can say or do
that will curb my desire for you.  I want you.  I need you.  And I will have
you."

He bent his head, tasting her
nipple once more, drawing it with a taut, ruthless pull into the hot cavern of
his mouth even as his hand rubbed her through the breeches, hard, over and over
again.

"Oh," Celsie said
faintly, sinking back into the seat and closing her eyes as her bones and
muscles went liquid.  "And here I thought you weren't interested in women
. . . that the only thing you cared about was your science . . ."

"I am interested in you.  I
just don't want to marry you.  Nothing personal, of course," he murmured,
the deep reverberations of his voice against her breast, her nipple, both tickling
and exciting.  "I don't want to marry anyone."

"If marriage means getting
to do this every day, then maybe it's not such a terrible thing after
all," she breathed, watching him through half-lowered lashes as his tongue
lazily circled her areola, the nipple in its center as hard as a dog's
toenail.  "If you married me, Andrew, could we do this every day?"

"Every day and every
night."

"But we're not going to get
married."

"No.  We are going to
outsmart Lucien."

"Yes.  Outsmart Lucien  . .
."

"And make love."  She
gasped as he deftly unbuttoned her breeches and slid his fingers beneath the
warm buckskin to find her silken mound.  "Now."

"Yes.  Now . . ."

His hands caught the waistband of
her breeches in unspoken command.  Through the fabric she could feel the warmth
of his palms against her hips, the strength of his hands against her thighs.
Celsie lifted her bottom from the seat, and slowly, agonizingly, he pulled the soft
buckskin down her thighs, pushing them down to her knees and exposing her long
white legs — and everything else — to his appraising gaze.

He stared.  His eyelids drooped.
His breathing changed, and when he looked up at her, she saw that the little striations
in his eyes had become very, very green.

"No — keep them open,"
he said harshly, thrusting his hand between her thighs like a blade when she
would have closed them in forgotten modesty.  "I want to look at
you."

"I swear, I can feel
your eyes upon me."

"Can you?  You'll soon be
feeling more than just my eyes upon you."

His gaze burned into hers for
another moment, and then he looked back down at her, and stayed looking at her,
and every place his gaze touched seemed to burn with a savage, unrequited
longing.

Still looking his fill, he
dragged his hand higher, his fingertips skirting the soft triangular tuft of
hair.  Celsie tensed.  His hand was big and warm against her belly, and she
looked down to see the palm spread out over the alabaster skin, the tip of one
finger just nestled within the top edge of her silken curls.  He let his hand
remain there for a long moment, warming her, tantalizing her, than let it slide
downward, his forefinger driving between her cleft and stroking a hidden button
of tingling, needle-hot flesh once, twice, three times.

Celsie jumped, then moaned deep
in her throat.

"I see that my hypothesis is
correct," he murmured, smiling.

"Your . . .
hypothesis?"

"Yes.  I hypothesized that
you would be hot and wet and ready for me.  You are."

"It's embarrassing."

He was still stroking her with
the tip of his forefinger. "It's flattering."

"It's beyond my
control."

"It's making me hard.  So
hard that I ache."

She flushed and, as he continued
that slow, maddening stroke, heard strange little whimperings coming from her
throat, bringing his intense gaze back to her face.  His hand paused, becoming
rigid against her.  "What is wrong, Celsiana?  Yesterday you were a
tigress.  Today you are a kitten.  Am I the only one who is going out of my
mind with need?"

"No . . . but you're the one
who drank the whole damned bottle of laced brandy.  I only had a sip.  Just
enough to keep me from saying no . . ."

"If you want me to stop, I'm
afraid you'll have to bodily throw me out of this carriage."

"I don't want you to
stop," she managed, opening her eyes to stare fixedly up into his face.

"Then if you have any fears,
qualms, or misgivings, you have only to voice them and I will soothe them to
the best of my abilities."

"I have no fears.  After all
—" she faltered, feeling a sudden pain in her heart — "I am no longer
a maiden, am I?"

He sobered.  His gaze softened,
and for a moment, he was the Andrew she had only glimpsed, the one who gently
stroked his dog's head, the one who'd respected her on the dueling field, the
one who had warily joked with her a few moments ago, the one who was usually
gaoled behind the bars of anger and rudeness.  "As I expect you do not
remember much, if anything, of what occurred between us yesterday, I'll have
you know, Celsie, that I still consider you a maiden in all senses of the word
except one."

Celsie.  He had called her
Celsie.  Something hitched inside her heart.

"And I shall contrive to
treat you as gently as a maiden deserves to be treated."

So he said.  And all the while,
she could feel the hard, flat blade of his hand thrust against her dampening
cleft, the thumb lazily caressing the silky hair there and igniting the whole
area into something hot and twitchy and wanting.  She wanted his hand to touch
her even more intimately, though she could not think how that would be
possible.  She wanted his thumb to move slightly more toward the very center of
these oh-so-strange, oh-so-delightful, feelings.  And she wanted —

The coach hit a bumpy section of
road, and Celsie, still gazing up into Andrew's smoldering eyes, gasped as the
jerky movement of the coach caused his hand, which he himself hadn't moved, to
begin agitating her exposed, already aroused flesh.

"Oh!" she cried, her
mouth falling open, her blood frying in her veins as she saw the wicked, lupine
gleam in his eyes.

"A rather singular
sensation, is it not?"

"You — how could you
know?"

"I know a lot of things
about your body, madam, that you have yet to learn.  And I also know that in a
few moments, this road is going to change to chalk rubble for a good mile or
two and then your senses are really going to explode when these
iron-clad wheels go vibrating over it."

"Will it feel . . .
good?"

"Oh, yes," he said,
chuckling darkly.  "It will feel very good."

God help her, she felt really
good, now.  She felt really good as her lover knelt down on the floor of
the coach, stretched her out on the seat, and began kissing the still warm spot
on her belly where his broad palm had so recently rested.  And she felt really
good as his tongue, drawing little circles on the taut, electrified skin there,
began moving closer and closer toward where his hand, shuddering rapidly with
the movement of the coach, still lay, his fingers stroking her, his thumb
pushing hard against that hot button of sensation.

Celsie whimpered and moaned, her
head twisting on the seat, a strange, wonderful sensation gathering inside her
like a horse gathering itself for a titanic hurdle . . .

"You may not remember all
that happened between us yesterday, madam," he breathed, his lips now
seeking the outermost curls of her femininity, "but I guarantee you shall
never forget what's about to happen between us now."

One hand on her breast, the other
holding her legs apart, his hot mouth dragged through her curls and planted
itself with hard, unrelenting firmness, there.

Celsie cried out — and at that
moment the coach hit the chalk rubble that he had heralded, making the vehicle,
making her body, making Andrew's tongue as it plunged and dipped within her
moist folds, shudder with a rapid, unceasing, crescendo of agitation.

"Oh, dear!" cried
Celsie, gasping.

He raised his head the merest of
inches.  "Faster," he shouted, to the driver above.

"Oh — oh, you fiend!"
wailed Celsie, as the coach picked up speed, and so did the maddening agitation
that was repeated in every cell in her body, in Andrew's mouth as he opened it
wide against her shamelessly wet cleft once more, in his stiffened tongue as it
pressed against that hidden button of flesh there, licking, stroking, the
rumble of the chalk beneath the wheels rapidly agitating it beyond anything
Celsie was physically capable of enduring.

"Oh, please —- oh please, oh
please," she sobbed, her fingernails clawing at the seat.

"Faster!"

The escalating rumble of the
wheels, rapidly shaking everything inside the coach like the onset of an
earthquake, was too much.  Celsie came against him with a harsh, rending cry,
her body arching straight off the seat, his tongue never retreating but only
pressing harder, deeper —

"Oh, oh God, help
me!" she cried, flailing in the seat, writhing against his tongue, her
hair whipping wildly back and forth as she climaxed once more.  And then, just
when she thought she would die, he drew back, thrust his fingers, vibrating
with the shudder of wheels over rubble, deep inside her, and watched her senses
explode yet a third time.

She was still convulsing when he
climbed on top of her, opened his breeches, and drove himself into her, hard,
thrusting over and over again until he finally reached his own satisfaction.

And on the box above, the driver
never heard a thing.

Chapter 13

By the time Gerald reached his
room at the Lambourn Arms, his terror had abated and self-disgust sat in his
gut like an undigested bone.  He galloped up to the stables, handed his winded
horse to a groom, and stalked into the taproom.

A glass of hard whiskey calmed
him.  A second fortified him.  A third managed to restore some of the courage
that his Grace the duke of Blackheath had so easily stripped him of, and
halfway through his fourth, Gerald was on his way back out to the stables.

He would deal with the duke.  He
would make him see reason, make him see how unsuitable his brother was for
Celsie.

He would make sure this marriage
would not go through.

Moments later, he was in the
saddle once again, wheeling his already exhausted mare and sending her
thundering toward Blackheath Castle.  Gerald had his doubts that the duke would
even receive him.  The duke did — but arrogantly kept him waiting in the Great
Hall for a full forty minutes, which was enough to infuriate Gerald all over
again.

Presently, a footman came for
him.

"His Grace will see your lordship
in the library now," said the servant, bowing.  "If you will just
follow me . . ."

Gerald found his nemesis standing
before a wall of bookcases, idly perusing an old leather tome.  The duke had
changed his clothes, but was still dressed in black, or rather a deep,
inky-blue velvet that, on his lean and dangerous frame, was somehow even more
sinister.  His back was turned, his manner unhurried.  He took his time
replacing the book, then turned, a cold, terrible smile just touching his mouth,
and his eyes as warm as a cobra's.

"Ah, Somerfield.  I have
been expecting you.  Do sit down.  I would offer you some refreshment, but I am
not feeling particularly well disposed toward you this morning."  Again
that chilling, unpleasant smile.  "I trust that you understand why, under
the circumstances."

He reached for the decanter to
pour a drink for himself, but Gerald, who wanted to get this business over
with, wasted no time in pleasantries.  He glared at the duke's handsome
profile, severe, aristocratic, a nearly unbroken line from nose to backswept
brow, and said rudely, "I cannot permit Celsiana to marry your
brother."

Blackheath never faltered.  Never
allowed even the faintest suggestion of a reaction to mar his expression.
Nonchalantly watching the sherry splash into the crystal goblet, he said,
"Well, that is indeed unfortunate, as I am in favor of the union."

"In favor of it?  Are you
mad, man?"

"Mad?"  Black ice
glittered in the duke's eyes as he calmly raised his glass to his lips.
"I can assure you, I am quite sane.  In fact, I find myself wondering if
you, Somerfield, are the mad one."

Gerald, fortified with liquor,
bristled.  "I don't know what you mean."

"Don't you?  Yesterday you
challenged my brother to a duel because he refused to offer for the lady's
hand.  This morning your cowardly and pathetic attempt on his life nearly cost
you your own.  And now here you are again, protesting the impending nuptials.
My patience with you, Somerfield, is dangerously short.  I should think you'd
have had more sense than to come here spouting nonsense that will do nothing
but strain it all the more."

Gerald's hand shook; he wished he
had another drink.

"I am willing to pretend
that this morning's little incident was the product of your overwrought
passions, Somerfield.  I am even willing to pretend a certain civility toward
you for the sake of my soon-to-be sister-in-law.  But what I cannot pretend is
to even try to understand why you suddenly find Andrew unsuitable, when
yesterday you wanted him to do right by Celsiana.  Quite a sudden change of
mind, no?"

"It wasn't a change of mind,
I was simply caught off guard yesterday by what even you will admit were
shocking circumstances.  Celsie is supposed to wed Sir Harold Bonkley, and if
she marries your brother instead, it will make both Bonkley and me the
laughingstocks of polite society."

"I fail to understand why a
marriage between the two will be so detrimental to what" — again, that
deadly smile —"dignity you and Bonkley possess."

"At the ball the other night
— we told everyone who matters that Bonkley and Celsie were as good as
betrothed!"

"Then you are foolish as
well as cowardly."

"I demand that you do
everything within your power to put an end to this lunacy!"

The duke lifted one black brow,
and put down his glass.  "You demand?"

Gerald sputtered and flushed
crimson.

"My dear Somerfield,"
Lucien continued smoothly.  "I can assure you that I have no intention of
putting an end to it whatsoever, as I happen to think our siblings are very
well suited."  He brushed a speck of lint off his sleeve and turned his
stare, which had gone very black, and very wintry, on his guest.  "Surely,
you don't find my brother wanting, do you?"

Gerald felt his guts seize up.
He did not know Lucien well, but something on an animal level of instinct
warned him that he was treading on dangerous, if not deadly, ground.  Too much
whiskey, however, made him reckless.

"Damn right I do!  He's
aloof.  He's arrogant.  He's obsessed with crackbrained inventions and love
potions, which proves that he's not only strange, but a pervert.  In short,
Blackheath, he will make my sister miserable.  He has no prospects for an
admirable career or future, and he has nothing whatsoever to offer Celsie.  Absolutely
nothing."

The duke regarded him for a long,
uncomfortable, unblinking moment.  Gerald felt dread tingling up his spine.
His palms began to sweat.

"And do you think that this
Bonkley, whose name I can hardly utter without pitying his poor bride, will
make your sister any happier than my brother might?" murmured Blackheath
in a dangerously soft tone.

"He, at least, has — has
prospects!"

"Does he, now?  Pray,
enlighten me."

Gerald opened his mouth, and then
shut it.  Sir Harold Bonkley had nothing over Lord Andrew de Montforte, and
both of them knew it.

Blackheath gazed at him for a
moment longer, and then, with a long-suffering sigh, returned his attention to
his sherry.  "D'you know, Somerfield, I am beginning to suspect that your
real complaint with my brother has nothing to do with the fact he compromised
your sister, but that he is not, shall we say" — he held up his glass,
examining the golden depths — "malleable."

"What?"

The duke turned his head and
flatly met Gerald's gaze.  "Not malleable to your wishes, that is.  I'm
afraid my brother has always done, and will always do, exactly as he pleases.
You will not bend him to your will."

"I don't know what the devil
you're talking about."

"Don't you?  Ah, but I think
you do.  It does not escape my notice that you would quite like to see your
sister married to Sir Harold so you can control him and thus your sister's
fortune."

"I beg your
pardon?" cried Gerald, outraged.

The duke's smile was studied
politeness, but the black eyes were dangerously cold, flat, and deadly.
"It is no great secret, my dear Somerfield, that your sister allows you to
live at Rosebriar because you have nowhere else to go.  And it is no great
secret that you have amassed a rather considerable number of gaming debts and
now find yourself without the means to make good on them.  Of course, a union
between Sir Harold and your sister offers the perfect solution to your little
dilemma, does it not?"

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.

The 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."

"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.

Reaching the top of the stairs,
he turned and carried her into his rooms, thinking that would be the best place
for her until morning when they could sort this sordid mess out.

She opened sleepy eyes as he shut
the door behind her and laid her on the bed.  Immediately, wariness came into
them when she saw where he had put her.

"Relax, I'm not going to
touch you," he said gruffly.

"Where are we?"

"London.  De Montforte
House.  You're in my bed, but have no fear, I have no intention of
staying."  He drew back, away from her, giving her privacy and space.
"A maid will be up shortly with some supper, and they're already preparing
water for a hot bath.  Good night."

She sat up.  "Where are you
going?"

"I, madam, am exhausted.
I'm going elsewhere, and there, after supper and a bath, I'm going to
bed."

"Oh."

He turned, irritably, and looked
at her.  She was still on the bed, though obviously uncomfortable about being
seen in such an intimate place.  She still had the lap rug, clutching it rather
tightly around her shoulders.  She looked unhappy.  Confused.  And
heartrendingly vulnerable.  The tender feeling she aroused in him irritated
him.

"Now what?" he asked
impatiently.

She sighed and ignored his
curtness.  "This isn't right.  I have a townhouse here in London, too.  I
think I'd better go there instead . . ."

For some reason, his peevishness
increased.  "Fine, then.  Go."

"Yes.  I think that would be
for the best."  She flashed him a look he couldn't quite decipher and
started to get off the bed.  He noticed that she kept her eyes down, away from
him, as though the experiences of the past two days had sent her beyond
mortification.  Her cheeks were pink.  He would not feel sorry for her.  He
would not.  She kept the lap rug tightly shut around her.

"You can take our
coach," Andrew said.

"Thank you."

"Maybe we can meet in the
morning over breakfast."  He turned away from her, feeling oddly bereft,
oddly betrayed, oddly confused over why he was feeling suddenly angry with her
all over again.  "We, uh, need to discuss how we can get out of this
devilish predicament."

"Yes.  What time should I
call?"

"It doesn't matter."

She raised her gaze then, and met
his.  "I'll make it around noontime, then.  I know you're a late sleeper."

"Trust me, madam, I don't
expect to be getting much sleep tonight."

She nodded in understanding.  He
bowed to her, and she turned and walked out of the room, leaving him standing
there alone.  Andrew's palms went damp.  His heart turned into a racehorse.  He
hailed her, almost desperately.  "Wait."

She turned, the look in her eyes
almost hopeful, but no, he was imagining it.

"You can take one of my
greatcoats if you want," he offered.  "You wouldn't want anyone to
see you wearing" — he jerked his chin to indicate her breeches and
stockings, just visible beneath the short blanket — "that."

"Thank you," she said,
slipping off the woolen throw and putting it across the back of a chair.  He
went to the wardrobe, retrieved a heavy woolen coat, and gently settled it
around her shoulders, letting his fingers linger longer than they should as he
adjusted it.

"There."  He swallowed
and drew back, rather reluctantly.  "Until tomorrow, Lady Celsiana."

"Until tomorrow, Lord
Andrew."

There was an expression in her
eyes that he couldn't quite read.  Something like sadness.  Or hurt.  He
couldn't quite discern which.  He didn't want to discern which.  He had
to get this woman out of the house, out of his life, before his anger broke
down even more.

He turned away so he wouldn't
have to see her disappear, when something outside the tall window that looked
down on the street caught his eye.  His curiosity aroused, he took a few steps
toward it and froze.

"Dear God . . ."

The street was glowing with an
eerie amber light, but where the cobbles should have been, there was only a
broad, flat ribbon of grey bracketed by lines of bright yellow and white.
Strange, frightening noises filled his head.  Strange, frightening lights
dazzled his eyes.  Andrew stared, the hair on the back of his neck rising.
Holding his breath, too afraid to move, he slowly raised his gaze, trying to
locate the source of the eerie light . . . and saw that the full moon, riding
so high above the city, was repeated over and over and over again the length of
the street, in a perfect, unbroken line of amber moons all glowing down on the
scene beneath him.

He shut his eyes and gripped the
sill of the window, his knees shaking, and when he opened them a heartbeat
later, everything was as it should be.

Only one bright moon, riding high
in the night sky above.  Cobbles, over which the iron wheels of carriages,
gigs, and coaches were rumbling and rattling.  Smart-stepping horses,
pedestrians on foot, a dog sniffing around in a gutter.

And Celsiana, who had come up
behind him and put a concerned hand on his arm.

"Andrew?"

He gave his head a good shake, as
though he could shake away the madness, as though he could forget all those amber
moons that had been lined up above the street just a moment ago.  "Did you
see it?" he asked harshly.

"See what?"  She went
to the window, frowned, and turned concerned eyes on him.  "Andrew, are
you all right?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine,"
he snapped, turning on his heel.  He was trembling.  He ground the heels of his
hands into his eyes, wanting only to flee before he ended up telling her of the
strange moons and lights he'd just seen outside that very same window.

Before he ended up telling her
that he was going mad.

But she was there, her hands
gripping his rigid forearms.  She pulled them down, dragging his fists away
from his face, seeing the panic in his eyes.  Her gaze was dark with concern.
He shut his eyes as she palmed his forehead.  "You're ill.  You're
sweating.  You're as white as the tip of a beagle's tail."

"Celsie, leave me alone.  Go
away.  Go away, now."

"I will, after I make sure
you're all right."

"For God's sake, woman —"

Her grip around his wrist was
fierce as she dragged him away from the window and back toward the bed.
"Stop acting like a foolish man and sit down for a moment.  You
were ill this morning, too, weren't you?  That's why you fell during the duel.
Oh, don't think you can deceive me, Andrew.  Gerald didn't stun you with his
sword; you're ill.  And you need to rest."

"I'm fine, I just . . . need
some food, that's all."

"Andrew, sit."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me.  Sit!"

He had no chance to recover from
his amazement at being the first human on earth, surely, to be given an
obedience command, before she shoved him down and backward.  Andrew sat.  Somewhat
stunned, he allowed Celsie to tug off his boots, to remove his stock, to sit on
the bed beside him and lift a concerned hand to his brow to check for fever.

The devil, but he had never had
anyone fuss over him before.  Maybe his mother had, but he'd been young when
she'd died, and  he sure as hell couldn't remember it.  His life had been spent
in self-imposed solitude.  He'd never craved affection of any sort.  But now,
here she was touching him.  Worrying over him.  What a novel feeling.  What a nice
feeling.

Embarrassed, he smiled a little
weakly.  "I suppose you're going to tell me down next."

"Actually, that's exactly
what I was going to tell you."  She completely missed his feeble joke and
stood back, studying him narrowly.  "Well, you're cooler now, but you
still don't look well at all.  I'm going down to the kitchens to find something
for you to eat so you won't have to wait for a meal to be prepared.  Some food,
hot tea, and a nightshirt ought to be just the thing.  Now, get under those
covers and don't move until I return, is that clear?"

"What?"

"You may be ill, my lord,
but I know for certain that your hearing is quite unimpaired."

Andrew was staring at her.
"I'm not sure whether I should be grateful, amused, offended, or amazed by
such . . . treatment . . ."

"You can be all of them
except offended," she said, giving him a fleeting smile that brought out
the sparkle in her eye.  "After all, I'm treating you no differently than
I would a dog."

"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 through 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.  Confused.  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."

"A promise is a
promise," Lucien said tightly, meaning it.  "And I consider your
individual happiness as part of the vow I made.  Therefore I will see Andrew
married."

Charles stared at him.  "And
you think that will make him happy?"

"Andrew doesn't want to get
married," added Gareth.

Lucien poured himself another
brandy.  "Andrew needs to be married."

"Good God, man!"
exclaimed Gareth.  "And you accuse Charles of taking his parental
duties outside his own home?"

"I am the head of this family,
and as such, I have a responsibility toward it."

"What about respecting
others' wishes?" Gareth flared.  "What about allowing people to live
their own lives without your interference, to make their own mistakes, to seek
their own paths?  Why must you always act as though you know best?"

"I do know
best."  Lucien smiled.  "At least, in this case."

Charles, always more serious than
Gareth, merely stood leaning against the doorjamb, his head turned toward the
fire.  He was quietly angry.  He would not look at Lucien.

"This discussion is
pointless," he said finally, straightening.  "I'm going to bed."

"Charles —"

"We will leave for London before
dawn," he said, giving Lucien a sharp look.  "Whatever you broke,
Lucien, I'm sure the rest of us can mend.  Good night."

He bowed crisply and left.
Gareth watched him go.  Then he turned on Lucien, who still stood quietly
before the fire.

"Well?" said Gareth.

"I think you'd best go to
bed too," Lucien said affably.  He pretended that Gareth's anger meant
nothing to him.  He pretended that Charles's words hadn't hurt.  His brothers
thought him a monster.  He was used to it.

Gareth merely glared at him for a
moment; then he, too, spun on his heel and left the room.

Unlike Charles, he didn't even
bother to say goodnight.

~~~~

Celsie awoke to the gentle patter
of rain outside.

It was not yet dawn.  She lay
there in the gloom, listening to the peaceful sound of water running down the
windows, trickling down the eaves.  As per habit she stretched her feet out,
seeking Freckles, but the bottom of the bed was empty.  Celsie came fully
awake, feeling oddly lost, ill-at-ease.  For as long as she could remember, she
had slept with a dog or cat or both.  But of course, there were no dogs or cats
here.  She was at de Montforte House.  In a room that smelled, lingeringly, of
roses.

Probably Lady Nerissa's.

She pulled the covers up over her
shoulders, snuggling down beneath them and thinking that she really ought to
get up now, and find her way to her own London townhouse before the duke's
servants woke.  She didn't need any more stains upon her reputation than she
already had.  But oh, it was so warm and delicious under the blankets . . .
she'd sleep for another ten or fifteen minutes.  No more.  Then, she would
leave.

But something besides the rain
had woken her.  She opened her eyes and gazed about the slowly lightening
room.  At the tall rectangles of the windows, aglow with grey light.  At the
furniture just taking shape from out of the darkness.

At the tall figure of a man
leaning negligently against the door frame.

She stifled a scream.

"Sorry," said Andrew,
straightening up.  "It's only me."

"Damn it, you're enough to
scare the courage out of a Great Dane!" she sputtered.  "How long
have you been standing there?"

"I don't know.  Twenty
minutes.  Two hours.  A long time."

She sat up in bed, pulling the
covers with her.  "What do you want?"

"Company."

"I thought you wanted to be
left alone.  You made that perfectly clear, earlier."

He stepped into the room, clad in
nothing but a long white shirt which covered him down to mid-thigh.  His hair
was loose about his shoulders, dark and wavy in the half-light.  His feet were
bare, his calves long and powerful.  The sight of him, tall, slightly
disheveled, and nearly naked, was enough to make Celsie's throat go dry.  He
looked better than breakfast.

Better than another few hours of
sleep.

Better, even, than the thought of
leaving.

"I want to apologize for my
bad behavior last night," he said.

"Now?  Couldn't this wait till
morning?"

"No."

"Very well, then.  Now that
you've apologized, why don't you go back to bed."

He shrugged.  "What's the
sense?  I've got too much on my mind to sleep."

"Well, why don't you go
design another flying machine, then.  Or something to help the turnspit dogs so
they don't live such horrible lives.  Or better yet, a potion to render
yourself invisible.  I find it most disconcerting to awaken only to find a man
staring at me."

"I can't help staring at
you.  You . . . you're beautiful."

The quiet, matter-of-fact way he
said it sent a lightning bolt of feeling straight into Celsie's heart.  You're
beautiful.  No one had ever told her that before.  No one.  She didn't know
how to react to it.  Feeling suddenly confused, vulnerable, and more than a
little flustered, she pulled the coverlet higher.  "And now I'm
embarrassed."

"You shouldn't be.  Besides,
I'm just making an observation.  Nothing more."

"I think I'd prefer that you
contain your observations to science, not women dressed in their nightclothes
and trying to get some sleep."

"Do you realize, Celsiana,
that if we don't find a way out of this marriage, the first thing we'll see
when we wake up every morning will be each other?"  He bent his head and
rubbed his toe against the door jamb.  His hair fell over his brow, one eye,
obscuring his expression.  "It's baffling, but for some strange reason, I
don't find that a particularly repulsive thought."  He lifted his head,
looking as vulnerable as Celsie felt.  "Do you?"

"No.  I suppose you are
a little better-looking than Freckles."

"Listen, Celsiana —"

She tensed, holding the sheets
tightly around her.

"I'm sorry I was such an
ogre last night.  I'm sorry that I allowed you to go away thinking that I was
angry with you, when indeed, I was not angry with you, but with the fates that
have made me what I am."  He took a deep breath.  "And I'm sorry that
if you end up having to marry me, I'm going to make the most abominable of
husbands."

She fixed him with a direct
glare.  "Are you trying to get into my bed, Lord Andrew?"

He looked up, surprised.
"Do you want me in your bed, Celsiana?"

"Of course not.  It would be
unseemly."

"Yes.  Yes, I suppose it
would be."

She curled and uncurled her
toes.  "On the other hand —"

He raised his brows.

"On the other hand, I must
confess that this is the first time since I can remember that I've slept
alone.  I guess I miss Freckles."

"And I'd probably make a
poor substitute."

"Yes.  I daresay you
would."

Silence.  An expectant, waiting,
hopeful silence.

"I suppose I'll go back to
my room, then," said Andrew, with a faint smile.  "Unless you decide
you want me to be Freckles for the rest of the night, in which case I'll gladly
crawl under the covers with you."

"Why should I let you do
that?"

"Well, first there is the
fact that I'm having trouble sleeping, knowing that you're — well, here.
Secondly, there is the fact that if we're going to end up being married, it
doesn't really make much difference what our current sleeping arrangements are.
And thirdly . . ."

"Thirdly?"

He grinned a little sheepishly.
"I'm cold."

She sighed and levelled a flat
look at him that belied the way her heart was suddenly beginning to pound.
"Do you have to be so damned charming?"

"Sorry.  I am not trying to
be charming."

"That's precisely why you are
so charming."  She flipped back the coverlet.  "Very well, then.
Join me if you like.  But . . . no touching.  Just sleeping."

"You cannot mean that."

"I do mean it."

"Do you honestly think that
I can come over there, join you in that bed, and not touch you?"

"I think you can try."

"This might be beyond my
capabilities."

"Then maybe you ought to go
back to your own bed," she said, wondering why she suddenly hoped with all
her heart that he would not.  "Really, I can't understand why it should be
so very difficult.  If you can design flying machines and incredible
inventions, surely you can lie in this bed without touching me."

He padded across the floor toward
the bed, smiling faintly.  "Why is it that I'm perceiving this as some
sort of a challenge?"

"Is that how you perceive
it?" she asked, sliding over to make room for him.

"Well, how else would I
perceive it?  You invite me into your bed but won't let me touch you — and this
after we've already made love not once, but twice.  Why deny our desires now?"

"Because it's not even light
out and I would like to go back to sleep.  You can either stand there and sulk,
or get into bed.  Now I'm getting cold."

He joined her, of course.  She
never had any reason to think that he wouldn't.  Oh, if he could be like this all
the time — charming, witty, at ease with himself and with her — instead of
turning into a bad-tempered dragon whenever the fancy struck him!

The mattress sagged a little as
he climbed up.  Celsie, moving as far to the edge of the bed as she could
without falling off, tensed, her skin from ear to toe prickling in anticipation
of an accidental touch.  He pulled the coverlet up and scooted down beneath the
weight of it and the blankets.  The pillow sighed as it took the weight of his
head, and the blankets gapped around her knees and shoulders, letting in a
faint draft where his body lifted the covers from her own.

They lay there for a few moments,
each stiff and expectant and feeling slightly awkward.  Celsie was keenly aware
of his size, his virility, his very maleness in this rose-scented,
femininely appointed room.  Now she was really wishing that Freckles were
there.  Having the big dog's body between herself and Andrew would go far
toward ensuring there were no . . . accidental touches.

Maybe a pillow would work —

"So tell me about these
turnspits," he said, his deep voice only a foot from her ear.

She lay as stiff as a dog's
hackles, arms down at her sides, barely daring to breathe.  "What's there
to tell?"

"I want to know why their
plight is so important to you.  What you intend to do to help them."

Now, this was a safe
topic, and one that she could thoroughly exhaust — probably enough to send him
off to sleep, if she was lucky.  After all, it seemed to bore most people; why
not Lord Andrew, whose interests seemed to revolve around science and
extraordinary inventions and being in a bad mood?

Somewhat despairingly, knowing
she'd soon lose her audience, she said, "Have you ever been in the
kitchens of Blackheath, Andrew?  Or any kitchen, for that matter?"

"Hmm, no."  He crossed
his arms beneath his head, one elbow accidentally touching Celsie's ear.
"I can't say I have."

Celsie determined not to move,
though she was keenly aware of that elbow.  "Well, if you would bother to
go down into the kitchens of most great houses, you'll see an iron wheel,
somewhere near the hearth where your meats are roasted.  The wheel is called a
turnspit, and the little dogs that are enslaved to turn these wheels, and thus
your meat so that it roasts evenly, are called the same."

"Dogs are used to turn the
wheels?" he asked, the pillow shifting a little as he turned his head to
look at her.

"You know, you really need
to get out of your laboratory once in a while and see what goes on in the real
world.  Of course they are!  Aren't all innocent beasts exploited in one way or
another by the human species?"

He merely looked at her, his
features barely discernible in the gloom.  But she could see his dark eyes only
inches away, his lips so close she could feel his breath upon her cheek.

"I'll tell you something
else, too," she said, staring up at the dark ceiling so she wouldn't have
to look into that handsome, searching face.  "Not only are these poor
little dogs confined within these wheels, but many cooks put hot coals on the
iron tracks so that they run their legs off in a futile attempt to keep their
paws from being burned."

"You're bloody joking!"

"I'm not."

"How dreadful . . . Good
God, I never knew."

"It is dreadful,
isn't it?"  She began to relax, warming to her subject as she realized she
had not only his attention, but his sympathy for her cause.  "Now you know
why I'm trying so hard to make people find an alternate way of cooking their
roasts.  Animals have feelings, just like we do.  They're not meant to be hurt,
or abused, or exploited for our sakes.  They're innocent, and helpless, and
they're meant to be loved — just as we love our children."

"There are those who don't
even love their children, Celsie."

"I know."

"And there are those who
would say that since animals lack souls, they don't deserve to be treated any
better than they are.  That it's perfectly well to treat them as expendable
objects.  Not, of course, that I adhere to such an opinion . . . just playing
devil's advocate."

"I know you are.  But who's
to say that animals don't have souls?  I believe, with all my heart, that they
do.  I believe they go to heaven, each and every one of them, because they are
innocent, and therefore sinless.  And I believe that God, who created animals
just as He created humans, and made them of the same exact flesh and bone and
blood, loves them as much as He does us."

She felt the customary pang of
frustration gripping her and swallowed hard, for she wanted to change the
world, change people's attitudes, and she knew that she never could, because
there would always be cruel, insensitive people as long as the earth turned.

"But oh, if I say such
things, people laugh at me," she continued dejectedly.  "They smile
politely, and pretend to care, but only in order to indulge me.  Funny what
having money does, isn't it?  Fools.  I know what they really think.  It's a
good thing I didn't live a century or so ago, or I would have been burned as a
heretic.  But you know something?  Let them all laugh.  Let them all whisper
behind my back.  People have enough champions; animals do not.  If something
suits a purpose, exploit it.  If something gets in the way, destroy it.  It
doesn't matter if it's a living, breathing creature, with a heart and feelings
and ability to feel pain, loneliness, and grief just like we do.  Man's wishes
are the only ones that matter, aren't they?  Man's wishes cause everything else
to be stamped down, to be stamped out.  God, how I hate it!"

Her tone had become impassioned,
plaintive, angry.  She turned her head on the pillow and regarded Andrew.  In
the faint gloom she could see that he was watching her, his eyes thoughtful.
There was a little smile on his face.  Was that mockery she saw there?  Amusement?

"You think I'm ridiculous,
don't you?"

"No.  I don't think you're
ridiculous at all, Celsie."

"What do you think,
then?"

Something in his gaze softened.
"I think you are a woman ahead of your time."

"You're not laughing at me,
then?"

"Do I look as if I'm
laughing?"

"No," she said,
exhaling, the fight going out of her.  "No, you don't."

"I admire you for your
courage in standing up for something you believe in so strongly.  For your
courage in confessing to me something that is obviously very close to your
heart."

"Yes, well, it has made me
even more of an outsider than I already was.  Not, mind you, that I care one
way or another."

"I know the feeling . .
."

"What feeling?"

"Of being an outsider."

"But you don't care,
either."

He smiled.  "No.  I do
not."

His confession, along with the
deeply intense, quiet way he was regarding her, was starting to do things to
Celsie's insides.  It was starting to do things to her resolve not to like him,
her resolve not to touch him.  She turned away and stared up at the ceiling.
"I've always loved animals more than people . . . maybe because people are
cruel and animals are not . . . maybe because I just never really fit in with
people."

"I know that feeling,
too."

She turned her head and met his
intent gaze.  "Do you?"

"Of course.  I'm a 'mad'
inventor.  Most people I meet couldn't be bothered to show an interest in the
things that I do, in the dreams that I have; and since they don't understand my
work, nor my visions, they write me off as 'peculiar' and choose not to bother
with me.  I am like a horse with six legs.  They don't know what to make of me,
they can find no common ground with me, and so I am best left alone — which
suits me just fine, of course."

"I think your work is
incredibly fascinating," she said heatedly.

"Then you are the exception,
rather than the rule."

"And I think your dreams are
going to change the world."

He smiled.  "Well, I don't
know about that, but trust me, Celsiana, I do know what it's like to be
ridiculed for my beliefs, for my passions, for my dreams of improving life as
we know it — just as you know what it's like."  He unfolded his arms from
behind his head, putting them beneath the blankets to escape the chill.
"Even now, I shudder when I remember what my peers in the scientific
community said after my flying machine failed and dumped Charles and me in the
moat — and this in front of the king himself.  I shudder to think what they
will say when they learn I've created an aphrodisiac and can't even remember
what went into it.  Ah, the  mortification . . .  Here I am, an inventor and
man of science, and I didn't even record the substances that went into making
what could very well end up being the most incredible discovery of this decade,
if not this century."

There was pain in his voice.
Tentatively Celsie reached out and found his hand beneath the covers.

His fingers curled around her
own.

They remained that way for
several moments, just holding hands, looking up at the ceiling, neither saying
a word.

"Know what's rather
funny?" she said, at last.

"What's that?"

"Here we are, two misfits
who think we can change the world . . .  Perhaps we're better suited to each
other than either of us had thought."

"I suppose we would be very
well suited indeed, if either of us had any inclination to get married."

"Yes.  I think it's better
that we remain friends rather than spouses.  Marriage would probably ruin our
burgeoning friendship."

"We're working on that,
aren't we?  Being friends?"

She heard the smile — and what
sounded like hope — in his voice.  She turned her head and saw that he was
watching her, his expression inscrutable.

"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 the 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 dangerously, 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."

Still wearing that infuriating
smile, he reached into his coat pocket, extracted a sheet of vellum, and with a
casual flick of his wrist, snapped it open.

"What the hell is
that?" snarled Andrew.

"Why, the special license
that I've already procured for you, of course.  I took the liberty of calling
on an acquaintance of mine, whose bishopric he owes, most directly, to my
influence.  One good turn deserves another, don't you think?"

Andrew clenched his fists to keep
them from swinging.  He took deep breaths in a herculean effort to remain
calm.  "And I suppose you also took the liberty of having someone follow
us from Lambourn to London, which is why, I suppose, you knew that Celsie and I
were here?"

Lucien smiled thinly.  "Ah,
Andrew.  You know me too well, I fear."  He bowed.  "I shall leave
you now, so that you can make yourselves presentable.  The rest of the family
are downstairs, and they are all anxious to meet their
sister-in-law-to-be."

Andrew exploded.  He grabbed the
nearest thing he could reach — the candlestick beside the bed — and flung it at
his brother's smiling face.

Without even flinching, his
expression never wavering, Lucien calmly reached out and caught it.  With
deliberate care, he put the candle

stick down on the highboy that stood near the door, and
turned his maddening smile on Celsie.

"I should warn you about your
prospective husband, my dear," he murmured.  "Temper goes with red
hair."

And then, bowing once more, he
turned and left them.

Chapter 19

Leaving the bed, Andrew stalked
to the door and slammed it.  There he stood, leaning his side against it, his
brow bent to one hand.  His shirt covered him down to midthigh.  Celsie could
see his mouth moving, could hear his soft tirade of profanity.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Yes, so am I.  Plague take
it, there's no way out of this now.  Not with the bitch of Brookhampton armed
with enough gossip to destroy your reputation forever.  Bloody hell.  Damn and
thunderation.  I am going to kill him, I swear it."

Celsie rose from the bed.  She,
too, still wore her linen shirt, though the hem covered her down to the knees.
She walked slowly up to Andrew and tentatively laid a hand on his shoulder.  He
didn't shake her off but merely stood there, still leaning against the door,
head bent and his hard, sullen eyes staring emptily at the floor.  Her heart
ached for him.  What a horrible existence he must have had, with a monster like
Lucien for a brother.

"I won't hold you to
it," she murmured.  "I could never force you or anyone else to do
something you have no wish to do."

"And I could never face myself
or anyone else if I were not to do right by you," he said, swallowing
hard.  "I should never have brought you here, should never have come into
this room last night, should never have let you try that blasted potion —"

"Shhhh," she murmured,
and then, knowing she was taking a huge chance, knowing she was going beyond
the boundaries of friendship, she put her arms around him.

She expected him to violently
recoil.  She thought he might shove her away in disgust.  Instead he did
neither, just standing there stiffly, allowing her to hold him.  He filled her
arms, big and strong and hard beneath the softness of his shirt.  She rested
her cheek against the cup of his shoulder and held him.

Just held him.

"I guess I've got to ask you
to marry me, then," he said a little shakily.

She stared at a nearby chair
without really seeing it.  "I guess I've got to accept."

He raised a hand to shove the
hair out of his face — and suddenly he was returning her embrace, clinging to
her as though she was the last anchor holding him against a storm-tossed sea.
His head dipped towards hers and he claimed her lips, his tongue plunging into
her mouth, his hand sliding behind her waist, splaying up her lower back and
pulling her hard against him.

It was a kiss of desperation.  Of
comfort sought and comfort given.  But both knew they could not put off the
inevitable.  After a few moments they reluctantly broke it, and just stood
there in each other's embrace, her cheek against his chest, her arms around his
waist.

"Since we've now got some
news to share, I'd better present you to the rest of the family," he said
quietly.  "But if you're too embarrassed by recent events, if you wish to
plead indisposition and remain up here, I will quite understand."

She took his hand and gazed deeply
into his suffering eyes.  "What, and leave you to the dragons all by
yourself?  No, Andrew.  If we're going to be married, I will carry my own
weight.  And when need be, even yours."

He looked at her with a mixture
of sorrow and despair and maybe even hope.

"Now come, let us at least
get dressed," she said.  "We might as well get this over with."

~~~~

They sat on the bed, discussing
necessary arrangements.  Then Andrew, seeing that Celsie had nothing to wear
but the shocking breeches and shirt in which she'd arrived, sent for his
sister.  Nerissa came up, looking faintly uncomfortable but making a heroic
effort to act as though nothing untoward had happened.  Andrew noticed that
Celsie kept her chin high, her eyes averted.  His heart went out to her.  How
awkward she must feel, facing the woman who would soon be her sister-in-law.
How mortified she must be, having been discovered in Nerissa's own bed.  But
Andrew knew that Nerissa was more than familiar with Lucien's cruel
manipulations herself, and sure enough, his sister instantly took pity on
Celsie, breaking the ice by making a disparaging remark about the brother they
all wanted to strangle.  He saw relief and gratitude flood Celsie's tight
features.  Then, satisfied that the two were warming to each other and trusting
Nerissa to find some suitable clothes for Celsie, Andrew went downstairs to
face his family.

Lady Brookhampton, thank God, had
gone — no doubt bursting at her strained seams to spread what promised to be
the year's juiciest gossip.  Juliet and Amy were in the parlor, relaxing after
their long journey.  Only his brothers were in the library when Andrew entered,
and with the exception of Lucien, they rose to greet him.

"I'm getting married,"
he said sullenly.

Charles and Gareth were full of
surprise, confusion, and wary congratulations.  And of course, questions.  Too
many questions.  Andrew answered them as best he could, trying not to sound as
resentful and volatile as he felt.  He did not look at Lucien.  He was afraid
that if he did, one glance at that smug face would land him in gaol for
murder.  And now Charles was asking him another question.  Andrew forced his
mind back to the present.  The wedding arrangements?  Yes, the nuptials would
take place immediately.  No, her father, may he rest in peace, could not give
her away, her mother was off in Italy with some new lover, and her brother, for
whom she bore no love and even less respect, would not, if she had anything to
say about it, give her away either.

"She wants Freckles,"
he explained, helping himself to a cup of tea.

"Who the hell is
Freckles?" asked Charles and Gareth in unison.

"Her best friend," said
Andrew, with protective evasiveness.

Gareth raised a brow.  "Odd
name, that.  Freckles.  Hmmm."

"Is it his given one or a
nickname?" asked Charles.

"Why assume Freckles is a
he?" mused Gareth.  "Sounds more like a woman's name than a
bloke's."

Lucien, reposing in a chair near
the fire, crossed one ankle over the other and casually reached for the morning
paper.  "Freckles is the lady's dog."

"Her dog?"
exclaimed Charles and Gareth in unison.

"You two ought to go onstage
singing harmony," snapped Andrew, sensitive to any possible or perceived
criticism of Celsie and ready to defend her if the situation called for it.
Scowling, he looked down as he lifted his teacup, thus missing the surprised —
and amused — look his brothers exchanged.

"Sorry," said Gareth,
hiding a grin beneath the pretense of rubbing his chin.  "No offense,
man."

"Yes, no offense,"
Charles added, with a warm smile meant to defuse the bristling defensiveness he
perceived in his youngest brother.  "Where does she live, Andrew?  If it
would make either of you any less morose, I'd be happy to go fetch the dog and
bring it back here to London."

Andrew gave a sulky shrug.  "No
need.  Besides, we're not getting married here in London, but at
Blackheath."

"I see," said Charles,
glancing at Lucien as the duke calmly opened his paper.  "And where will
you live?"

Andrew, too, glanced at Lucien's
severe profile.  "As far away from certain interfering monsters as
possible."

"The lady owns substantial
property in Berkshire," drawled the duke from his chair.  "I'm sure
she can support Andrew in as much style as he desires."

"Sod off," Andrew
snapped.

Charles, ever the gentleman, pretended
to ignore the flare-up of animosity between the two.  "Berkshire,
eh?"  He sipped his tea and set the cup down in its saucer.  "Nice
that you'll be so close.  I say, Andrew, I can't wait to meet her.  Nerissa
said she's gorgeous."

"She is."  Andrew turned
away to hide the sudden flush of pride that touched his cheeks.  Then,
realizing that Charles was only trying to ease the tension in the room, he
allowed a pained but fleeting grin.  "Hell, I probably would have got her
into trouble even without benefit of the aphrodisiac."

"She must be more than just
gorgeous," Gareth remarked, from his own chair.  "You've had stunning
women throwing themselves at you for years, but I've never seen you pay any
notice to any of them.  Now I'm curious to meet her, as well!"

Andrew was starting to find this
conversation stifling — especially knowing that Lucien was probably sitting
there gloating over his more-than-significant part in things.  He reached
inside the pocket of his frock coat, withdrew his notebook, and suddenly
wanting to retreat from his family, his predicament, and any gentle teasing his
brothers might feel compelled to hand out, moved to the far side of the room.
There he perched on the edge of a chair and began sketching, blocking out the
light conversation between Charles and Gareth, and the sound of Lucien every so
often turning a page of his paper.

Maybe if he lost himself in an
idea, he could temporarily forget the catastrophe his life had become, the
calamity his future promised, the casualty that had been his freedom.  He
focused on the blank page before him, put pencil to paper, and proceeded to
lose himself in his latest project.

A project that, when finished,
would be his wedding present to Celsie.

Ah, relief.  Ah, blessed
forgetfulness of immediate problems as the pencil flew as fast as his mind
allowed it.  The execution of the idea came naturally to him, as easily as
molding a loaf of bread might have come to a baker, and as he sketched, and
made calculations, and allowed for various gear measurements, tension, and
resistance to heat, his mood eased and he began to relax a bit, lulled by the
familiar comfort of putting his mind to work.  And yet his mind kept returning
to Celsie herself.  To how she had held his hand last night, her defenses down,
just being a friend.  To how she had hugged him after all escape routes had
been blocked, sympathetic to his despair when she must have been feeling just
as devastated, herself.  Something caught in his throat.  She was really quite
remarkable.  And brave, too.

And as Charles had guessed,
gorgeous.

Again, that flush of pride.  God
help him, he was actually looking forward to introducing her to the rest of the
family.  To showing her off a little.  He wondered how she would get on with
Juliet and Amy, and hoped she wouldn't feel like an outsider because she was
English aristocracy and they were from the American colonies.

He calculated a measurement and
jotted it down.  Hell, maybe it was a good thing he was marrying a woman who,
unlike most of her gender, was obsessed with dogs instead of babies.  He didn't
think he'd be very good around a baby.  All that spit-up and screaming and
vile-smelling diapers and mess and stuff.

He shuddered.

"Cold feet, Andrew?"
asked Charles, who had risen, crossed the room, and was now standing at a
nearby window, idly watching the rain pound the cobbles and swell the gutters
outside.

"Not yet."

His brother put his hands on his
hips, rucking up his coattails, and kept his gaze on the view outside the
window.  He was a thoughtful man, kind and considerate of others, and his own
sobriquet, The Beloved One, was most appropriate.  Without turning from the
window, he lowered his voice for Andrew's ears alone.

"Have you told her yet,
Andrew?"

Andrew's pencil came to a sudden
halt.  Charles's quiet inquiry flung a dose of reality over him, waking him
from his temporary dream world as if someone had just roused him with a bucket
of ice water.  "No," he murmured uneasily, casting an eye at Lucien
in the chair across the room.  "I, uh, don't seem to have found the right
opportunity."

Charles said nothing, merely
standing there with his hands beneath his coattails, his pale blue eyes gazing
out the window and candlelight gilding his hair.  The house servants had spread
a layer of straw atop the cobbles of the street just outside so that the
clatter of passing carriages wouldn't reach the duke's ears, and Charles was
idly watching a chattering flock of sparrows who were picking amongst it for
food in the fast-fading light.

"I've often wondered why you
were so affected and I was not," he murmured at length.  "After all,
we both breathed the stuff."

"Yes, well, I breathed it
longer."

Charles was still gazing out the
window, pretending nonchalance when Andrew knew him well enough to know he was
troubled.  "Have you had any more episodes lately?"

"A few."

"I suppose those damned
doctors haven't been able to help any . . ."

"Of course not.  I refuse to
see any more of them."

"Have the episodes got any
worse?"

"Define 'worse.'"

"More frequent?  More
intense?  Different from what they always were?"

Andrew went back to sketching.
"No.  Same as they've always been, though I never see the same things
twice.  I'm keeping a notebook.  Maybe someday when I'm a drooling, chained
idiot in Bedlam, someone will benefit from them."

Charles flinched as though he'd
been struck.

"Sorry," Andrew said,
wishing he hadn't made such a flippant remark, for now he'd upset his brother,
and Charles was only showing the compassion that came as naturally to him as
crazy ideas for even crazier inventions came to Andrew.  He got up and tucked
the notebook back into his coat pocket.  "I say, I think I hear the ladies
coming," he said, giving Charles a good-natured clap across the shoulder
and turning toward the door.  "Ah look, here they are now."

Lucien and Gareth rose from their
chairs, and all four de Montforte men bowed as Celsie, accompanied by Nerissa,
Juliet and Amy, entered the room, her head high as she tried to hide her sudden
nervousness.  Her stomach was in knots.  She was trembling like a whippet.  Oh,
what are his brothers all thinking?  That I'm ugly?  Flat-chested?  Oh please,
God, don't let me be an embarrassment to Andrew, don't let them pity him his
stark and ugly bride, please don't let this be a repeat of the past, of all the
times I've been teased and ridiculed for being such a skinny, stork-legged crow
. . .

But nobody was thinking anything
of the sort.  Though all four women were lovely, Andrew had eyes only for
Celsie.  His Celsie.  For a moment, his heart forgot how to beat.  For a
moment, his lungs forgot to take in air.

He could only stare.  Her thick,
tawny tresses had been left unpowdered and were piled high on her head, a few
loose curls escaping to frame her face.  A simple choker of pale pink pearls encircled
her neck.  Her gown was a glowing green silk the color of spring leaves, the
skirts embroidered in vibrant salmon and gold threads, the stomacher the color
of ripe peaches.  The fitted silk clung to her tiny waist, her slender arms,
showing her figure off to perfection and complimenting the clear, bisquelike
tone of her skin.  Despite the nervousness in her eyes, she looked as regal as
any princess.  And then those eyes sought out his own, and leaving Charles at
the window, Andrew hurried forward to take her hand, bowing over it and kissing
it lightly between the knuckles.

"You are a vision," he
said hoarsely, and then, unable to keep the pride from his voice, unable to
keep from touching her, he slid a possessive arm around her waist and turned her
so that they both faced his brothers.  "Charles, Gareth, I would like to present
Lady Celsiana Blake — my betrothed."

Gareth was grinning widely, and
even Charles wore a relieved smile as they came forward to take Celsie's hand
and make the appropriate — and well-deserved — exclamations over her beauty.
And as Andrew, standing beside her with his chest pushing so hard against his
waistcoat that he thought the buttons were going to pop right off, watched her
respond with modesty, grace and dignity to the shower of compliments, he knew
that everything was going to be all right.

He found himself grinning.

Freckles, beware.  I'm going
to make this woman happier than you could ever dream of doing!

Chapter 20

The wedding was held a fortnight
later.

It was a private ceremony, with
the vicar of Ravenscombe performing the honors in the ancient Norman church
that had served the earls, and later the dukes, of Blackheath for the last
five-hundred years.  If the cleric thought it a strange thing that the Defiant
One was finally getting married, he kept it to himself.  If he thought it a
strange thing that none of the bride's family had come to see her pledge
herself to him, he made no comment.  But when the bride, heartbreakingly lovely
in a gown of pale green tissue shot through with silver, walked up the aisle
clutching the leash of an old, slow-moving dog instead of the arm of a male
relative, well, even the Reverend Williams, who had seen a bit in his day,
raised a brow.

One sharp, speaking look from the
commanding black eyes of His Grace the duke of Blackheath, however, brought
that eyebrow straight back down to its proper place.  The Reverend Williams
cleared his throat and guided the bride, whose knuckles, he noted, were
clenched white around the dog's leash, to the left of the groom, and proceeded
to set about his business.  But when he got to the part where he asked who was
to give her away, he found himself at something of a loss, for there seemed to
be no one with her at all, save for that sad-looking old dog with the big,
pendant ears and soulful eyes gazing out of its gone-to-grey face.

"Freckles," she
announced, in a voice that challenged him, that challenged anyone, to mock her
wishes.  She swallowed hard and reached down to stroke the dog's brown and
white neck in a rapid, nervous way.  "Freckles is giving me away.  But not
really, because he's still going to sleep on the bed with us."

"I, er . . . see," said
the vicar, looking quite helpless.

The bride, still standing all alone,
flushed and turned a tremulous, slightly embarrassed smile on her bridegroom,
who didn't seem surprised, or uncomfortable, by her proclamation at all.

"Is that not right, Andrew?
That Freckles will sleep on the bed with us?"

His reply was equally earnest.  "Yes,
Celsie.  Freckles will sleep on the bed with us."

Williams drew out his
handkerchief and mopped his brow.  He was going to need a drink after this
one.  Maybe even two.  He shot a confused look at the duke, but His Grace was
his usual enigmatic self.  Lord Gareth was grinning, and Lord Charles was
trying, and failing, to maintain a suitably militaristic expression in keeping
with his splendid scarlet uniform.

As for Lord Andrew, he had a look
in his eye that promised dire harm if Williams or anyone else so much as
questioned his lady's wishes.  Very well, then, thought Williams.  If she
wanted the dog to give her away, and if Lord Andrew condoned its sleeping on
the bed, that was their life.  He was only here to marry them, God help him.

I will never understand the
aristocracy, not if I live to be a hundred.

"Witnesses, then?" he
asked, with a dubious look at the old dog.  If it's Freckles, I'm having three
drinks.  And then I'm retiring and moving back to Cornwall.

Lord Andrew glanced at his brother
Charles.  "Major de Montforte will witness our vows," he said
tightly.

"Er . . . you do not wish
His Grace to witness them, my lord?"

"I damned well don't,"
snapped Lord Andrew, glowering.

Williams flinched.  He glanced
nervously at the duke, but His Grace was gazing at the altar, his expression
inscrutable, his entire manner unaffected.

The bride added, "My brother
Gerald will also witness them."

Her ladyship had a brother?
Why isn't he, and not the dog, giving her away?

"And where is this
brother?" asked Williams, gazing rather helplessly about him.

Lord Andrew, looking more dashing
than the vicar had ever seen him in an exquisitely cut suit of striped olive
silk, russet smallclothes, and snowy white lace at throat and wrists,
impatiently jerked his head towards the back of the church.  There, in the
cool, gloomy shadows, a young man sat, his expression cold, his eyes smoldering
with anger.  Hmm, well yes, thought Williams.  I don't blame you,
young fellow, for being in such an ill temper.  It's not every day that a dog
takes your rightful place at your sister's side . . .

"Please proceed,
Williams," said the duke tightly.

Clearing his throat, the vicar
picked up the Book of Common Prayer and recited the age-old words.  "Dearly
beloved.  We are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of
this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony .
. ."

He saw the bride swallowing hard,
wrapping and unwrapping the leash around her hand, her head bent as she stared,
blinking, down at the elderly dog.  He saw the concerned way Lord Andrew was
watching her.  She happened to look up and catch her bridegroom's gaze upon
her; she offered a brave and tremulous smile, and his own flashed, briefly,
wanly, in return.  Seeing it, Williams let his voice fill the church, trying to
drown out the reservations he had about tying these two together, trying to
drown out the otherwise charged silence, trying to drown out the tension among
the family members that made the very air around them seem to crackle.  He was
doing the right thing.  Wasn't he?

He thought of all the clergymen
over the centuries who'd stood in this very spot and married countless de
Montfortes before him, of the dead sleeping in their tombs all around, of the
last duke and duchess, their elaborate tomb a stone's toss away.  Had any of
theirs been . . . hasty marriages?  He was aware of the way Lady Gareth and
Lady Charles exchanged soft glances with their husbands as he recited the
binding words of love, honor and commitment.  He was aware of the duke gazing
at his parents' tomb, his expression still.  He was aware of the excited murmur
of some three hundred villagers outside, all looking forward to spending the
rest of the day feasting and drinking at the tables His Grace had set up so
that all could share in the celebration.  Williams must have faltered, for now
the duke was turning that inscrutable black stare, which would allow no
mistakes, which would tolerate no question of the soon-to-be Lady Andrew's
wishes, on him, silently commanding him to continue.

He had suspected that this was no
love match, but when Lord Andrew raised his deep, aristocratically accented
voice for everyone — even the now-dozing dog — to hear, Williams began to
wonder if maybe there was more here than met the eye . . .

"I, Andrew Mark de
Montforte, take thee Celsiana Blake to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from
this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness
and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part, according to
God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth."

He noted the way Lord Andrew's
gaze held hers, and the silent look — was it friendship?  resolution?  relief? —
she returned.  And then she, too, spoke the timeless words, her voice clear,
high, and determined.

So, maybe it was a love
match, then.  That pleased him.

"The ring, please."

Heavy silence filled the church
and all eyes were on Lord Andrew as he removed his signet ring and, gently
taking his bride's hand, slid it partway over her finger.  Lady Nerissa,
standing beside the duke, sniffled loudly.  Lord Charles and Lord Gareth were
silent and still.  His Grace the Duke of Blackheath had a look on his face that
Williams didn't even try to interpret.

And at the bride's feet, the old
dog began to snore, so loudly that Lord Andrew had to raise his voice to be
heard over it:

"With this ring I thee wed,
with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: in the
name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.  Amen."

The bridegroom slid the ring the
rest of the way down his lady's finger.  And as Williams bade the young couple
to kneel, and began reciting the final words of the ceremony that would bind
them together forever, he saw what could only be triumph — and weary relief —
in the duke's harsh face.

Ah, yes, now he understood.  God
hadn't been the one to "join these two together in holy matrimony" .
. . it had been Blackheath himself.

He pronounced them man and wife
and watched in satisfaction as Lord Andrew kissed his bride, and Lady Nerissa
wiped at her eyes with her handkerchief, and the family — all except the duke,
who remained standing where he was, spurned and alone — swarmed around the
newlyweds to hug and congratulate them.

"Well, now that the
formalities are over, let's eat, drink, and be merry!" said Lord Andrew,
looking relieved that the hard part was over.

And then, reaching down, he
impulsively scooped up the big, sleepy old dog in his arms and carried him from
the church, his wife gazing up at him in sudden adoration, the rest of the
family following in their wake.

Four drinks, thought
Williams, shaking his head and shutting the Book of Common Prayer as he
waited for Lord Charles and the bride's angry brother to come up and sign the
register.  Four drinks.  And I've earned every one.

~~~~

The woman had slipped into the
church toward the end of the ceremony and silently taken the seat beside Earl
Somerfield.

She wore the latest fashions from
Paris.  Her dragon-green gown was made of the most expensive silk that China
could produce.  A fabulous choker of emeralds encircled the long, slim column
of her neck, emphasizing its graceful white beauty, the flawless allure of the
shoulders and bosom into which it flowed.  The emeralds were a gift from the
king of France in gratitude for services its wearer had performed for his
country, though she was no courtesan, no royal mistress, but something far more
dangerous and cunning indeed.  Beneath fashionably powdered hair topped by a
saucy-angled hat that threw the upper half of her face into shadow, slanting
green eyes — as watchful, as predatory, as a cat's — studied the inventor of
the aphrodisiac as he pledged himself to Lady Celsiana Blake.

"Took you long enough to get
here, cousin," muttered Somerfield from out of the corner of his
mouth, reminding her, much to her enduring disgust, of the distant connection
she shared with this odious cretin.  "The newlyweds are off to Rosebriar Park
this evening, taking the contents of his laboratory — and most likely, the
aphrodisiac — with them.  If you'd arrived any later, we wouldn't have had a
prayer of getting our hands on it!"

The newcomer never took her
smiling, watchful gaze off the scene being played out near the altar.
"You really shouldn't underestimate my abilities, Gerald."

Somerfield merely shot her an
irate look, irritated all the more by her soft American accent, which had long
since picked up the cadences of the English, not to mention French, upper
classes amongst which she dwelled.

She smiled her dazzling,
malevolent little smile.  "You may or may not be aware of it, Gerald, but
we have France within a hair'sbreadth of helping us win this tedious war with Britain."
Her voice was a low, husky purr that was right in keeping with her wicked green
eyes and silky feline smile.  She flipped open her fan and, from above it,
proceeded to study each of the people surrounding the altar.  "I was most
necessarily detained."

"Let me guess.  You're up to
your eyeballs in political intrigue, acting as Marie Antoinette's unofficial
advisor and dining with that wizened old Franklin fellow.  You won't rest until
you get France involved in this stupid war, will you?"

"No."  She smiled.
"I won't.  I can't.  It's the only way to win it."

Somerfield, pulling at his stock,
leaned closer and, through the side of his mouth, bit out, "I want
that potion, Eva!"

She rolled her eyes with
long-suffering patience.  "Now Gerald, we both know that you shall have
your potion — or at least, enough of it to procure yourself a worthy heiress.
The rest of it, of course, I will retain as payment for the trouble I shall put
myself through in obtaining it."

"What do you need it
for?  You've been married, widowed, and have condemned all men to hell as it
is."

"So I have.  But in the
deadly games of politics, intrigue, and war, a woman would be a fool not to
make use of any available persuasion that might come to hand.  The
potion is not for me, of course.  I've had my fill of men and their base lusts,
cruelties, and weaknesses.  Oh, no.  I want that potion for America.  You see,
I am on a very special mission from the queen, and the fate of nations depends
on my getting that potion and delivering it into her hands."

"The fate of America, you
mean."

She smiled.  "But of
course."

"And how are you going to
obtain it?"

Her mouth, hard one moment,
fatally beautiful the next, curved in an amused smile.  She rapped him lightly
with her fan.  "Really, Gerald.  If you think I'm about to tell you,
you're as stupid as the rest of your gender."

Gerald pursed his lips and went
back to sulking.  His pride smarted.  So he was stupid now, was he?  It was no
consolation to know that Eva disliked and distrusted men in general.  And it
annoyed him that she wouldn't take him into her confidence.  Why, he'd
been the one to write to her about the aphrodisiac!  It was his
discovery, not hers!

And yet he was just going to have
to swallow his pride and let her do what she'd come here to do.  She could pick
a lock in less time than it might take to open it using a proper key.  She
could charm the celibacy out of a priest.  She had more charisma than the most
decorated general, more courage than the fiercest lion — and more wiles than
the cleverest fox.  As the beautiful young widow of an elderly French diplomat,
she consorted with princes, dined with kings and queens, and had connections in
the very highest of places.

Gerald could never hope to steal
the aphrodisiac on his own.

But Eva . . .

Wicked, wily, wonderful Eva . .
.   A small vial of potent liquid and a crazy young inventor would be child's
play to her.

Eva, of course, didn't give two
figs about Gerald and his silly heroine worship.  The ceremony was ending, the
family now gathering around the newlyweds to embrace and congratulate them.  As
Celsie turned around, Eva got her first good look at her face and was struck by
how much her stepcousin — once a gangly, pimply-faced young girl who had cried
her way through her first Season, now a stunning young woman who would surely
be the toast of one — had grown.  And she looked happy, bless her, beaming as
her handsome husband bent down to gather up a large, doddering old dog in his
arms.  That pleased Eva somehow.  If any woman could find happiness with a man,
Eva didn't begrudge them, though experience had taught her not to try and do
the same.  She watched as Celsie's young lord turned and, the dog in his arms,
led the procession back up the aisle, frowning as he spotted Gerald — and his
uninvited companion — in the shadows.

Eva quelled any softness she'd
been feeling and countered with her silky smile.  Time to get back to the
business at hand.  Beneath the wide, jaunty brim of her hat, her eyes narrowed
to thoughtful green slits as she sized up each of her would-be adversaries.

The bridegroom was obviously
obsessed with his bride, though he was trying his best to hide it.  He was
likely obsessed even more, Eva suspected, with thoughts of his impending
wedding night.

Her smile remained as she
inclined her head in greeting.  He would be no trouble.

And there, walking just behind
him with an exotic beauty on his arm, the tall, charismatic army major,
fair-haired and resplendent in his regimentals, his white swordbelt glowing in
the dimly lit church, his pale blue eyes coolly competent . . . a possible
problem, but Eva knew a dyed-in-the-wool gentleman when she saw one.  His
morals would be too high, his naiveté too great, to recognize the danger that
she would soon present.

She gave a bored little sigh.
No, he would be no trouble, either.

And there, yet a third brother,
tawny-haired and laughing, his arm wrapped casually around the waist of his
dark-haired wife.  Ah yes, he was a Member of Parliament, wasn't he?  She
thought he looked familiar.  Possibly a problem, if he had a serious bone in
his body, but he looked more concerned with making merry, and ensuring that
everyone else around him did as well, than he did anything else.

Eva yawned.  This was going to be
an easy task, after all.

And finally, his sister on his
arm, the last, the oldest, and without doubt, the most formidable of all the de
Montforte brothers — His Grace the duke of Blackheath himself.  Eva's eyes
narrowed and a satisfied, completely feline smile curled her mouth.  She
recognized a worthy adversary the moment that omniscient black stare met hers.

The duke paused just before them
and regarded the earl with flat dislike.  "Really, Somerfield, if you're
trying to make a point by skulking back here in the shadows, I daresay you'd
have succeeded far better had you simply stayed home."  As Somerfield bristled,
the duke turned his head and regarded Eva down the length of his nose with
arrogant disdain and a certain unmistakable gleam in his eye that she
immediately recognized as something more than just curiosity.

Carnal interest.

And there was nothing subtle
about it, either.

"And you, I suppose, must be
the heiress who is destined to bail our dear Somerfield out of debt?"

"On the contrary, Your
Grace," she purred, offering her small, gloved hand and never letting her
cat-like smile waver as he bowed deeply over it.  "I am Lady Eva de la
Mouriére, a distant cousin of the man you just insulted."

"Charmed," he drawled.

"She's also friends with the
French-based ambassador of the United States of America," the annoying,
all-too-revealing Somerfield crowed.

The duke raised an unimpressed
brow.  "Ah, yes.  Those infernal colonies."

Eva's smile became downright
poisonous.  "Colonies?  I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that it has
taken well over a year for news of the outside world to reach you aristocrats
up here in the country."  She pointedly withdrew her hand.  "I'm
sorry to correct you, sir, but those infernal colonies to
which you refer are no longer the possessions of Britain, but an emerging young
nation in their own right."

The duke stared at her, his smile
going cold, his eyes the hard, dangerous color of black ice.

Eva, still smiling, dropped in a
deep, mocking curtsy.  "Now, if you will excuse me, Your Grace?  I really
must offer my felicitations to the bride and groom."

And then, head high, she took Gerald's
arm and walked past the duke, leaving him staring after her — just like that.

Eva de la Mouriére was well used
to dealing with men.  Jacques had been ill from the day she'd married him, a
political figurehead behind which she was the brains and cunning for which he
took credit.  She had handled the most corrupt power players in the civilized
world.  She'd had kings and emissaries and foreign ambassadors on their knees
to do her bidding.

A wasp alighted on her sleeve,
and she smiled as she casually flicked it away.

Really, now.

She could handle one arrogant
English duke.

Chapter 21

By noon most of the villagers
were as drunk as lords.

By one o'clock Andrew was bored,
restless, and eager to get on the road to Rosebriar Park.

And by two he finally deserted
the celebration, bade farewell to the departing Gareth and Juliet, and asked
Celsie if she might change her clothes and help him finish packing up his
laboratory.

Celsie was all too happy to
agree.  In the secluded west wing, there was peace, quiet, and solitude.
Working together, they wrapped bottles, jars, and vials in cloth and placed
them in wooden boxes.  They packed up Andrew's hopelessly disorganized notes,
and asked three servants who could still walk to bring the crates of books,
texts, and tomes downstairs, where everything was to be piled into a wagon that
would bring the laboratory's contents to Rosebriar in the morning.

Andrew was just taking the
precious vial of aphrodisiac that he'd kept out for testing from its cabinet
when Lucien and Charles walked in.  The duke was back in his country clothes:
leather breeches, boots, and a dark coat of fine broadcloth.  Charles was still
in his scarlet regimentals, and looked as restless as Andrew had felt at the
villagers' celebration.

"Place seems rather
empty," Lucien mused, his voice echoing through the nearly bare room.  He
bent to retrieve a forlorn scrap of paper covered with Andrew's scribblings
from the floor.  "I'll miss you, little brother."

"Yes, well, you can't be
missing me too much, otherwise you wouldn't have moved hell and high water to
get me married and out of here," Andrew snapped, shutting the cabinet.
"I'm sure your triumph would be complete if only I'd admit that I expect
Celsie and me to be perfectly miserable together, but that's not going to
happen.  Your machinations have gone awry, Lucien, because I realize now that I
would have been far more miserable staying here under your roof than
I'll ever be under hers."

Charles winced.  Celsie's hand flew
to her mouth.  But Lucien never moved.  He just stood there holding the scrap
of paper, looking, for once, as if he had nothing to say.

Andrew brushed past him,
indignantly snatching the piece of paper from his hand and stuffing it into his
own pocket.

"Really now, Andrew,"
said Lucien, recovering.  "I never had any wish to make you
miserable."

"Well then, thank God for
that, because you made me perfectly miserable without the wish.  Heaven help me
had you really decided to put your mind to it, eh?"

Celsie, seeing something in the
duke's dark eyes that troubled her, caught her husband's arm before things
could get any worse.  "Andrew, please," she said gently.  "I
think your brother is trying to apologize in the only way he knows how."

"Lucien, apologize?
Ha, that will be the damned day!"

Andrew would have said more, but
at that moment he caught the warning in Charles's cool blue gaze, the barely
perceptible shake of his head, and relented.  He shoved his hair off his brow,
his anger needing a channel and finding none.  He turned away and threw a few
last sketches into a box.

Charles pulled out his watch.
"Well, we really need to go if we all expect to get home at a reasonable
hour.  What do you say there, Andrew?  Celsie?"

"What, are you going with
us?" Andrew asked, frowning.

Charles smiled in mild
amusement.  "I can assure you, Andrew, that Amy and I have no wish to
spoil your wedding night by inviting ourselves to Rosebriar Park.  But it's
getting late, we want to get back to our daughter, and since Rosebriar is on
the way to Lynmouth —" he grinned — "I thought you wouldn't mind a
little military escort."

Andrew put the vial he'd been
holding on the worktable and shoved an empty box out of the way with his foot.
"Well, we're nearly finished in here.  Let me just get the rest of the
aphrodisiac and we'll be ready to leave."

Lucien frowned.  "I think it
best if you leave it here with me."

"Are you bloody joking?  I
need it.  'Sdeath, I'll be the laughingstock of the scientific community if
word gets out about that damned stuff unless I can figure out what the devil I
put into it and duplicate it accordingly.  Oh, no, I'm taking it."

Lucien's eyes went hard.
"No."

Andrew's went equally hard.
"Yes."

Now even Charles, normally
mild-mannered and reasonable, was beginning to look irritated.  Spotting the
vial that Andrew had retained and not realizing it was only part of a much
larger store, he stepped forward, plucked it from the table, and tucked it into
the inside pocket of his scarlet coat.  "There.  I think it is quite safe
where it is.  Now, finish up in here, Andrew.  Fifteen more minutes, and we're
leaving without you."

"'Sdeath, I hate when you
use that officer voice," Andrew complained.

Charles levelled a quelling,
big-brother look on him.  "And I hate when you don't watch your language
in front of the ladies.  Fourteen minutes.  I'll see you downstairs."

Charles bowed to Celsie, turned
smartly on the heel of one impeccably shined boot, and went out.

Lucien looked at Andrew.

Andrew returned that mild look
with a mute glare.

"So, are you going to
surrender the rest of the aphrodisiac or do I have to go get it myself?"
he finally challenged.

Lucien pursed his lips,
considering the matter.  His inscrutable black gaze held Andrew's for a long
moment before he finally sighed dramatically and allowed a little smile to
touch his mouth.  "I suppose I'd better," he mused.  "Otherwise,
you'll only waste more time trying to figure out where I put the key to the
safe, and out of respect for Charles, who has every right to want to get home,
I won't keep him waiting any longer than he's already waited.  I fear he's
growing most impatient."

He bowed to Celsie and then
turned and left the room — leaving Andrew surprised, and a little deflated,
that he'd won the battle without even a fight.

What on earth was wrong with
Lucien?

~~~~

Everyone was waiting.

The house servants all stood
lined up at attention on the stairs, the blushing young maids misty-eyed at
losing yet another handsome de Montforte brother, the bewigged footmen
well-turned out in the duke's livery, the butler and housekeeper quietly
watching as the Defiant One prepared to depart for his new life.  Outside,
Nerissa stood beside a stony-faced Lucien, trying to feign happiness for the
sake of the newlyweds but looking as though she was ready to start weeping at
any moment.  Charles and Amy's coach, a driver on the box and a footman riding
behind, waited on the drivem as did Celsie's carriage, filled to the roof — and
beyond — with Andrew's clothes, possessions, and those contents of his
laboratory which couldn't fit in the wagon which would make the journey to
Rosebriar tomorrow.

Celsie's heart went out to
Nerissa, who looked forlorn as she stood beside Lucien.  She knew that Nerissa
and Andrew were close, and almost felt as though she were taking her brother
away from her.  Impulsively she embraced the other woman, hugging her tightly.
"Please don't be sad," she said.  "I know you'll miss Andrew,
but you must come visit us at Rosebriar as often as you can."  And then,
for Nerissa's ears alone, she whispered, "I promise I'll take as good care
of him as I do my dogs."

Nerissa gave a watery smile.
"I know you will.  Otherwise, I would never let you take him away."

A groom came up, leading Andrew's
gray thoroughbred, Newton, in one hand and Charles's tall, strapping Contender
in the other.  The big stallion had carried Charles into battle near Boston
when he had been a captain in the Fourth Foot, and served him just as proudly
now that he was a major stationed at Horse Guards in London.

Good-byes were said, embraces
exchanged, tears held at bay.  Andrew helped Celsie into the coach, hoisted
Freckles up onto the seat beside her, and whistled for Esmerelda, who bounded
eagerly up after the older dog.  He stood waiting as Charles handed Amy into
the vehicle.  Then the two brothers mounted their horses, Charles touched his hat
to the duke and Nerissa, and a moment later, the procession was heading off
around the big circular drive, the two riders flanking the coach, the setting
sun turning everything to gold.

Hundreds of voices called out all
around them as Celsie and Amy leaned out the windows, waving.

"Good-bye!"

"Godspeed!"

"God be with you . . . good-bye!"

They crossed the moat, passed
hundreds of cheering, waving villagers, and once out onto the Ravenscombe road,
let the horses have their heads.

Celsie, with Freckles leaning
heavily against her and a lovelorn Esmerelda on the floor trying to attract his
attention, settled herself into her seat and thrust her toes against the warm
brick, wrapped in a blanket, at her feet.  Her mind was still whirling over all
the events of the last fortnight, let alone the last few hours.  I am a
married woman, she thought, in some disbelief.  But she didn't feel any
different than she had before.

On the opposite seat, Amy was
leaning her head back and sighing with relief that they were finally on their
way.  Fearful of the effects of travel on their infant daughter, she and
Charles had left little Mary behind in the care of a wet nurse.  Celsie knew
that both were eager to get back to her.  Now, Amy opened her dark eyes and
looked across at Celsie, her brow creased thoughtfully.  "Do you know, I
don't think I've ever seen Lucien looking quite so . . ."

"Lost?" Celsie
supplied.

"Yes, lost.  Preoccupied.  I
can't put my finger on it.  He was that way all afternoon."

"Maybe he has regrets about
playing Andrew and me like puppets."

"Oh, I doubt that," Amy
said, with a faint smile.  "Funny, but when I first met him, I didn't
think him capable of the scheming manipulations that everyone blamed on him.
And once I found that he schemed and manipulated Charles and me into getting
married, well, I really couldn't be angry with him.  He gave me a new life, a
new identity, respectability in society — and his brother.  But tonight . . .
he just didn't look himself.  I wonder if he's feeling a little bereft at
having nobody left to manipulate."

"If he is, it's his own
bloody fault."  Celsie moved over to give Freckles more room.  "So he
manipulated you and Charles as well, then?"

"Oh, yes."  Amy
grinned.  "And Gareth and Juliet, too."

"Well, I don't feel so
singled out, then," Celsie allowed, returning Amy's smile.  "Did you
and Charles have a love match?"

"Yes, but our love was
already strong when Lucien pushed us into marriage.  Gareth and Juliet, however
. . . well, they had their own share of problems.  But Lucien knew what he was
doing when he brought them together.  Eventually, they came to love each other"
— she reached out and touched Celsie's hand — "just as you and Andrew
will."

A lump caught in Celsie's throat
and she looked away, out the window.  "You think so, do you?"

"Oh, Celsie," said Amy,
laughing and leaning forward.  "Did you see the way Andrew kept looking at
you during the ceremony?  And the way he was beaming when he first introduced
you to his brothers?  Trust me, you did the right thing.  I know it in my
heart.  And let me tell you, there is nothing in this world to equal being
loved by a de Montforte.  Andrew will make you a fine husband.  His love will
be worth waiting for."

"But his moods are so
unpredictable, and he gets surly and standoffish whenever I think he's starting
to warm up to me.  I just don't understand him."

Amy eyed her gravely.  "You
mean he hasn't told you?"

"Told me what?"

Amy pursed her lips, as though
she'd said too much.  "He has — well, let's just say there are some things
in his life that he has a hard time adjusting to."  She smiled,
apologetically.  "But with your help, I'm sure he will."

It was obvious that Amy was
reluctant to carry the conversation in that direction.  Though her curiosity
was aroused, Celsie brought the topic back to the duke's manipulations out of
respect for her sister-in-law.  "So what about Nerissa?" she asked.
"Why is it that Lucien has tampered with his brothers' fates, but has left
his only sister alone?"

"Oh, she's already as good
as affianced to Perry, Lord Brookhampton.  He's the duke's neighbor, and as
handsome and dashing as the day is long."

Celsie grinned.  "As
handsome and dashing as the de Montforte brothers?"

"Well now, I think our two
are awfully hard to beat!"

They laughed, and Celsie moved
further over to make more room for Freckles.  The dog groaned, stretched, and
tried to claim even more space as he laid his noble old head across her lap,
his eyes closing.  He didn't mind that his mistress was now crushed against the
leather squab.  And he was totally oblivious to Esmerelda.  The setter eyed him
longingly, then, casting a hopeless glance at Celsie, lay down on the floor of
the coach, put her head dejectedly on her paws, and stared unblinkingly at the
door, her thoughts, like Celsie's, her own.

I know how it feels, girl.
It's hard to find yourself thinking you could fall in love with someone, only
to have him withdraw into himself whenever you want to get close to him.

Dear God.  Did she want to
get close to Andrew?  Did she want to have the sort of relationship with him
that Amy and Juliet had with their de Montforte men?

Yes.

She leaned her cheek against the
squab.  Oh, yes . . .

Opposite, Amy reached for her
sewing, though the light was starting to fade and her time on such a pursuit
would be limited.  The two fell into easy conversation, talking about the
things they admired about their husbands, the similarities of their respective
childhoods, the baby that Amy had and the babies that Celsie hoped Andrew would
give her.

Presently the shadows became
oppressive gloom.  Amy put her sewing aside.  At a coaching inn near
Maidenhead, they stopped to change horses and take a quick meal and decided to
press on toward Rosebriar.

The lights of the coach were lit,
and before long, the sway and rock of its movement made them both drowsy.
Celsie looked out the window at the stars riding high over the dark rolling
hills.  She felt content.  At peace.  The ever-present threat of highwaymen
didn't worry her; not with the dogs here with them, and Andrew and Charles,
both of whom were well armed, flanking their coach.  Andrew was a peerless
swordsman.  And no road robber in his right mind would dare harass a stern,
competent army major with a sword and two pistols at the ready.

She had just closed her eyes when
a sudden stop jolted her awake.  Freckles raised his head from her lap, lifting
his floppy ears.  Esmerelda woofed and got to her feet, tail stiff.  Celsie sat
up, exchanged glances with Amy, and tried to see outside, where they could hear
Andrew talking with Charles.  A moment later, Charles rode Contender up to the
window.

"Forgive us for stopping,"
he said with an easy smile, his cool blue eyes warming as they briefly rested
on Amy.  In the darkness, he looked handsome and reassuring in his uniform.
"There's a coach just ahead that's gone off the road.  We think they might
have broken an axle.  If you don't mind, Andrew will stay here with you while I
ride ahead to offer our help in speeding the poor folks on their way."

"I don't mind," said
Celsie, shrugging.

"Neither do I," added
Amy.  "I feel sorry for anyone left stranded out on these lonely
roads."  She leaned out the window and kissed her husband.  "Go,
Charles.  And if their coach is broken down, I'm sure we can make room in ours
so they can at least get to the next coaching inn."

He touched his hat to them and
rode off.

"That's my Beloved
One," Amy said, smiling as she settled back down in her seat.
"Always thinking of others before himself."

As indeed Charles was.  He waited
while Andrew moved Newton up to the window and then, one hand on his pistol in
case of a cleverly laid trap, urged Contender toward the stricken coach.  It
had been drawn just off the road so as not to impede other travelers, its team
unhitched and tied to a tree.  Charles frowned, for beside it sat a burly young
man with his head in his hands, obviously drunk, obviously unable to deal with
such a demanding situation, while nearby, a young peasant woman in tired brown
rags struggled to single-handedly push the heavy vehicle against a tree,
presumably in hopes of getting the wheel off.

There was no way in God's heaven
that she was ever going to succeed.

Charles released his hold on the
pistol.  His mouth grim with sympathy, he urged Contender, who had begun to
fret, toward the coach.  Immediately the stallion shied sideways, head flung
high as he faced the stricken vehicle and blowing hard through his nostrils.

"Easy, boy," Charles
murmured, patting the sleek neck and coolly assessing the situation.  He was
nothing if not confident, and he was well used to dealing with demanding
situations.  This, however, did not look like a demanding situation at all.

"Good evening," he said
pleasantly, removing his tricorne in respect to the poor young woman who had
given up trying to lift the coach and was now on her hands and knees beneath
it, peering up at the axle, a lantern glowing on the ground beside her.
"We couldn't help but notice your rather unfortunate predicament.  Perhaps
I can be of some assistance?"

At the sound of Charles's calm,
reassuring voice, she crawled out from beneath the coach, fat tears of relief
rolling down her dusty cheeks when she saw his uniform.

"Oh, sir, any assistance ye
could be givin' us would be much appreciated!  Me 'usband's as soused as a fox
and these roads are crawlin' with highwaymen and Oi'm scared to death we won't
get 'ome without gettin' murdered!  It's the axle, I think — or maybe the
wheel.  Oi just don't know . . ."

"Well then, let me see what
I can do here," Charles soothed, instinctively taking control of the
situation.  But as he slipped his boots from the irons and prepared to
dismount, Contender snorted and shied hard once more, nearly unseating him.
Growing impatient with the normally unflappable horse, Charles vaulted from the
saddle and approached the vehicle.

"You don't know how glad I
am to see ye," the peasant woman said, getting to her feet.  She wiped her
eyes with the back of a grimy hand and brushed the dust from her ragged
skirts.  "I think the problem's with the other wheel, or up underneath.
There don't seem to be anythink wrong on this side, least, not to me unknowin'
eye."  She picked up the lantern, its light catching her full in the face
and revealing vivid red hair and slanting green eyes, before she turned and led
him around to the other side of the coach.

"Here.  Allow me."
Charles took the lantern and calmly surveyed the coach.  It wasn't a large vehicle;
between him, Andrew, and the servants, they should be able to lift it in order
to make whatever repairs the situation demanded.  He knelt, peering up
underneath it and inspecting the undercarriage with a critical eye.  "So
what seems to be the problem?"

"Oh, it's probably this
silly wheel . . . we just 'ad it replaced, and now there's this awful rumblin'
noise comin' from up underneath and I'm a'scared to droive it any farther for
fear it's going to come loose and make us 'ave an accident!"

"I see," said Charles,
going down on one knee beside the wheel and taking off his gloves.  "Well,
if you could just hold the lantern so I could have some light, I'll see what I
can do."  He smiled reassuringly.  "Probably just needs a little
tightening, and then the two of you can be on your way."

Her eyes gleaming, Eva de la
Mouriére picked up the lantern and watched as he began to examine the perfectly
fine wheel and axle.  Ah, yes, she thought in satisfaction, as she gazed
haughtily down at his pale, wavy hair, so neatly caught in its tidy black
queue.  Every man had a weakness, and she had correctly discerned this one's.
The gallant Lord Charles de Montforte was too much of a gentleman to pass a
hapless traveler without stopping to offer his help.  He was too unimaginative
in his thinking to ever even consider that danger might come in the form of an
apparently helpless young woman.

And he was going to have one hell
of a headache when he woke up.

She waited until he was down on
both knees, one hand supporting himself on the grass verge, the other reaching
up beneath the coach to examine the axle.  And then, exchanging a glance with
the all-too-sober servant who was posing as her drunken husband, she made a
rigid blade of her hand, raised it high, and brought it down hard on the back
of the major's neck in one ruthless, vicious chop.

She knew right where to hit a man
to render him unconscious, and she revelled in her power to do it.

He crumpled without a sound.

"Right," she said,
straightening up and brushing her hands together in tribute to a job well
done.  She pulled a pistol from the pocket of her skirt, priming and loading it
with ease.  "Now that one obstacle is out of the way, I think it's time to
collect what we've all been sitting around waiting for."  She stepped over
the officer sprawled senseless at her feet, sparing him an amused little grin.
"Nighty-night, Major de Montforte.  Sleep well!"

And then, still smiling, she, the
servant, and the three other lackeys who'd been hidden within the
"stricken" vehicle headed for the lights of the coach.

Chapter 22

Andrew's spine prickled with
uneasiness.

He sat astride his horse, bathed
in the lights of the coach and making small talk with the women.  He was half watching
Charles, who had dismounted from Contender and was now going around to the
other side of the stricken vehicle to help the unfortunate travelers.  Celsie
was saying something; Andrew turned his head to listen.  And when he turned it
back again to look toward the coach, he heard the driver up on the box suck in
his breath and saw a woman and four men walking toward him from out of the
darkness.

The woman had a pistol and she
was pointing it straight at his heart.

"Hello, Andrew.  I am
sorry to inconvenience you, but if you would just hand over the aphrodisiac, we
can all be on our way."

Inside the coach, both women
gasped.  On the boot, the footman reached for his blunderbuss but froze as
Andrew caught his eye and shook his head in warning.  And now Freckles was
beginning to growl, the sound deep and ugly and getting louder by the moment.

Slowly Andrew's hand went for his
pistol.

"Uh-uh," the woman
purred, smiling and shaking her head as though scolding a child.  "You
don't want to do that.  Someone might get hurt, and we wouldn't want it to be
you.  Or the ladies."

"Where's my brother?"
Andrew demanded.  He looked beyond the would-be thieves, his eyes narrowing.
"What have you done to him?"

"Oh, well, it's past his
bedtime, you know.  I daresay he's taking a little nap."  The woman's
smile never wavered at Amy's cry of alarm, but her slanting eyes narrowed with
deadly intent.  "Now, hand over the potion, Andrew sweetie, or I'll put
you into a much more permanent kind of sleep than I did your
too-gallant-for-his-own-good brother."

Andrew tensed, his body screaming
for action.  It cost him everything he had to hold himself still as the four
lackeys, also toting pistols, surrounded the coach, preventing escape.

His angry gaze clashed with the
woman's.  "And just who the devil are you?"

"Why, your killer, of course"
— again, that malevolent smile — "unless you hand over the potion."
She aimed the pistol dead center on his chest.

"Andrew, no heroics,"
snapped Celsie from within the coach.  "If she wants the potion, let's
just give it to her and send her on her way.  It isn't worth anyone getting
killed."

"Ah, leave it to a woman to
show some sense," purred their attacker, in a faintly amused tone.
"Now, obey your wife, Lord Andrew — or make her a widow.  You have five
more seconds to decide, or I will decide for you."

Celsie, one hand on Amy's arm to
keep her from flying out of the coach to Charles's aid, the other restraining
the growling Freckles, decided for both of them.  She leaned out the window and
met the hostile, slanting gaze.  "Why, Eva.  I thought it was you.  For
some reason, I should have known you didn't come all the way back to England
just to congratulate us on our nuptials."

Andrew started.  "Eva?
You know this jezebel?"

"She's my cousin.  Of course
I know her.  And so do you."

His gaze went from one to the
other; suddenly he recognized their assailant, though she had disguised herself
in peasant clothes and looked nothing like she had earlier at the church.
"Why, you were with Somerfield at our wedding!"

"And trust me, she is more
than capable of murder," said Celsie, in a hard, flat voice.  She leaned
out the window, fearlessly meeting the other woman's amused gaze.  "Eva,
since my husband here is showing a remarkable inability to make up his mind, I
will take charge of this situation and bring the potion out to you
myself."

"Celsie, stay in that
coach!" Andrew roared, his voice harsh with fear.

But Celsie bade a near-frantic
Amy to take hold of Freckles's collar, stepped around the whining Esmerelda,
calmly pulled the bottle of aphrodisiac out from beneath the seat, and opening
the door, jumped down from the coach.  Head high, she walked around the vehicle
and up to the other woman, fully aware that the thugs had their guns trained on
her as surely as Eva had hers trained on Andrew.

"I wish you hadn't done
this," Celsie said, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice.
"I used to admire you.  I used to look up to you.  Why, Eva?"

"My country needs it,"
she said simply, looking away.

Celsie sighed.  Then she set the
bottle down in the dirt and stepped back.  Eva, keeping her pistol on Andrew
the whole time, sent one of her lackeys to fetch it, then motioned to someone
behind her.  From the direction of the stricken coach, another thug came
forward, leading several saddled horses.  Eva kept her pistol trained on Andrew
as, one by one, the thieves mounted.  Then, as they covered for her, she, too,
mounted, tucked her prize in her saddlebags, and with a mocking little salute,
wheeled her horse and set her heels to its sides.

Within moments they were gone,
swallowed up by the night.

~~~~

They found Charles just getting
to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck and swaying unsteadily.

"Damned witch blindsided
me," he muttered, clinging to the door of the coach to support himself.
He let go as Amy flew to him and insinuated herself under one arm to support
him.  "Never saw it coming . . ."

"She wanted the
potion," snapped Andrew, quickly filling his brother in on their
attacker's identity.

"Well, I hope to hell you
gave it to her . . .  Confounded stuff is proving to be more trouble than it's
worth.  Stick to flying machines from now on, would you?"  He caught Amy's
hands as they worriedly explored his face for signs of damage and, embarrassed,
folded her to his chest.  "Stop, sweetheart.  I'm all right."

Though his words were gentle,
Andrew saw that Charles's jaw was set, his pale blue eyes cold and quietly
furious.  Andrew couldn't even imagine how humiliated he must feel.
"Well, there's no sense standing around here all night," he said
affably, trying to take the focus of his embarrassed brother.  "You still
have that vial Charles?"

"Yes."  Still a bit
dazed, he fumbled inside his coat, extracted what was left of the aphrodisiac,
and slapped it rather irritably into Andrew's palm.  "Take it, and with my
blessings."

Andrew tucked it into his own
pocket.  "Much obliged.  Now, let's get going.  I don't know about you,
but I've had all the excitement I can take for one night.  You're able to ride,
aren't you?"

His brother merely shot him an
annoyed glance.

"I thought so," said
Andrew, slapping him good-naturedly across the shoulders.  He snared
Contender's reins, holding him and ready to subtly lend a hand in case his
brother couldn't quite haul himself up into the saddle; but Charles was made of
strong stuff, and he was soon astride the tall stallion, grim-faced, a little
pale, and very, very angry.

Though she eyed him with concern,
Amy knew better than to try and persuade her husband to ride in the coach.  The
major's pride had been sorely wounded; he would ride his stallion, and none of
them would try to talk him out of it.

"All right, let's go,"
Charles growled, guiding the big horse, who was almost tiptoeing in his
eagerness not to unseat his wobbly master, back toward their own coach.  Try as
he might, though, he couldn't get any speed or fire out of the big steed.  "'Sdeath,
not you too.  I've got a wife to coddle me, I don't need a damned horse doing
it as well!"

Andrew and Celsie exchanged
amused, relieved glances; then, satisfied that Charles was going to be just fine,
they followed him, Contender, and Amy back toward the coach.

~~~~

They rested for several hours at
a roadside inn, changed horses, continued on, and just before dawn of the
following morning, finally pulled up at the tall iron gates of Rosebriar Park.
Though Celsie urged her new in-laws to visit for a day or so, they were both
eager to press on for their home some ten miles outside of London.  Celsie and
Andrew bade them good-bye, and stood at the gates watching until the coach,
still accompanied by Charles on horseback, faded into the darkness.

"I do wish they'd
stayed," Celsie said ruefully, reaching down to gently pull at Freckles's
floppy ears.  "It's been a long journey, and he really ought to be
resting, not riding."

Andrew made a scoffing noise and
dismounted from Newton.  "Of course he should be riding.  He's a toughened
soldier, not a baby.  Besides, Contender will take care of him for the rest of
the way home, and Amy will take care of him once he's there.  He'll be
fine."

"You think so?"

"Yes, but I don't know about
that Eva or Evil or whatever the devil her name was.  Once Lucien finds out
about the robbery, there'll be hell to pay, and he, unlike Charles, won't grant
her the benefit of the doubt — or any advantages — just because she's a
woman."

"Knowing Eva, she wouldn't
want him to.  Ah, but still . . . can't you just imagine?  The duke of
Blackheath versus Eva de la Mouriére.  Now there's a confrontation I'd
love to witness . . .  from behind suitable protection, of course!"

"She wouldn't have a chance
against him, much as I wish it otherwise."

"Oh, I don't know . . . I
think I'd put my money on Eva."

Andrew only smiled, for he knew
his brother all too well.  He handed Newton's reins to the footman and sent the
two servants, along with the coach in which were piled his belongings, on
toward the house, leaving him and Celsie alone at the end of the drive.  Then
he turned and offered his elbow to his new bride, wanting to make this last part
of the journey only with her.  Adjusting his pace so the old dog could follow,
he began to walk.

The first blush of dawn was
already beginning to plant roses in the gloomy eastern sky.  As they moved
slowly up the drive, Esmerelda bounding ahead to explore her new home, Andrew
felt a strange sense of peace and homecoming that was as surprising as it was
welcome.  Here he was, beginning a new life as a married man.  Here he was,
with a woman he actually enjoyed spending time with, a woman whose silken skin
and warm flesh he couldn't wait to possess all over again.  Here he was —
chained in matrimony but free of his Machiavellian brother forever.

Perhaps fate had dealt him a
winning hand, after all.

A chilly breeze came up, stirring
the fading leaves of the tall, graceful chestnuts that lined the drive.  He
lifted his face to it, watching the sky lightening to the east, the bellies of
the high clouds that slept on the horizon shimmering with brushstrokes of
brilliant crimson fire.

Celsie paused with him, and
Andrew, after a moment's hesitation, slid his arm around her waist, drawing her
close.  Together they watched the birth of the new day, their first as husband
and wife.  He was happy.  He was at peace.  And his bride didn't stiffen or try
to move away, but actually stayed there, as content to be near him as he was to
be near her.  Maybe, just maybe, this friendship thing was going to work after
all . . .

Though Andrew knew as well as
anyone that friends didn't keep secrets from each other.

"So much for wedding
nights," he said wryly.

"Well, you can't say we
didn't have an unusual one.  Instead of being robbed of our innocence, we were
robbed of the very thing that caused us to lose it."

"My God, don't remind me of
that.  I think my heart stopped when you got out of the coach and walked up to
that she-devil."  He shuddered.  "I don't know many people who would
have had the courage to do what you did, let alone the wisdom to take charge
and relinquish the potion to that bloodthirsty witch."

"I had to," she said,
obviously pleased but a bit embarrassed by his open compliment.  "Besides,
I could tell just by looking at you that you were about to do something
reckless, brave — and foolish.  I couldn't just allow you to throw your life
away like that."

"By stepping in, you
probably saved it.  You know that, don't you?"

"Well, someone had to step
in."  She grinned.  "After all, you men certainly weren't
handling things very well!"  She sobered then, her eyes going warm and
soft as she gazed up at him.  "Did it really scare you, Andrew?  That is,
my confronting Eva?"

"Zounds, yes!"  He
cleared his throat and then, in a lower, more controlled tone, "Yes."

"Why, you almost sound as
though you care about me."

"Whatever made you think I
do not?"

"You don't want me taking up
your time, you don't want me in your life, you don't want me at all —"

"Stop right there.  I do
want you.  And if I could predict the reaction I'd get, I'd take your hand
right now and show you the physical evidence to prove it."

"You mean you don't need the
aphrodisiac?"

"Men don't need
aphrodisiacs."

She laughed, though he noticed
her cheeks went suddenly bright with color.

Besides," he added,
"I'm glad to see the last of that stuff."

"You're not going to try and
get it back?"

"Get it back?"  He
shook his head.  "No.  I've decided I don't want it back.  Its
discovery was an accident, it was of little benefit to science, and the fact
that I haven't able to duplicate it, let alone remember what went into it,
would only have made me the subject of ridicule from the scientific community.
Oh no, Celsie, I see things clearly now.  It was the cause of nothing but
trouble from the very first, and I'm well rid of the stuff."

"Or most of it, anyhow.
There is still that vial in your pocket . . ."

"Ah yes, I'd forgotten about
that."

"I haven't."

He glanced down at her, one brow
raised.  She blushed and looked away, though she moved her body so that his
hand, which had been around her waist, slipped to the small of her back.  She
laid her head against his shoulder.  Gently Andrew stroked the base of her
spine through the sleek satin gown, then let his hand move out over the curve
of her bottom.

She didn't move.

Only closer.

He turned her so that she was
facing him, and gently holding her arms, looked down into her tired but smiling
eyes.  "Tell me, Celsie.  Do you want your wedding present before or after
what remains of our wedding night?"

"Ummm . . . that all depends
on what the remains of our wedding night have to offer," she murmured,
with a coy little blush.

"What would you like it to
offer?"

"You —" the blush
deepened and she looked up, searching his gaze — "but only if you're not
too tired and eager to get to bed."

"I am tired and eager
to get to bed, but I can assure you, madam, that once there, sleep will be the
furthest thing from my mind."

"Is it the furthest thing
from your mind, now?"

He smiled slowly.
"Indeed."

She gave a breathless,
self-conscious little laugh.  "Listen to me!  There must have been
permanent aftereffects from that potion after all.  I'm behaving like some sort
of wanton."

"Are you?"  He
grinned.  "Do explain."

She opened her mouth, shrugged,
and began digging at a stone with her toe, her cheeks as bright as the
sunrise.  "I want to go to bed with you — as your wife.  I want to
consummate our marriage.  I want to know you as a woman knows her man, not as a
friend, not as an acquaintance, and certainly not as a partner in
resentment."  She quit worrying the pebble and instead started stroking
Freckles's head, at a level with her knee.  "I want all that, Andrew, but
I'm embarrassed for wanting it, I'm not quite sure why I want it, and
when all is said and done, well . . . well, I guess I'm just a little
jittery."

He reached down, and ever so gently,
lifted her chin with his finger so that she was forced to meet his gaze.  He
smiled, cradled her face in both hands, and tenderly stroked her flaming cheeks
with his thumbs.  "I know you're nervous.  We don't have to consummate it
tonight, Celsie.  Or even tomorrow night.  We have the rest of our lives to get
to know each other."

As hard as it had been to say the
words, as difficult as Andrew found the idea of waiting another hour — let
alone another day — to get inside her body, he had expected her to be pleased
that he was being so considerate.  Instead, her brows came together and her
eyes darkened with worry and hurt.  "Are you saying you'd be content to
wait a lifetime to consummate our marriage?"

"Hell, no."

"Good," she said,
visibly relieved, "because I don't want to wait that long, either.  In
fact, I don't even want to wait until tomorrow night."  She stood on
tiptoe, put her lips to his ear, and whispered, "I want to do it now."

Her suggestion bypassed Andrew's
brain and went straight to his genitals.  He laughed, not quite believing what
he'd just heard.  "You do?"

"Yes."  She went back
down on her heels, her eyes glowing with coy shyness as she looked up at him
through thick, tawny lashes and embraced his waist with her hands.  She held
his gaze.  Let her hands slide downward.  And now he felt her palming him
through his breeches, testing his hardening bulge.  "Now."

Andrew sucked in his breath.
Already he was a slab of stone down there, pushing against the protesting
fabric of his breeches.  God help him.  She wanted him.  She wanted him now,
and this had nothing to do with the damned aphrodisiac!

"Andrew?"

He couldn't take any more.  His
hands cupping her buttocks, he pulled her so close that even through the
voluminous fabric of her petticoats, he could feel her pelvis pressing against
his erection.  The sensation inflamed him all the more, tightening his groin,
causing his heart to pump madly.  He kissed her.  She made a sighing noise in
her throat and returned the kiss, her tongue eagerly seeking his own, her hand
now roving up his neck, her fingers tunnelling through his hair.  Still holding
her bottom, he pushed his fingers against the heavy satin of her skirts,
trying, failing, to find the junction of her thighs.  Damn these hoops.
Damn these petticoats.  Finally he lifted her petticoats, slid his hand
between her legs, and quickly manipulated her to a gasping climax.

"Oh, God," she
murmured, burying her face against his chest and panting as she clung to him.
"I . . . I think we'd better go inside."

"Now."

"Oh, yes.  Now."

She gave a shaky little laugh.
He lifted her head with one finger and kissed her.  Light glowed behind his
eyelids, and opening his eyes, he found that around them, everything seemed to
be holding its breath as the landscape turned to molten gold.  Wanting to
treasure this moment of rare joy before he brought her inside and spent the
morning making love to her, he drew back, turning her so both could watch the
sun as it finally rose from its bed.  And here it came, a brilliant ball of
fire, higher, and higher . . .

Andrew bent his head to kiss her
once more — and from just behind came the slow, rising sound of thunder.

"How odd," he murmured,
his lips brushing her sunlit nose, and then her mouth, his breath warm against
her cheek.

"What?"

"The fact that it's starting
to thunder when the only clouds in the sky are high and distant and
peaceful."

"I don't hear any
thunder," she said on a sigh, her arms going around his neck, her breath
mingling with his as she raised her lips for his kiss.  "Though I
certainly feel some!"

"What do you mean, you don't
hear it?" Andrew asked, frowning and pulling back as the noise grew
alarmingly loud now, rising in crescendo and volume without break and sounding
quite unlike any thunder that he'd ever heard.  The hairs on the back of
his neck rising, he turned his head to look over his shoulder — and saw a huge
silver monster sailing straight over the treetops toward them.

He gave a hoarse cry of terror
and instinctively threw Celsie to the ground as it passed overhead, covering
her with his body until the deafening roar peaked and rolled and finally grew
distant.

When he lifted his head, his skin
was pale, his face damp with sweat, his body shaking.

And Celsie was staring at him
with wide, shocked eyes.

"Andrew?" she
whispered, in a tiny, nervous voice.  "Are you . . . all right?"

Chapter 23

"No," he said with
sudden sharpness as he got to his feet.  "No, I'm not all
right."

And with that, he spun on his
heel and stalked off down the drive toward the house, leaving Celsie standing
there with Freckles and staring after him in confusion, dismay, and hurt.

"Andrew!"

He kept walking.  He paused some
fifty feet away and turned to look at her, fists clenched at his sides, his
very stance stiff and defensive.  His face was terrible.  "Leave me be,
Celsiana.  Leave me be while I try to figure out a way to tell you just what
sort of monstrous freak you've married."

She took a step toward him; he
extended an arm, palm thrust out, as though warding off one who might catch the
plague. Then, and only then, did he turn and continue on toward the house.

Celsie could only stand there in
confusion and disbelief.  Everything inside her bade her to run after him and
demand an answer.  What was wrong?  Why did he keep doing this, to her,
to their blossoming friendship and now, to their marriage?  This wasn't the
first time he'd acted strangely, was it?  Her mind raced back over the past several
weeks.  There was that time at de Montforte House in London.  There was his
behavior during the sword fight with Gerald.  And there was the evening of her
charity ball, when he'd looked up at the ceiling, his eyes strangely distant,
and then fled —

Just as he was doing now.

What was he afraid of?

What was wrong with him?

And why didn't he trust her with
whatever secret he was hiding?

Celsie had no idea.  But she knew
one thing:  She was going to find out.  Calling for Esmerelda and Freckles, she
headed resolutely for the house.

~~~~

She opened the door and walked
into chaos.

The servants were as nervous as a
flock of hens with a fox in their midst.  Tension charged the air, and angry
voices came from another part of the house.  The housekeeper, a pretty young
redhead named Miss Upchurch, hurried up to Celsie, her voice low.
"They're in the library, my lady," she murmured, seeing Celsie's
darkening mood.

Celsie's mood had every reason to
be dark.  Between the robbery, Andrew shutting her out, and now what sounded
like the devil of an argument between Andrew and Gerald — what was he still
doing here?! — she had had enough.

She stormed into the library just
in time to see Andrew backing her step-brother up against the wall, one hand
wrapped around his throat, his other on the hilt of his sword.  Gerald's eyes
were bulging, his hands waving wildly.

"Don't you ever
threaten me again," Andrew seethed in a deadly-soft voice.  "And
don't you dare pretend ignorance where the robbery was concerned either, you
bastard.  You knew about the aphrodisiac, and I'd bet my last coin that you
invited that bitch here to steal it, didn't you?"  Gerald made a
whimpering noise in his throat.  "I'll tell you right now, Somerfield,
that if you ever harm any member of my family, ever again, directly or
indirectly, I'll kill you.  Do I make myself clear?"

Gerald was sweating, eyes wild,
his palms sliding up the wall in an effort to get away.

"Do I make myself
clear?"

Celsie cleared her throat.
"What is going on in here?"

Andrew turned his head.  His face
was as cold and terrible as she'd ever seen Lucien's, and for a moment Celsie
almost didn't recognize him.  With a curse, he released Gerald, shoving him
slightly to the side as he did.  Her stepbrother stumbled and went sprawling,
cutting his lip on his teeth as he fell.

Celsie made no move to go to
either of them.

Gerald got to his feet, rubbing
his throat and glaring at Andrew.  He took out his handkerchief and dabbed at
his bloodied lip, then turned wounded eyes on Celsie.  "You've married a
madman," he said sullenly.  "I was in here minding my own business
when he came in, accused me of setting Eva on you, and physically
assaulted me.  I demand an apology, de Montforte!"

Andrew's eyes were deadly.
"And do you demand restitution?"

Gerald paled.

"There will be no more
dueling," Celsie said sharply, stamping her foot in frustration.  She
turned her angry stare on Gerald.  "Did you set Eva on us to steal
the aphrodisiac?"

"Of course not," he
mumbled, but his gaze slid away.  Celsie blinked back tears of mounting
frustration.  He was lying.  She knew it in her heart.  Andrew or Charles could
have been killed, and her brother couldn't even look her in the eye and tell
the truth.

"I have a demand of my
own," she said, her voice unnaturally flat as she tried to keep her wrath
in check.  "I want you out of this house within an hour after breakfast,
Gerald.  I'm tired of supporting you, tired of saving you from one financial
disaster after another, tired of keeping you out of debtor's gaol only to have
you repay me by nearly getting my husband and brother-in-law killed.  You have a
fine way of showing gratitude."

"You can't throw me out, I
have nowhere else to go!"

"You have friends in London.
You have an uncle.  Go throw yourself on their charity for a change.  I have
had enough."

Andrew, who'd been leaning
negligently against the edge of a table, straightened up.  "And if you
think she can't throw you out, rest assured that I will."  His smile was
positively malevolent.  "Bodily."

Gerald stood there, his gaze
darting from his selfish stepsister to the man she had married.  The man who
had stolen what should have been Gerald's financial salvation right out from
under his nose.  The man who had turned Gerald's life and future upside down.

The man Gerald hated with a
passion that made him dizzy.

I'll get my revenge on you,
you bastard, he thought.  You just wait.

"Fine, then," he
muttered darkly.  "But you'll be sorry.  Both of you."

He spun on his heel and stalked
from the room.  He didn't stop until he reached his apartments.  There, as he
began hurling possessions into a trunk, he saw that a package had come for him,
brought by an anonymous messenger and left by a servant on the table beside his
bed.

Gerald tore it open.

It was a small glass vial,
accompanied by a note:  "Use it wisely.  Eva."

Salvation.

~~~~

Andrew waited until Somerfield
left the library; then, before Celsie could start firing questions at him, he
bowed stiffly to her and left.

She made no move to stop him.

His heart was in turmoil.  He
wanted her to chase after him and drag the truth from him.  He wanted her to
stay where he'd left her and never broach the subject again.  He wanted — he
dragged his hands over his face — oh, God, he didn't know what he wanted.  He
felt like a cad, a coward; he felt like the worst sort of monster.

And it had nothing to do with the
way he'd just treated her brother, either.  Somerfield had been lounging in the
library, drinking Celsie's wine, reading Celsie's books, when Andrew had
slammed in.  The earl's sly innuendoes, taunts and knowing smirk had been all
Andrew needed to put two and two together.  Again, he saw Celsie taking her
life in her hands by confronting that red-haired witch.  Again he saw Charles,
groggily picking himself up out of the dust after being struck down.  And he
knew then that Somerfield had been involved in the theft of the aphrodisiac.
With his emotions already at fever pitch, it had taken very little to send him
right over the edge.

God help me.  What must she
think of me?

He strode down the hall, seeking
a comfort he didn't know how to find, seeking escape in his work when there was
no work, no project, not even a laboratory, in which to lose himself.  He felt
totally lost, like a dismasted ship.  He felt like a hounded fox that had
suddenly lost its hole.  Oh, God, what was he going to do?  He had botched things,
and botched them terribly.

Tell her.  Just tell her, and
get it over with.

He shut his eyes as he walked,
moving faster to try to run from the thought, shaking his head as he went.  I
can't tell her.  It will destroy everything we've already got between us.
She'll think me a freak.  She'll hate and pity and recoil from me.  I can't
tell her.  I just can't.

~~~~

Celsie knew he needed some time
to himself.

She gave him an hour — and then
she went looking for him.

He wasn't in the stable with Newton,
nor was he in the dining room having breakfast, nor was he in any of the
bedrooms.  No, she found him in the ballroom, measuring one of the walls, his
coat thrown carelessly over the back of a chair.

Just pretend nothing happened,
she thought to herself.  Just treat him like you would a nervous, cornered
dog that's perfectly capable of biting.  Win his trust.  Don't make him retreat
even further into himself.

"Let me guess," she
said affably, picking the coat up and neatly folding it.  "You don't like
the decor and are planning to put up new wallpaper."

"No."

"You're thinking of adding
another window to let in more light, then."

"I'm measuring for
shelves," he snapped.

"Shelves?  Whatever
for?"

"Because this room would be
perfect for a laboratory."

"This room is the ballroom,
my lord husband, and you'll have to put your laboratory somewhere else."

He turned and met her smiling
gaze with hard, defiant eyes that sparkled with anger.  "Well, seeing as
how I don't like to go out in Society, and I certainly don't want it coming
here to find me, I think we can do without a ballroom."

She crossed her arms, trapping
his coat to her chest.  "And I think I quite like having a
ballroom."

He glared at her.

She gazed calmly back, holding
his folded coat against her chest and resting her chin on the soft velvet.
"Do you know what else I think, Andrew?"

"No."

"I think it's time we tried
to work on being friends again.  We were doing so well."

He said nothing and turned away,
his eyes bleak with pain, a muscle knotting in his jaw.

"Andrew?"

"You should never have
married me," he snarled.  "You would have been far better off without
me, even if your reputation ended up in shreds.  I will not make you happy.  I
cannot make you happy."

"You make me very happy when
you don't close yourself off and shove me away with anger that I don't
understand."  She stepped closer.  "Andrew."  She laid her hand
on his arm and said gently, "Can you not confide in me?"

He remained where he was, his arm
rigid beneath her fingers as he stared blankly, mutely, at the wall.

"Can you not tell me the real
reason you don't want to go out in Society?" she prompted.  "The real
reason you keep me at arm's length with displays of bad temper whenever we
start to get close?"  She made her voice as soft and gentle as she
possibly could.  "And the real reason why you behaved in such a peculiar
fashion this morning, only to flee before explaining yourself?"

He turned his head, the little
flecks of green in his otherwise rusty eyes beginning to glitter dangerously
beneath his sleepy de Montforte lashes as he met, and held, her questioning
gaze.  She stared calmly back from over the top of her velvet chin rest,
refusing to respond to his anger, refusing to back down or let him scare her
off.  Because that was just what he was trying to do, wasn't it?  Scare her
off.  And yet Celsie sensed there was some wounded core part of him that craved
her compassion and understanding; a part of him that he himself probably would
never recognize, let alone acknowledge.

He pulled away from her hand.
"I think I've had enough of this conversation," he said coldly, and
without another word, he walked out of the room.

This time Celsie let him go.  For
a long, quiet moment she stood there in the ballroom, alone.  Then she raised
her chin and walked, with as much dignity as she still possessed, toward her
own apartments, feeling the tearful sting of defeat prickling just beneath her
lashes.

It was morning.

It was all that remained of her
wedding night.

The door was ajar to her bedroom,
and she felt the tears threatening as she opened it and stepped inside.  The
drapes were still drawn.  The room was shrouded in lonely gloom.  Quietly
shutting the door, she walked toward the curtained bed, fighting the tears and
hoping against hope that when she got there she'd find Andrew waiting for her —
kind, contrite, and open-armed once again, ready to resume where they had left
off back at the foot of the drive.

She parted the curtains and, not
even bothering to undress, climbed into bed, the tears burning the back of her
nose.  Oh, Andrew.  But she knew the bed was empty as soon as her knee
touched the mattress.

Well, not quite.

Freckles was there, waiting for
her.

So much for wedding nights,
Andrew had said.

Celsie buried her face in the
pillow and cried, the soft down muffling her sobs of anguish.

Chapter 24

Making his way upstairs, Andrew
heard the tattoo of fading hoofbeats as Somerfield made his timely departure.

He heard the hushed whispers of
the servants, no doubt already worried about the strife their new master had
brought with him.

And as he paused at Celsie's
door, he heard the sounds of muffled weeping.

He hung his head, his gut
churning with emotion, his hand poised on the latch.  Shame and frustration
filled him.  He hadn't thought Celsie was the crying sort, but she was crying
now, and he had done this to her.  He felt lower than an earthworm.  He knew he
should go in there and try to comfort her, but what could he say?  What could
he offer her?  The truth?  A half-truth?  A downright lie?

His hand slid from the latch.  He
pressed the heels of his hands to his brow, then raked his fingers back through
his hair, tearing out the bit of ribbon that held it queued and crushing it in
his fist.  Leave her alone, he thought.  Just leave her alone for a
while.  After all, they were both upset, overwhelmed, exhausted from the
stress of the wedding, the robbery, and a night without sleep.  She needed time
to adjust.  He needed time to work up the nerve to tell her.

Hell, maybe they both just needed
time to be apart.

But even as he thought it, Andrew
knew it was an excuse.  He was not accustomed to sharing his life with someone,
especially a woman, and even less accustomed to confiding in other people.  The
very idea made a chill snake up his back.  No better to just . . . go away for
a while.  He needed his laboratory.  Any laboratory.  Someplace where he could
lose himself, someplace where he could be alone, someplace where he wouldn't
have to think.

He turned and continued down the
hall.

In a small study off one of the
staterooms, he found a desk containing paper, pen and ink.  He scribbled and
sealed a note.  On his way back down the hall, he paused outside Celsie's door,
propped the letter against it, and made himself continue on, telling himself,
trying to convince himself, that he was doing the right thing.  The weeping,
thank God, seemed to have stopped.  Or maybe he had simply closed his ears to
it.

His heart heavy, he left the
house and strode purposefully out to the stables.  Newton looked at him
expectantly, but the big grey was exhausted and Andrew would not ask him to
take him to London.  Every other horse in the stable was either too old, too
lame, or too small to suit, leaving him to suspect that most had probably been
rescued from cruelty or death by his kindhearted wife and were now her beloved
pets.

All except a bright chestnut
stallion in the last stall.  He was a short-backed but handsome fellow, with a
long, flaxen mane, a dark eye, and a white blaze that tumbled down his sculpted
face and ended at the pink seam of his mouth.

Andrew reached out and stroked
the sleek neck.  This must be the infamous Sheik, who refused to mount mares, who
had been, in his own way, responsible for Celsie's taking the aphrodisiac that
had proved to be the undoing of both their ordered lives.

He smiled grimly.  Let Sheik,
then, be the one to take him to London.

Ten minutes later, Andrew was in
the saddle and Rosebriar was disappearing behind him.

~~~~

It was still dark in the room
when Celsie awoke.

She lay there in bed for a
moment, wondering why her heart was a granite boulder in her chest — until she
suddenly remembered the reason for its heaviness.

Andrew had never come to join
her.  Only Freckles, snoring, was with her, sprawled across the bed, the covers
pinned beneath his big body.  Celsie reached out and stroked him, blinking in
the darkness.  Oh, how empty she felt.  Like a child promised a toy that was
never given.  Like a sweetheart promised a kiss that was withheld at the last
minute.

Like an abandoned bride.

Slowly she pulled her legs out
from beneath the sleeping dog, climbed from the bed, and went to the windows.
Shivering, she hauled open the drapes and was surprised to see stars outside,
pricking through a night sky laced with cloud.

Good heavens.  What time was it?
And where on earth was her husband?

She rang for her maid.  It seemed
to take forever before Anna came in, yawning and carrying a candle.  Celsie
frowned.

"Anna, what time is
it?"

"An hour after midnight, m'lady."

"An hour after midnight ?  How long have I been up here?"

Anna looked suddenly sheepish.  "All
day, m'lady.  We knew you'd been under a bit of a strain, so we thought it best
to let you sleep."

"Where is my husband?"

"Gone, m'lady.  He took Sheik
out this morning and hasn't come back."

Celsie stared at the younger
woman.  "He took Sheik?  And the groom allowed him?"

"The groom warned him, but
my lord wanted to take the horse, and Hodges said it would've been impertinent
to deny him . . ."

Celsie put her head in her
hands.  She had rescued the fiery Arabian stallion from a traveling carnival.
To this day, the horse feared and despised men, his behavior a testament to the
abuse he must have suffered at their hands.  And now Andrew had taken him and
still hadn't returned?  Oh, God . . .  Celsie tried to rub the parade of
nightmarish visions from her eyes.  She saw her husband lying helpless in some
forgotten pasture with a fractured leg, unable to get help.  She saw him lying
dead out there in the November darkness, his neck broken, his body stiff and
cold.  She saw him —

She jerked her head up.
"Has Sheik returned to the stables, Anna?"

"No, ma'm.  And we were all
worried to pieces about the new master, but shortly after he left, one of the
chambermaids found this outside your door."  Anna reached into her pocket
and produced a sealed letter, immediately handing it to Celsie.

One fear was replaced by
another.  Trying to hide her rising apprehension, Celsie slid a shaking finger
beneath the blob of wax, opened the letter, and taking the candle from Anna,
read the hastily scrawled words.

My dear Celsie,

I hope you can forgive me
that I shall be long gone by the time you find and read this letter.  I did not
want to disturb you — or perhaps I am simply taking the coward's way out, for
there are some matters I am not yet ready to discuss with you, matters which
are unavoidable should I remain with you here at Rosebriar.  Thus I thought it
best that we spend some time apart, until both of us have had more time to grow
accustomed to being with each other.  I am going to London, and
will return when I feel I am ready to offer explanations for my strange and
unpredictable behaviour.  I hope you can forgive me.

A.

Apprehension turned to fury.

"How the hell are we
supposed to grow accustomed to being with each other if he's in London and I'm
here?" Celsie howled, balling the letter in her fist and hurling it across
the room.  "Men!  Oh, Anna, are they all this insane,
impossible, and bloody-minded?"

"Yes, m'lady.  At least Miss
Upchurch says so.  Would you like me to fetch you some supper?  A hot
bath?"

Celsie took a deep breath.  It
made no sense to keep Anna from her bed, and putting her through the trouble of
drawing a bath at this hour was not only unfair, but unkind.  "No,
Anna," she said, on a grim sigh.  "But if you could unlace me and
help me undress, that will be enough."

Anna was shy but efficient.
Moments later, Celsie dismissed her, and stood there in the middle of the room,
dressed only in her chemise.

It would not be daylight for
another few hours, but she was not so foolish as to travel the highways at
night, alone and unprotected.  Her journey would have to wait.  She crossed the
room and crawled up onto the window seat.  There, wrapped in a blanket, she
leaned her cheek against the sill, hugged her legs, and stared out across the
night toward London, counting the hours until dawn.

By the time the eastern horizon
began to glow, she was dressed in a smart green riding habit with breeches
under her petticoats for riding astride, and heading for the stables.

And by the time the servants
began to stir, she was on her way to London.

~~~~

Many miles away, the duke of
Blackheath was also up.

He was an early riser, given to
taking a three-mile walk across the downs before the servants even rose from
their beds to start breakfast.  Normally he found a long, hard bout of early morning
exercise refreshing to his spirits, stimulating to his mind, a good foundation
on which to lay the rest of his day.  But as he crested Sparholt Down and
stopped to gaze off across miles of valleys, downs, and pastureland, all going
dark beneath approaching clouds, he felt anything but invigorated.

He had seen the last of his
brothers safely married off, and now only Nerissa was left.  But he didn't feel
the peace he longed for.  He felt infinitely weary, like a man putting his last
affairs in order as he tried to outrace a terminal illness.

The dream had come to him again
last night.

He had been having it for weeks
now.  The first time he had written it off as a foolish nightmare and promptly
forgotten about it within moments after rising.  But it had come to him again
three nights later, this time weighing heavily on his mind all through
breakfast, unwilling to be shaken off, refusing to be forgotten.  Again he'd
forced himself to forget it, to write it off as fanciful nonsense.  But it was
impossible to forget something, to dismiss it as nonsense, when it began to
recur night after night with mounting urgency, so vivid and real that it
haunted one's waking as well as sleeping hours.

The shadows that Andrew had
noticed under his eyes were not the imaginings of an angry younger brother.

And yes, Andrew was angry with
him.  They all were, even Charles, the sibling with whom Lucien had always been
the closest.  He was accustomed to their anger, of course.  It was something he
had lived with for most of his life.  He could have told them about the dream,
told them why he had been so desperate to get Andrew safely married to Lady
Celsiana Blake.  But no.  Anger was far easier to handle than the concern and
the pity they might end up feeling for him — and Lucien could not tolerate that.

Far easier to let them all think
he was the diabolical monster he pretended to be.  They would never believe
that his machinations were done out of love, that he had only their best
interests in mind and at heart.  He was the oldest brother.  He was the duke.
It was his duty to take care of them, though that was something they had always
resented and would never understand.  But Lucien understood it.  He understood
his responsibilities, and he never forgot a promise.  He had made a vow to his
dead parents that he would take care of his siblings, that he would see to
their welfare and happiness until the day he died.

Even if that day might come
sooner than he would have wished.

The duke turned his gaze from the
far-off horizon and began the long trek back to the castle.  The air felt raw,
cold, moist; it would rain soon.  He could feel the wind playing tag with his
back, making all the thousands of little grasses shiver and tremble all around
him as the sky grew increasingly darker.

Time was running out.

For even now, the dream was with
him.  A duel at dawn.  A masked opponent dressed entirely in black.  A fatal
slip and then red, raw agony exploding in his chest.

He died with a sword through the
heart.

Every time.

Chapter 25

It was drizzling by the time
Newton, a horse with heart if ever there was one, finally brought Celsie to the
imposing wrought-iron gates of de Montforte House.

Cold and soaked through, she
swung down from his tall back, patted his steaming neck, and bade the groom who
came for him to give him an extra ration of hay and oats at feeding time.
Then, adjusting her cocked hat and squaring her shoulders, she marched toward
the house.

If the staff was surprised to see
her, they were too well trained to show it.  "Yes, my lady," said the
housekeeper in response to her terse query.  "Lord Andrew arrived late
yesterday and has been closeted in his laboratory ever since."

"Thank you.  And where, pray
tell, is this laboratory?"

"On the second floor, my
lady.  You can't miss it."

Celsie removed her damp cloak and
handed it to a footman.  All the worry, all the wondering, all the tension of
the past two days had pinnacled in her heart, leaving only a firm determination
to put an end to this nonsense.  Still in her riding habit, her whip in one
hand, she strode for the stairs.

As the housekeeper had said, the
laboratory was on the second floor.  And sure enough, the door was locked.

Celsie raised her fist, rapped
sharply, and then stood back, rhythmically slapping her whip against her palm
in an attempt to keep her temper in check.

"Who is it?"

"Your wife."

Silence.  She pictured him on the
other side of the door, wondering where he could run to now that she'd found
him, probably cursing her from Kent to Cornwall.  Celsie's whip tapping
increased.  Her jaw tightened.  And then, to her surprise, the latch lifted and
the door swung open.

"Andrew?"

He looked like hell.  Two days
worth of russet stubble shadowed his jaw.  His eyes were bloodshot with
fatigue.  His shoulders were slumped, his waistcoat hung open, and there were
faint smudges of exhaustion under his eyes.  He gave a tired smile, and for a
moment, she almost thought he looked relieved to see her.  But that was
ridiculous, of course.  If he'd wanted to see her, he would have stayed at
Rosebriar.

"Hello, Celsie," he
said, calmly meeting her glare.  "I suppose I should ask you what you're
doing here, but then you'd doubt my intelligence as well as my sanity."
He leaned against the door, bent his head to his hand and rubbed at his eyes.
"Guess I'm not surprised to see you . . . you shouldn't have come, you
know."

"Andrew, when is the last
time you got any sleep?"

"I don't know.  Maybe
Saturday . . . Sunday . . . before the wedding, I think."

"Do you realize I am this
far from strangling you?"  She raised her hand, holding thumb and
forefinger together and glaring at him.

He just looked at her with bleary
eyes.

"Come," she said,
seizing his hand and dragging him from the room.  His toe hit the doorjamb and
he stumbled, nearly taking her down with him.  "You and I are going for a
walk."

"For God's sake, Celsie,
have some pity, would you?  I need sleep, not exercise."

"Then you should have got
some while you had the opportunity."  She pulled him, unprotestingly,
downstairs and hailed a footman, who took one look at the drooping Lord Andrew
and came running.

"Is his Lordship ill, my
lady?"

"No, he is merely
overtired.  Please fetch him his hat and coat.  We are going outside for a
walk."

"But it's raining,"
Andrew said, looking out the window and frowning, as if he'd only just become
aware of that fact.

"So it is.  Just what you need
to wake you up."

She took his greatcoat from the
footman and helped him into it herself when it became obvious that he was so
dazed with exhaustion that his arms would not obey his brain.  You shouldn't
be doing this, her conscience protested.  The poor man is walking in his
sleep.  For heaven's sake, have some mercy and put him to bed.

What, put him to bed and allow
him to regain his energy, only to shove her away all over again?  Oh, no.  That
would not do at all.  He was tired, he was vulnerable, and she was going to get
to the bottom of this nonsense while she had him right where she wanted him.
Besides, if he'd really wanted to sleep, he would have been in bed, not working
on a formula to make himself invisible or a machine to mince turnips or whatever
the devil he did when he holed himself up in that confounded laboratory.  She'd
had enough of his tendency toward avoidance.  She'd had enough of his running
away from what was obviously becoming a serious problem.  She had the fox by
the tail, and damn it, she wasn't about to let him go.

Calling for her cloak, she
slipped her hand within the crook of his elbow, and together they went outside.

There he took off his hat and
tilted his head back, closing his eyes and letting the icy drizzle beat down on
his face in an obvious attempt to wake up.  Then, blinking the water from his
eyes, he offered his elbow once more.  Celsie did not press him to speak.  He
would talk to her when he was good and ready, and she had already learned that
forcing him into a premature discussion of whatever was troubling him would
only yield anger and resistance.  And so she said nothing, simply walking
beside him, allowing him to set the pace for both their walk and their
impending conversation.

At length the drizzle began to taper
off, and overhead, low, fast-moving clouds heralded a temporary break in the
weather.  The wet had done nothing to deter afternoon traffic; horses trotted
past, clopping through puddles and splashing unwary pedestrians.  Mud-spattered
carriages filled the streets, and here and there sedan chairs darted as ladies
paid social calls on each other, catching up on the latest gossip and scandal.
Andrew seemed oblivious to them all.  He remained mute beside her and
eventually they ended up at Charing Cross, where they found a tiny coffeehouse
and went inside to warm up.

"You had the right idea,
getting me out of the house," he finally said, as he seated her at a
little table and took the chair opposite.  He wrapped his hands around a mug of
strong black coffee and looked down into the steaming brew.  "I no longer
feel as though I'm walking in a fog."

She reached across the table and
laid her fingers atop one of his wrists.  He looked down at them, his face
expressionless.  Then he reached out and covered her hand with his own.

"I'm sorry," he said,
not meeting her eyes.  "You deserve better than what you got."

She only squeezed his hand.  He
squeezed hers back.  Neither looked at the other, he staring into his hot
coffee, she at their clasped hands.

"I trust Sheik behaved for
you?" she asked, resorting to small talk in the hopes of breaking the ice
between them.

"He's a fine little
horse."

"I nearly collapsed when I
heard that you'd taken him and hadn't returned."

"I should have asked."

"No, no, it wasn't that,"
she said, her thumb roving up and down his hand.  "He has nearly killed
every man that's ever gone near him.  He was abused, you know.  He hates
men."

"He didn't hate me."

"No. "  Her glance
lifted briefly, to his.  "You must have charmed him, then."

He shrugged.  "We de
Montfortes have always had a way with horses.  His liking me had nothing to do
with any charm I may or may not possess."

He sipped his coffee, a damp wave
of mahogany hair falling into his eyes as he gazed down into the mug.  He
blinked, and a few strands of the hair caught in his eyelashes.  He didn't
bother clearing them away, and Celsie suddenly wished she felt comfortable
enough to just reach out and brush the hair away for him, but no . . . not yet.

Go easy, go slow, and maybe
you can win his trust such that he'll let you do a lot more than just touch his
hair . . .

She took a sip of her own coffee,
though she didn't release his hand.  "So . . . why haven't you been
sleeping?"  She smiled, trying to put him at ease, trying to get him talking.
"Are you so wrapped up in some fabulous new discovery, some incredible new
invention, that you haven't had time to go to bed?"

"No."  He looked up
then, and his gaze — so direct, so intense, beneath sleepy brown lashes — met
hers.  "It wasn't that at all."

"I see."

"You don't see."

"Very well, I don't
see."

He bent his head to his hand,
kneading his brow.  "I'm sorry.  I'm irritable.  I'm tired.  I'm not good
company."

"Then let's go back home,
Andrew.  I was wrong to drag you outside when you really ought to be catching
up on days of missed sleep."

"Don't apologize, the fresh
air did me good.  You do me good, though most of the time I don't seem
to realize, let alone show it."  He finished his coffee and, plunking some
coins on the table, got to his feet.  "Come, let's go.  I promise to try
and be in a better mood."

He offered his elbow, nodded to
an acquaintance who sat at a nearby table reading a newspaper, and escorted her
outside.

"Bloody hell," he
muttered.

Celsie groaned.  "It's Lady
Brookhampton."

"Why, hello, Andrew!  Celsie!"
The countess, her feet in iron pattens to protect her shoes from the mud,
lifted her skirts and hurried across the street toward them.  "I was
wondering how married life was treating you . . .  You're looking a bit peaked
there, Andrew!"  She smiled slyly.  "Your new bride tiring you
out?"

Andrew's eyes went strangely
flat, the way they always did when he was reining in his anger.  "If you
will excuse us, madam —"

"I still think it was
perfectly heinous, the way the duke tricked the two of you into marriage!  Why,
all of London is talking about it.  Oh, it must be dreadful, pretending
civility toward one another when you have anything but a love match."

Celsie smiled and moved closer to
Andrew, impulsively slipping her arm around his waist.  "What makes you
think we don't?" she asked with false sweetness.

"Come now, Celsie, everyone
at your doggie ball saw the way you two were glaring at each other.  But oh,
never mind that, I have just heard the most incredible rumor concerning your
brother!  Why, everyone's talking about how he's taken a sudden fancy to Miss
Sarah Madden, whose papa — frightfully bourgeois, I'm afraid — is
desperate to buy into the aristocracy."  She leaned closer, her eyes
gleaming, her voice dropping to a conspiring, excited whisper.  "She's an
heiress, you know.  A very significant heiress with a dowry the size of London.
More wedding bells in the future, if I'm allowed any predictions!  I say, is
your husband all right?"

Celsie turned.

"Andrew?"

He was staring at something
across the street.  Puzzled, Celsie followed his fixed gaze.  There was nothing
over there but endless buildings and a few people walking the pavement, going
in and out of the shops and about their business.  She tugged at his arm.  He
remained rigid and unmoving.

Lady Brookhampton took a step
backward.  "I say, I think you'd better get him to a doctor," she
advised, frowning.  "He's as white as the snow in Scotland."

"Andrew?" Celsie said
again, her voice rising with dread.

He was still staring across the
street, totally oblivious to the fact that she had spoken, to the fact that
Lady Brookhampton was staring at him, to the fact that a group of well-dressed
gentlemen, their laughing, twittering ladies on their arms, had also paused and
were now eyeing him most peculiarly.  Around them, people were beginning to
whisper.

He didn't hear them.  "Dear
God . . . Indians.  Do you see them, Celsie?  Coming out of the shop there —
look."  He seized her arm and pulled her close to him.  "Look!"

Celsie looked.  She saw only a
very ordinary looking old lady, stooped and frail, leaving a pawnshop and
clutching a canvas bag in one gnarled hand.  The woman was not even in the line
of Andrew's fixed gaze.  A kind of sick panic seized her.  Oh no.  Not
again.  Not here —

"Andrew," she said
nervously, pulling at his arm as she tried to get him to move.  "There is
nobody there.  You're only suffering from lack of sleep.  Come, let's go
home."

But Andrew knew he was suffering
from far more than just lack of sleep.  Just as a sleeper may realize he's
dreaming, but still be caught up in the reality of the dream, Andrew knew he
was having one of his episodes . . . though what he saw was terrifyingly real
to him.

And what he saw were Indians.
Mohawks, probably, from the New World, their heads shaved and leaving only a
wedge of purple hair sticking straight up like the helmets of Roman soldiers,
silver rings in their noses and eyebrows, their bare arms thrust through
strange waistcoats of black leather bristling with little cones of steel.

From far away he heard his own
voice, felt Celsie tugging at his shoulder.

"Andrew.  Andrew, let's go —"

"But don't you see
them?"  He stared at her.  Stared through her.  "Bloody hell, they've
spotted us; get behind me, Celsie, they may be dangerous!"

"Andrew, let's go home, now
—"

"Damn it, Celsie, don't just
stand there, get behind me!"

He grabbed his sword, yanked her
behind him, and charged forward to protect her, but his foot slipped off the
edge of the pavement and he went sprawling into the muddy street, the wheels of
a passing carriage just missing his outflung arm.  A lady screamed.  The group
of gentlemen came running.  Alarmed shopkeepers came charging outside, Lady
Brookhampton stood staring down at him in horror, and all around, people began
to murmur in shocked, speculative whispers.

Andrew raised himself up from the
mud on one elbow, and blinking, looked dazedly, uncomprehendingly, around him.

"Celsie?" he whispered.

But Celsie was already there.
Positioning herself so that her body shielded him from the gathered onlookers,
she had knelt beside him and now pulled him up against her, uncaring that he
was filthy with mud.  He was trembling violently, his skin waxy and cold
beneath a film of sweat.  She held him close, talking gently to him as excited
whispers darted back and forth above their heads.

"Why, it's Lord Andrew de
Montforte!  I say, what ails him?"

"Got an opium habit, I'd
guess . . . what a waste. . . ."

"Genius ain't without its
price, eh, Smithson?"

"Aye, he's done so much
thinking he's melted his own brain."

Celsie raised her head and glared
fiercely up at them all.  "I can assure you that my husband does not
suffer from a drug habit, madness, or shortcomings of any kind, he is merely
exhausted from three days without sleep!  Had any of you gone three days
without sleep, you'd be seeing strange things, too!  Now go on, all of you, and
give us some space and privacy!"

One arm still around her fallen
husband, she made an angry, shoving motion with the other.

"I said, go!"

Mumbling, the crowd began to
disperse, guffawing loudly as someone made a lewd remark about just why the
newly wed Lord Andrew de Montforte hadn't got any sleep in three days.
Celsie's face flamed, but at least she had deflected attention away from the
real question of what was wrong with her husband, and that was all that
mattered.

And then she looked up to see
Lady Brookhampton still hovering above.

Celsie opened her mouth to
deliver a stinging command —

"Shall I hail a cab or a
sedan chair for him?" the older woman asked, with unexpected kindness.

Celsie gave a weary sigh.
"Yes."  She rose to her feet, pulling Andrew up with her.  "Yes,
that would be ideal."

Chapter 26

Andrew wanted to crawl beneath the
wheels of the cab and command the driver to run him over.

He wanted to flee the reality of
what had happened to him, what was happening to him, what would eventually
happen to him.

He wanted to bury his face
against his hands in shame.

Instead, he summoned every shred
of his de Montforte pride, straightened to his full height, and like the
gentleman he was, handed Celsie up into the cab before him.

Moments later, they were moving.

"So now you know," he
muttered, gazing out the window and watching the traffic passing in the other
direction.  He swallowed hard, refusing to look at her.  "We can get an
annulment, you know.  You have grounds.  I would understand perfectly."

She said nothing, but he could
feel her gaze upon him.  He gripped his hands together and clenched them
between his knees, staring out the window as he waited for her to say
something, to utter the damning words, to lash out at him with anger and hurt
for withholding such a terrible secret.  But she didn't say anything.  She
simply sat there, a presence whose silence said more than words.

"Well?" he said flatly,
turning his head to glare at her.  "Are you going to get an
annulment?"

She gazed calmly back.  "Most
certainly not."

"You're insane if you don't,
you know.  You managed to come up with a damned good excuse to satisfy the
gawkers and gapers back there, but I can promise you that what happened to me
then will only happen again, that sooner or later you won't find some
convenient excuse to explain it.  Then I'll leave you humiliated and pitied,
and you'll wish to God you'd got rid of me when you had the chance."

"I don't want to 'get rid of
you'," she said firmly, her eyes beginning to glitter dangerously.
"You are my husband.  And I care about you very much."

"You can't care for someone
you don't know.  You don't know me.  Oh, God, you don't know me —"

"That is because you won't let
me know you."

"Celsie, I implore you,
don't throw away your life, your dreams, your pride, on me . . . I'm a
worthless oddball, damaged goods . . .  There are plenty of men out there who
would make far better husbands, men whom you can bring out in public without
fear of being humiliated."

"Stop it, Andrew.  I don't
want to hear such rubbish."

"It isn't rubbish, it is the
truth."

"You're pushing me away.  I
can't let you do that anymore."  Her voice gentled, became pleading.
"I'm your wife."

He just raised a hand to his
eyes, flung it away.

"I'm your friend."

He swallowed hard, fighting back
the rising tide of emotion.

"And I'm the woman who's
falling in love with you."

He turned to her in anguish.
Celsie could see the faint glisten of what looked like tears in his eyes, a
bleak, panicky desperation that beseeched her to leave him alone even as it
begged her not to.  She reached out and threaded her fingers through his.
"Andrew," she said quietly.  "I married you for better or for
worse, in sickness and in health.  We took vows, pledging ourselves to one
another.  We're in this for the rest of our lives, and if you think I'm
going to abandon you to whatever it is that so affects and frightens you simply
because I might otherwise find myself embarrassed about your behavior, then you
don't know me very well, do you?"

He put his head in his hands and
bent his body over them, fighting a battle with his will.

"You are ill, aren't
you?"

He just made an inarticulate
little noise and nodded his head.  A lump lodged in Celsie's throat, and she
felt the sting of tears behind her eyelids as her heart went out to him.  How
hard he tried to maintain his composure when it was obvious that he was coming
apart at the seams.  How hard he tried to push her away with anger, when it was
all too apparent that he needed her with a desperation he could never admit.
And how hard he had tried to pretend that whatever ailed him was no more than
an embarrassing annoyance — when Celsie knew, deep in her heart, that it was
something that filled him with dread.

It was terrible to be alone with
your own fears.

Even more so when you were alone
in so many other ways as well.  As she had always been.

As Andrew was now.

She got up, moved to the other
seat, and lowered herself down beside him.  He didn't move, just sat there bent
over his hands, suffering in his own private anguish.  She put her arms around
him and he leaned slightly into her, his shoulders lurching as hoarse sobs of
fear finally claimed him.

"You shouldn't have to go
through this with me," he blurted, still curled over his hands.  "Oh,
Celsie, it will be a living hell for you . . . a nightmare . . . why do
this to yourself?"

She held him in her arms,
comforting him, reassuring him that he was not alone and never would be.  He
would not uncurl himself and return her embrace, would not go that last step in
trusting her.  Oh, Andrew. . . .  my heart aches so for you.  She tried
to find the right words.  Tried to think of what she could say to comfort him.
And then her heart found her own private dread, and her eyes filled with tears
of their own.

"We cannot always take away
the suffering of those we love," she said quietly.  "But we can make
sure that they don't suffer alone."  A beloved face was there in her
mind's eye, dark eyes gone cloudy, once youthful face grey with age.  Tears
began to slip from her eyes, to trickle silently down her face.  "Freckles
has a lump beneath his ear," she continued, as Andrew shook with silent
anguish.  "One of these days he'll probably stop eating.  One of these
days he will lie down and refuse to get up.  One of these days he will die . .
. and a big piece of my heart will die right along with him."  Hot tears
scalded her cheeks, falling on his mud-stained coat, soaking his bent
shoulder.  "But do you think I'm going to go away when that time comes,
that I'm going to abandon him simply because it would spare me the pain and
grief of watching him die?  Do you honestly think I'm that cowardly, Andrew?  That
selfish?"

His shoulders jerked on a harsh
sob.  "I'm sorry, Celsie . . . I didn't know . . ."

"I know you didn't.  But
you'll be there for me when that time comes.  Just as I'm here for you now . .
. as I will always be here for you."

"I'm going m-mad,
Celsie," he choked out.  "My brain is dying and I'm scared, scared of
losing my mind, losing my science, losing who I am and turning into a drooling
idiot at Bedlam . . . "

"You don't have to be scared
all by yourself, Andrew.  You aren't in this alone.  You have me."

"You must despise me . . .
pity me . . . wish you'd never met me.  Look at me, blubbering like a
two-year-old . . ."

"Despise and pity you?  No,
Andrew.  Never.  You are an incredible man, but I don't think you realize that,
do you?  I want to be near you, with you.  I want to share your life, as I want
you to share mine."  She made her voice deliberately light.  "And
sometimes I even want to strangle you, because you're the stubbornest, most
defiant individual I've ever met and you should have told me this long before
now."

"Yes, I should have — then
you could have left me."

"Only in your dreams,"
she chastised.

Her attempt at humor found its
mark.  He gave a half sob, half laugh, and raised his head, drawing his hands
down his face but still refusing to look at her.  Celsie reached into her
pocket and found her handkerchief.  She passed it to him and he wordlessly
wiped his eyes.

She sat and waited, watching his
fingers squeezing and unsqueezing the handkerchief as he looked down at his
hands, trying to find the words that would release him from his own dark prison
of pain.

"It all started last
Christmas," he finally murmured, still staring down at the crumpled
muslin.  "Do you remember hearing about the fire at Blackheath Castle?"

"Yes — it was on everyone's
tongue."

"It would be, wouldn't
it?" he said ruefully.  "Give people something to talk about and
they'll bloody well exhaust it to death."  He finally stuffed the
handkerchief into his pocket and ran both hands down his face.  Then he took a
deep, steadying breath and leaned back against the seat, gazing up at the roof
with weary resignation.  "Well, for months prior to that, I'd been toying
with the idea of building a flying machine, but I never quite got around to
doing it because there was always another idea that was far more seductive, far
more interesting."  He reached out and took her hand, grasping it like a
lifeline.  "You already know I'm not the most organized of individuals . .
.  Well, Lucien, he used to taunt and ridicule me and tell everyone that I was
incapable of constructing such a machine, until finally I got so angry with him
that I determined to build the thing just to prove to him that I could."

Celsie squeezed his hand.  It was
cold and clammy.  She tucked it between her own, lightly chafing the chilled
fingers.

Andrew was still gazing up at the
roof.  "I built it, just as I said I would.  I was so proud of it . . . so
confident that it would put my name on the map of science, my footprints on the
pages of posterity, and that all my peers would respect me as the great
inventor I was determined to be."  He gave a bitter laugh.  "Well,
they say pride goeth before a fall, and mine certainly did.  Lucien was throwing
a ball in honor of Charles's return from what we'd all believed was the dead.
Everyone — including the king himself — was invited.  And I, fool that I was,
thought it would be the perfect opportunity to show off my creation, to launch
myself off the roof of the castle and straight into the pages of the history
books . . . and best of all, rub Lucien's nose in my success for having failed
to believe in me all along."

He took a deep, steadying
breath.  "Everything was going along splendidly," he continued, his
eyes bleak as he gazed into his memories.  "The king wanted to see the
machine prior to its first flight, and so I took him up onto the roof where I
had it ready and waiting to be launched.  Whilst we were up there, a fire broke
out in the ballroom.  Within minutes that whole wing of the castle was on
fire.  We came back down to my laboratory only to find ourselves trapped by the
flames and unable to escape."

"Dear God," Celsie
breathed, unconsciously clutching his hand and bringing it close to her heart.

"It was Charles who fought
his way up the burning stairway and managed to bring the king and his
attendants out.  My laboratory was nothing but smoke and fire.  I couldn't see
a thing, couldn't hear a thing . . . nothing but the roar of the flames,
falling timbers, and explosions as my bottles of chemicals and solutions began
to go.  I started to follow Charles and the others out; then I recalled some
drawings I was determined to save, and ran back into the laboratory.  That's
all I remember.  When I came to my senses, I was lying on the floor,
everything was on fire around me, and Charles — he'd come back for me, of
course — was holding me in his arms, covering me with his own body, trying to
shield me from the flames even though it was obvious that we were both going to
die."

Celsie put a hand over her mouth,
her estimation of the worthy Charles soaring even as she shuddered to think how
close Andrew had come to dying.  "Your brother must love you very
much."

"My brother would have given
his life for me.  As I would for him."  Andrew turned his head and leaned
his cheek against the window, his eyes distant.  "There was no way out.
The stairway was on fire, cutting off escape; we were too high up to jump to
safety, and I was so dizzy and sick from the burning chemicals, my lungs so
damaged by the heat, that I couldn't draw breath enough to even walk.  In the
end we escaped because Charles carried me — and the flying machine was still up
there on the roof.  It did not fly quite the way I intended that it should, but
it did save our lives . . . though in the months that have followed, not a day
has gone by that I rather wished it hadn't."  He swallowed hard.  "Or
wished it hadn't saved mine."

Oh, Andrew . . .  Her
heart aching for him, she carried his cold, clenched hand to her lips.

He was still gazing sightlessly
out the window.  "After the fire, I was bedridden for months.  I couldn't
breathe.  Lucien summoned the finest doctors from London and the Continent, and
they all said there was no hope for me.  That I would waste away and die.
Lucien wouldn't listen to them, though.   He wouldn't give up, even though my
lungs were so damaged that it was all I could do to draw breath."  He
blinked, absently watching the traffic passing outside.  "I used to have
terrible fits of gasping, and someone had to be with me at all times, day and
night, to pound on my chest in case I stopped breathing.  Several times, I did
stop."  He swallowed, his voice flat and dead, and closed his eyes.
"They should have just let me go."

He sounded so despairing, so
defeated, that Celsie felt a new rush of hot tears flooding her own eyes.  She
blinked them back, determined not to show pity.

"Eventually I showed signs
of recovering, and Lucien forced me to start exercising in an attempt to
rebuild my strength.  He used to challenge me to short duels with rapiers, and
on the days I felt too sick, or too weak, or too exhausted to exercise, he'd
come out with some hurtful taunt or insult that would make me so damned angry
that I'd soon be up and out of that bed just for the chance to run him
through."  He gave a little laugh.  "Of course, he knew just how to
irk me.  He knew just what he was doing.  He always did.  And I suppose I owe
my life to him just as much as I owe it to Charles — what life I have left,
that is."

At last he turned away from the
window, looking down at their clasped hands.  His face was very still.
"That strange mix of burning chemicals and solutions I breathed in while I
was lying there on the floor . . . it must have affected me in some bizarre,
unfortunate way, because it was shortly afterwards that I started having these
fits, or seizures, or whatever you want to call them."

Celsie squeezed his hand.
"Is that what happened to you today, then?  And while you were fighting Gerald,
and while we were at de Montforte House a fortnight ago?"

"Yes, and also at your
charity ball."  He met her gaze then, his eyes darker than she'd ever seen
them, full of pain and shame and sorrow.  "Why do you think I fled the
place as I did?"

"Probably because you didn't
want anyone to know you weren't feeling well."

"Oh, it goes much deeper
than just 'not feeling well.'  I'm destined for Bedlam, Celsie.  Mark me on
that."

"I'm not going to mark you
on anything until I hear the whole story and have time to think it all
through.  So let me make sure I understand this.  You were in a fire, and you
breathed in all these burning chemicals from your laboratory, and you've been
having these episodes ever since."

"Precisely."

"And what does your
all-knowing brother Lucien think?"

"He's a duke, not a doctor.
He refuses to give up hope that I can be made well again.  Over the past two
months, he dragged in a parade of specialists, lecturers, and physicians to
examine me.  But all they did was poke and prod and bleed me, regard me as some
sort of freak, discuss me as though I was not even there, and this when I
probably hold more university degrees than they do.  All they could give were
long-winded explanations of complete and utter codswallop.  They don't know what's
wrong with me.  Not one of them was able to offer one iota of help — or hope.
And how can they?  Even I don't know what I took into my lungs that night.
I'll never know.  Like that cursed aphrodisiac, it's a situation that cannot,
and should not, be duplicated — and thus, cannot be examined, only wondered
at."

He shut his eyes on a sigh.  All
fight had gone out of him, and Celsie knew then that the unpredictable anger
that had been so much a part of him had been nothing but a cloak to cover these
deeper, constant feelings of fear, shame, and vulnerability.  He needed her; he
had told her his darkest secret, his biggest shame, and now he needed her.  It
was a humbling realization.

She took both his hands within
her own and pressed them to her heart.  "Oh, Andrew . . . so much about
you makes sense to me, now."

"You wondered why I didn't
want to get married.  Why I didn't want you or anyone else interfering in my
life, or why I detest going out in Society more than I ever did.  Do you know
what it's like, having an affliction that strikes you without warning, without
mercy, and oftentimes in the company of other people?  Can you fathom the shame
and humiliation, not just to me, but to those I love?  Better just to stay
home, where I'm not a threat to anyone else's pride, let alone my own.  And
that is the strange thing about it . . . I was fine as long as I kept within
the walls of Blackheath, but if I so much as ventured beyond them . . . "  He
shook his head.  "Well, you've seen what happens to me.  And so I stayed
indoors, stayed in my laboratory, deluding myself and my family into thinking
there was nothing wrong with me.  But they knew.  And now you know, don't you?
You've seen me in all my mad glory.  And now you know why I prefer to stay in
my laboratory.  And why I don't want to go out in Society and risk embarrassing
myself and others around me."

"You could never embarrass
me, Andrew."

"No?  Do you mean to say,
then, that you were not embarrassed today?" he challenged.

"Of course not."   Her
chin came up.  "I was worried sick about you, but never embarrassed."

He merely looked at her, studying
her in confusion and disbelief and yes, even a wary kind of hope, unable to
fathom why she wouldn't be embarrassed.

"Can you tell me more about
these . . . episodes, Andrew?  Today you saw Indians.  The morning after our
wedding, you saw and heard something else, something that Freckles and I did
not.  What was it then?  I don't know much about fits and seizures, but it has
always been my understanding that sufferers tend to be in a semiconscious
stupor while experiencing an attack; you seemed to be fully aware of your
senses."

"I am.  And what I saw and
heard that morning was a gleaming silver monster the size of three battleships,
soaring over our heads in a roar of thunder."

She smiled.  "That doesn't
sound like a fit, Andrew — it sounds like a vision."

"A vision of what?  Madness,
I tell you.  Madness.  Lucien probably has a chain all picked out for me at Bedlam."

"Stop it."

"It's true, Celsie.  I'm
going mad, and there's nothing that you or anyone else can do about it except
hide me away from Society until I'm ready to be committed so that I don't
humiliate the lot of you."

"Hiding you away is the last
thing I intend to do.  You are the most fascinating, brilliant, incredibly
intelligent man I know, and I will not allow you for one moment to deprive the
world of what you have to offer it.  Now, tell me some of the other things
you've seen."

He slanted her a
half-disbelieving, half-hopeful look from beneath his lashes.  "It's
nonsense, all of it.  Bloody nonsense."

"Tell me anyhow."

"You really want to know,
then?"

She smiled again.  "I am
asking, aren't I?"

"Oh, very well, then."
And so he told her about being at the townhouse in London a fortnight earlier, and
looking out the window only to see a string of amber moons glowing upon a shiny
ribbon of grey.  He told her about being at Rosebriar, near the village of Heath
Row, and seeing the winking firefly roaring overhead the night of her ball.
He told her about passing through Wembley back in April, and seeing thousands
of people piled into a giant soup bowl with a field in the middle and yelling
at the tops of their lungs.  And he told her about a big, red, rectangular box,
with two eyes in the front and rows of people sitting behind glass windows, and
how it — and not any flight of brilliance or imagination on his part — had
prompted his idea for a double-compartmented coach.

She listened in rapt fascination,
eager to hear about every strange thing he'd seen and heard.   Finally he ran
out of words and turned his head to look quietly at her.

"So what do you think?"
he asked.  "I'm going mad, aren't I?"

She pursed her lips, thinking.
"I don't know.  I can't help but wonder if there's a purpose to these
things."

"A purpose?"

"Well, yes.  Maybe you're a
modern-day prophet, Andrew.  Maybe this is all allegory.  Maybe God is trying
to tell you something, or you have simply been gifted in a way that neither of
us will ever understand.  I don't know what to think.  But I do know one
thing:  You ought to take advantage of everything you're seeing.  Write it all
down, catalogue each episode, try to find a pattern, try to use what you're
seeing toward the pursuit of your own creations.  I can help you."

"Help me?"

She grinned.  "Well, you are
not the most organized person in the world.  If you leave all the
paperwork, organization, and administration to me, you, my dear husband, can
get on with your science."

Andrew stared at her
incredulously.  Dear God in heaven . . . have I been truly blessed?  She's
not going to turn away from me, then?  She's actually going to remain at my
side, help me through this, take what's bad and make it good?  He shook his
head, feeling as though the storm clouds that had been hanging over his head
and future this past year were finally clearing away, allowing the first
brilliant rays of sunlight to touch him from above.

And Celsie was that sunlight.

He reached out, slid an arm
around her waist, and pulled her close, needing her strength, her optimism, her
new way of looking at things — and the solid, living warmth of her that was his
only comfort in the strange and confusing world his life had become.

"What a fool I've been for
not telling you earlier," he murmured, feeling humbled and ashamed.  "I
was so afraid that you'd reject me if you knew the truth, that your admiration
would turn to pity, and, well . . . I guess I found the idea faintly
unbearable."

"The idea that I'd reject you,
or that my admiration would turn to pity?"

"The former, of course."

She smiled.  "Well, Andrew,
if you were afraid of that, then I'd say you weren't as loathe to marry
me as you might have thought."

"It's the madness," he
said despairingly.  "As much as I think I'd like to be someone's husband,
I shouldn't be married to anyone.  It's not fair to her.  Not fair to start
something that's only going to end in heartbreak.  I'm a doomed man."

"Oh, no, Andrew.  You're not
a doomed man.  You're a very gifted one, I think, blessed in a very special
way, and you probably have more to offer this world than you can ever know —
and more than any ordinary man of science could ever give."  She pulled
him close, gazing deeply into his eyes.  "I don't know what ails you, and
I'm not even going to try to guess, but I know one thing:  Together, you and I
are going to turn this little affliction of yours from the negative into the
positive.  And we're going to start right now."

Chapter 27

They left immediately for
Rosebriar.

Oh, it was amazing, what confession
could bring!  Like the earth after a rain shower, Andrew felt cleansed.  Reborn.
He filled his lungs with clean, sweet air as Newton carried him swiftly along
the muddy roads, and gazed about him with new eyes.  Three days without sleep,
yet he had never felt more alive.  Three days of marriage, and a lifetime of
hope before him.  How long had it been since he'd appreciated the beauty of a
hard blue sky reflected in the perfect mirror of a puddle?  The winsome sight
of a wagtail flitting before them?  The joy of simply being alive?  His future
was uncertain yes, but he now knew he had one constant in his life:  Celsie.
With her by his side, he would not have to face anything alone, ever again.

As he watched her cantering along
beside him on Sheik, his heart swelled and his loins tightened.  Oh, how he
would love to pull her off the fiery little stallion and into his arms . . .
how he would love to plunder her mouth, her body, right here in a grassy verge,
in a damp glade.  She had given him back the world.  She had knelt with him in
the muddy street, shielded him from ridicule and speculation, and defended him
with all the courage of a tigress standing over its wounded mate.  As long as
he had Celsie, he was invincible.

It hit him like a broadside of
iron.  I love her.

His hands tightened on the reins
to anchor his suddenly dizzy head.

God help me — I love her!

Such a momentous realization
nearly overwhelmed him.  He was no longer the prisoner of his own fears,
because she had set him free.  He was no longer a prisoner of his own fearful
future, because she had made lightness out of something heavy, brightness out
of something dark.  God in heaven, he didn't even have to remain a prisoner in
his own house anymore, because she — his own, dear, wife — knew all,
accepted all, accepted him.

They were a half mile from
Rosebriar; already he could see the big house of rambling grey stone nestled
against its backdrop of green hills and heath, of autumn trees dark, scraggly,
and bare-leaved against the hard blue sky.  Without warning, Andrew pulled Newton
up, snared Sheik's reins in his other hand, and as both horses plowed to a
stop, leaned breathlessly toward the startled Celsie.

"Andrew, what are you
doing?"

For answer, his mouth came down
on hers.  She melted against him, making a noise of contentment deep in her
throat, and for him there was only his wife, her soft lips yielding to his, her
arm winding around his neck, the tips of her breasts just touching his chest,
her tongue slipping out to playfully taste his own.

Sheik fidgeted and sidestepped
away, breaking the kiss.  Andrew met Celsie's gaze, breathing hard.

She put a hand to her heart, her
eyes glowing with banked silver fire.

With invitation.

And then she gave him a
mischievous little grin and looked rather pointedly at the pommel of his
saddle.  Or rather, at the hardening bulge in his breeches that was just inches
away.

For Andrew, the chill November
day was suddenly very warm.

For Celsie, the urge to reach out
and touch that growing bulge was suddenly very strong.

"Thank you for agreeing to
come back to Rosebriar, Andrew," she murmured, finally lifting her gaze to
meet his.  "I know you're tired, and that this was a bit of a ride, but it
didn't seem appropriate to spend our first real night as husband and wife in
your brother's house."  She edged Sheik a little closer to Newton, and
reaching out, dragged her finger suggestively up the side of her husband's
thigh, watching in satisfaction as he shut his eyes and groaned softly.   She
leaned close, and with a coy grin, whispered into his ear, "I think it's
time we begin our marriage in earnest, don't you?  After all, we have a wedding
night to consummate."

"Yes . . . " he leaned
toward her once more, his lips brushing her cheek and causing a warm glow to
spread through her blood.  "Lost time to make up for."

"Wild inventions to create .
. ."

"Homeless puppies to save .
. ."

"Unfinished business to
complete . . ."

His hand had found the small of
her back through the woolen pleats of her riding jacket.  She sighed in
contentment and anticipation.

"Andrew?"

"Celsie?"

He looked at her expectantly, his
eyes intense, his grin slow and lazy and full of that famed de Montforte
charm.  She smiled in open invitation and slowly gathered her reins.  And then:

"First one back to the house
wins!"

She set her heels to Sheik's
sides and squealed with excitement as the fleet Arabian shot ahead like a quail
exploding from cover.  A moment later she heard the thundering tatoo of Newton's
pursuit, and laughing, gave the little stallion his head.  The wind sang in her
ears.  Mud spattered her flying petticoats.  The horse's ears twitched forward,
twitched back, and suddenly Newton, two hands taller and Thoroughbred-fast, was
there beside her, iron-gray mane streaming in the wind, nostrils flaring red,
his great galloping legs eating up the road.

A hand snaked around her waist
and Celsie shrieked as she was pulled from the saddle across flying space, only
to be swept up into the hard curve of her husband's embrace.  Laughing, he settled
her before him, imprisoning her within his arms and not letting the big
thoroughbred slow until they were through the gates of Rosebriar and on their
way down the stately drive, Sheik cantering in their wake.  As they trotted up
to the steps of the front entrance, they were both laughing.

Celsie, her face flushed with
wind and her heart pounding, her bottom half on the pommel and half on Newton's
withers, turned and pushed playfully at Andrew's chest.  "You really are
mad!" she cried breathlessly —

And kissed him.

Beneath them, Newton was still
moving.  Dutifully he carried them up to the steps and stopped, where he tossed
his head and waited for them to dismount.

But Celsie was still kissing her
handsome husband, loving this new, cheerful side to him that she had only
glimpsed before, loving the way his tongue traced her lips before slipping
between them, loving the feel of his hand as it moved up the front of her
embroidered waistcoat, his thumb pushing against the bottom of one breast.  She
groaned as he lightly caressed her nipples through the fabric, teasing them to
small, hard buds, his hand hidden by her jacket and cloak.

Flushed, dazed, and breathless,
she finally pulled away.

"What will the
servants think?" Andrew teased, with a wicked gleam in his eye.

"That Rosebriar's mistress
is madly in love with her husband.  Now come, Andrew.  I have a present for
you, and I must give it to you now, before we meet in bed, before you kiss me
again and make me lose all my resolve to make this perfect —"

"A present?"

"A wedding present!  Come,
let's go!"

She slid out of his arms and
landed lightly on the ground.  He dismounted, handed the Thoroughbred's reins
to an approaching groom, and ran after his wife as she flew up the front
stairs.  He caught her arm one step from the top and spun her around.  She was
laughing, her eyes bright and her cheeks rosy from the cold wind as she tumbled
into his arms.

"If we're going to make this
perfect, I have a few ideas of my own," he said.  "First I am going
to kiss you.  Then I am going to carry you over the threshold as I should have
done the other morning.  And finally I'm going to let you go for only the space
of a heartbeat, because I, too, have a wedding present to give you."

Again their lips met, and she was
still kissing him as he lifted her easily in his arms, carried her up the last
stone step and over the threshold into the home that had once been her
father's, then hers — and now belonged to them both.  He didn't bother shutting
the door, leaving it swinging open behind them for a servant to close.

In the entrance hall, he finally
set her down.  "Very well, go get your present, then, and I'll go get
mine.  Where shall we meet?"

"Top of the stairs in a
quarter of an hour!"

Then, laughing, she kissed him
fully on the lips and was gone in a whirl of dark woolen petticoats.

Andrew stood there for a moment
in the hall, his head reeling, his heart singing.  God and thunderation, what
the devil had he wasted all this time, energy and worry on?  Perfect women did
indeed exist!  He had one!

And what the devil was he doing
just standing there?

He ran to fetch his present to
her, which was still packed in the coach that had come down with them from
Blackheath.  The coach was in the stables, and as Andrew lifted the heavy wooden
crate from the vehicle, he cursed himself for not having had it brought round
to the house.  By the time he lugged the thing back to the house, through the
door, and across the entrance hall, he was nearly out of breath.  There he set
the crate down and paused to look up the grand flight of stairs.

Celsie was there, all right, at
the very top, her eyes laughing, her arms empty, watching in amusement as he
bent once more and labored to get the huge crate up the stairs.

"Is that my present?"
she asked impishly, leaning against the wall and watching him struggling with
his burden.

"It certainly is."

"Well, I guess it's not a
piece of the famous de Montforte jewelry," she quipped, folding her arms
and pretending to be very disappointed.  "Unless it's a four-million-carat
diamond."

"You're right . . . not
jewelry," he managed, stopping to rest for a moment before picking the
giant box back up and continuing on.

"It looks fearfully heavy.
What's in there?"

"Can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"It's a surprise."

"What is it made of, then?  Solid
gold?"

"Solid iron."

"Iron?" she said,
trying not to look too disappointed by the fact that her handsome new
bridegroom was not as romantic as she had thought.  "Really, Andrew . .
."

"Don't laugh, you might like
it."

"Yes, I might, if you can
ever succeed in getting it up these stairs.  All I can say is that I'm glad I
married you for your brains and not your brawn."  She put her hands on her
hips and grinned saucily down at him.  "Why, I could have had that thing
up these stairs in half the time you're taking!"

"You try picking the
confounded thing up!" he said drolly,  taking out a handkerchief and
mopping his forehead.

Celsie, one brow lifting in
mocking amusement, waited until he reached the top of the stairs and set the
crate down.  Shooting him a superior little grin, she reached down to pick it
up — and froze, her grin abruptly fading.  She might as well have tried to lift
an overweight Great Dane.  The crate wouldn't budge.

"Very well then, I reclaim
my comment about your brawn," she said, straightening.  "It's a
wonder you didn't break your back!  Really, Andrew, why didn't you just leave
it downstairs, instead of lugging it all the way up here?"

"Because you, madam, asked
me to bring it up."

"Oh."

"It really does belong in
the kitchen," he added.

Her face fell, though she tried
not to let it show.  "Let me guess . . .  It's an iron cook pot for the
hearth," she said, trying not to sound too deflated.

"No, it is not an iron cook pot.
Now, go get my present and we'll open them right here," he said, leaning
against the elegantly carved balustrade and crossing his arms.  "Unless
it's even bigger than this thing?"

"It is much bigger than
that.  And I couldn't presume to carry it even if I wanted to.  You'll have to
come with me."

"You would say that .
. . I suppose you want me to bring this, then, too."

"Of course.  Would you like
me to help you carry it?"

He merely shot her an exasperated
look.  Celsie's eyes sparkled above her grin.  She watched as he crouched down
and lifted the heavy crate, hoisting it even though Celsie hadn't been able to
lift it an inch off the floor.

Now that she knew how impossibly
heavy the thing was, Celsie couldn't help but stand transfixed.  Very well,
then, so her gifted husband had brawn as well as brains.  Why, her side of this
marital bargain was getting better and better!  She watched him balancing the
box, and felt a thrill of expectation at the thought of touching those strong,
defined muscles . . .

"Stop staring, girl, and
start walking.  This isn't the lightest thing I've ever carried!"

Celsie laughed and continued on.
She was well aware that his appreciative gaze was on the sway of her hips and
the narrowness of her waist as she preceded him down the hall, and the thought
only made her all the more eager to finally get her husband into bed where he
belonged.

She led him past the state
bedrooms, past the apartments they would call their own, and into a rich,
masculine room that had once been her papa's library but was now empty of books
and all signs of recent habitation.  Dark mahogany bookcases lined an entire
wall.  A case clock dominated one corner of the room.  Tall, south-facing
windows let in the thin autumn sun and overlooked the ornamental pond, its
surface now peppered with yellow and brown leaves, in the near distance.  The
walls were panelled with fine English oak, the doors carved and heavy, the
polished floor devoid of furniture save for three long tables, all of them
spotlessly bare.  All of them, that is, except the middle one, upon which stood
a decanter of wine and two crystal goblets.

Celsie stopped, turned, and hands
on her hips, regarded him happily.

"Well, here you are,
husband.  My wedding present to you."

Andrew set down his burden with a
grunt and straightened.  He looked around and frowned, his expression much the
same as Celsie's had been upon learning that his present to her had been a
monstrous piece of iron.

"So, what do you
think?" Celsie asked excitedly, feigning innocence.  "Isn't it
wonderful?"

"Uh . . . isn't what
wonderful?"

"Why, this room, of
course."

"Sorry?"

"It's yours," she said
gaily, unable to stop grinning.  "Oh Andrew, don't look so baffled!  There
was a real reason why I didn't want you to have the downstairs ballroom for
your laboratory . . . I had this room all picked out and ready for you.  I
thought you'd like it so much better . . .  It gets lovely sunshine all day, is
away from commotion and the sound of the kennels outside, and was once the
domain of my father, the master of the house.  Now, as the new master of the
house, it is your domain.  Yours to do with, whatever you wish."

He stared about him, blinking and
amazed, his expression softening into one of sheer, unfettered rapture.  A
broad, boyish smile overtook his mouth, and he shook his head in disbelief, his
eyes glowing with happiness.  "Oh, Celsie . . . you couldn't have chosen a
nicer gift!"

"There's more," she
said.

"More?"

"Yes.  Since you are so
hopelessly disorganized, Andrew, and since I'm beginning to think that your
dislike of paperwork and the meticulous recording of information is one of the
reasons you jump from one idea to the next before seeing things through, I have
determined to do something about it.  This chamber not only comes with all the
furniture you see — also part of my wedding present, of course — it comes with
its own laboratory assistant."  She grinned.  "Me."

"You?"

"Me."  She flew into
his arms, hugging him tightly.  "Oh, Andrew, I just know you're
going to change the world, and best of all, you're going to start right here!
I can't wait!"

Overwhelmed, he lifted her high
and swung her around once, twice, her petticoats flying.  "Celsie —
dearest, most delightful Celsie — nothing you could have given me, save for
yourself, could have made me so happy!"

"Well since you get me as
well as the room, then you should never have reason to be in a bad mood, ever
again!"

He bent his head and kissed her,
his heart so full of joy and adoration he thought he was going to burst.  It
was a long time before he finally set her back, tenderly gripping her upper
arms as he gazed down into her eyes.

"Do you know, Celsiana Blake
de Montforte, I am dangerously close to admitting that I could quite easily
fall in love with you.  In fact, I am dangerously close to admitting that I'm
already half in love with you as it is."

"Well then, if you're half
in love with me, and I'm half in love with you, does that make us a
whole?"

"Sorry?"

"Does that make us wholly in
love with each other?"

He laughed.  "Well, now,
that's rather interesting logic, isn't it?  I hadn't quite looked at it that
way, but yes, I do suppose it must."

"Well then, show me how much
you half love me by letting me open my present!"

He looked suddenly shy, and she
saw a faint red flush suffusing his cheeks.  "Oh, well, nothing I could
ever give you would even come close to what you've just given me."

"You're probably
right," she said jokingly, trying to lessen his sudden embarrassment.
"I cannot imagine what a huge chunk of iron is going to do for me!
But never mind, you've intrigued me, Andrew.  I'll open it now."

She knelt down beside the large
crate, flipped open the rope latch, lifted the cover —

And blinked.

"Do you like it?" he
asked, standing over her shoulder and displaying the same false innocence she
had shown just moments ago.

She just knelt there, staring
rather stupidly at the pulleys and wooden crank handle and gears with their
wolfhound-sized teeth, at this strange concoction of iron that was the ugliest
and most unromantic wedding gift imaginable, and didn't know quite what to
say.  She didn't want to hurt his feelings; he sounded so excited, so eager for
her to like it . . .

Whatever "it" was.

"Um, Andrew . . . it's, uh,
rather interesting, but I haven't the faintest idea what it is."

"Guess."

"Um . . . it's the inner
workings for a new clock you've designed?"

"Try again."

"Something you've seen in
one of your visions?"

"No — you've got one more
guess."

"Something to do with a new
carriage."

"Wrong again.  Shall I tell
you what it is, then?"

"I think you're going to
have to," she said, trying not to sound too glum.

"It's a mechanized
roaster," he said happily.  "To go into the kitchen.  To turn the
meats.  To turn the meats over the open fire, Celsiana, so that your little
turnspit dogs can now go looking for another line of work."

It took a moment for his words to
sink in.

To turn the meats over the
open fire, Celsiana, so that your little turnspit dogs can now go looking for
another line of work.

Celsie's gaze flew back to what
had been, just a moment ago, a confusing and ugly jumble of iron and wood; and
then, suddenly, a lump caught in her throat and all those gears and pulleys and
strange bits of metal went blurry beneath the sudden sheen of tears.

Her hand went to her mouth.

"Oh, Andrew,"
she breathed, turning to look up at him over her shoulder with huge, watery
eyes.  She felt her jaw quivering.  "I can't believe you did this . .
."

His cheeks were a little red.  He
shrugged, trying to make light of what he'd done, but she saw the pride in his
eyes, the vulnerability, the desperate hope that she'd like what he had made
for her.  "Oh, well, it didn't take long," he admitted.  "I got
the idea when we were in London.  I know the blacksmith in Ravenscombe quite
well, and he was happy to fashion this to my specifications —"

"You mean to say you thought
this up just like that?"

He shrugged.  "That's how I
think most things up," he confessed, almost apologetically.  "I can't
help it."

"Andrew, you're absolutely brilliant!"
She leaped to her feet and hurled herself into his arms, kissing his face,
kissing his lips, while huge tears of happiness slipped down her cheeks.
"Do you know what this is going to mean to all those poor little dogs
burning their paws off in so many English kitchens, running their tiny legs to
the bone?  Do you realize how this is going to revolutionize the way kitchens
are run, the way food is cooked?  Oh, Andrew — I thank you!  All those little
dogs who are currently being so abused thank you!  Thank you, thank you, thank
you!"

He caught her as she hugged him
around the neck, nearly choking him and more happy than he'd ever seen her.
His own grin was a little cocky.  Well, damn . . . if this was all it took to
make the lady happy, the road ahead wasn't going to be so difficult, after all!

"Do you know, I couldn't
have asked for a better present," she said, wiping at her streaming eyes.
"I am the happiest woman in England.  I have the smartest husband in the
whole wide world.  And the only thing that could possibly make me even happier
is if my smart, handsome husband were to lift me in his arms and carry me off
to our marriage bed."

He smiled lazily down at her, and
in one neat, easy movement, scooped her up.  "Well then, dear lady — your
wish is my most eager command."

Chapter 28

"We'll have to get a patent
for it, immediately.  We'll have to present it to the Royal Society.  We'll
have to throw a huge ball and invite everyone there is to invite, have a
demonstration, and prove that people don't have to use poor little dogs
in the kitchen!"

Andrew merely smiled and,
carrying the comparatively weightless Celsie, strode easily down the hall.

"We'll have to enlarge the
kennels so we can take in all the dogs that will be out of work once your wheel
goes into production.  We'll have to print broadsides informing the general
public.  Oh, and Andrew, we simply must make a present of one for the
king's household, because if he endorses it, all of England will want
one!"

"Yes, Celsie."

"Oh!  You just passed the
door, Andrew.  Go back a few steps!"

He did, carrying her over the
threshold and kicking the door shut behind him as he moved toward the bed.

"We'll have to start a
company to manufacture it.  We'll have to take it on tour throughout England.
In fact, we'll have to take it all around Europe so that everyone there will
also —"

She never finished.  His mouth
came down hard on hers, crushing her lips with blistering intensity.  His
tongue forced her lips apart and his breath was hot against her cheek.  Ohhhhhh,
Celsie thought, and began to melt.  As he laid her down on the bed, she felt
her spine sinking into the plush coverlet, her eyes closing, her head falling
upon a paw.

A paw.

Freckles was in the bed.

Her eyes flew open.
"Andrew, we can't make love here, Freckles will see!"

"Freckles can close his
eyes."

"But Andrew —"

He scooped her back up, carried
her to the elegant, claw-footed settee, and laid her down on it instead.  Her
body angled across the rich red damask, one leg bent at the knee, the other
just resting on the rug.  One of her shoes came off.  Her layers of petticoats
spilled from her hips and tumbled toward the floor in frothy yards of quilted
cotton, of heavy, serviceable wool.  She felt his mounting urgency to have
her.  She felt his fingers pulling her stock from her neck, his lips against
her throat.  And she felt his hand palming and stroking her breast where it
swelled above her stays, warming her skin, firing her desire.

"God and the devil, I hate
these things," he muttered.  "Must beauty be contained in such a
damnable cage?"

He couldn't reach her; not
without turning her over and unlacing her.  And he had neither the patience nor
the ability to wait.  He crowded onto the narrow sofa, too much man for so
little space, his knee driving against the outside of her thigh, his hand
reaching down to find the hem of her petticoats and pull them high —

"Lord save me, you're
wearing breeches under these things!"

"Well, I did ride
astride, Andrew . . .  Did you want the saddle to chafe my legs to
ribbons?"

"The last time I saw
you in breeches . . ."

"Was altogether memorable.
Go ahead, Andrew.  Let's make more memories.  But please don't undress
me fully — it's dreadfully cold in here."

"It won't be for long,"
he promised.

She unfastened the breeches and
lifted her bottom, inviting him to tug them off.

He did, tossing them to the
floor.  She saw his slow, appreciative smile as he found that which he'd been
expecting to find — stockings, garters, and bare naked thighs.  Oh, she loved
when he smiled like that!  And she loved the feel of his hand skimming up her
stocking-clad calf.  His mouth was warm against her breasts, swelling above the
tightly laced stays, and now Celsie could feel his hand moving across her knee,
fumbling with her garter, finally cursing and tearing it down her leg and
peeling the filmy stocking off with it.

"Is this what ravishment
feels like, I wonder?" she breathed faintly, loving every minute of it.

"It's what not being able to
wait feels like."

His hand, so warm against her
flesh, so delicious, stroked up her inner thigh, his fingers searching,
searching . . . and finding.

Finding her already hot and wet
for him.

Finding her slick and ready and
eager and wanting.

"Oh, God," he said
hoarsely, and with one quick movement, he tossed the heavy fall of her skirts
fully up and over her stomach, exposing her long, white legs — one bare, the
other still wearing its garter and stocking — and her naked femininity to the
pale, late afternoon sun.

To his smoldering, intent gaze.

He stared; Celsie saw his chest
rising and falling, his long lashes coming down to veil eyes that had gone
suddenly dark.  His knee pressed uncomfortably into her outer thigh; his
arousal was fully evident beneath the flap of his breeches.  She felt exposed
and naked and shameless and wanton as he stared down at her, not saying a word,
just looking.  Just admiring.  And then he lifted his gaze and in his eyes she
saw desire burning so hot that it nearly scalded her with its intensity.

"Damnation," he swore,
on a little laugh.

"Damnation?"

"How the hell am I
ever going to find the time, to find the incentive, to find the will to pursue
my science when I have you around to constantly tempt me?"

"I guess you're just going
to have to practice a little restraint."  She smiled up at him.
"Though I certainly hope you won't."

"Damn right I won't.  By
God, Celsie, you're going to be the death of me, I swear it."

She giggled.  "Where's that
potion, Andrew?  I thought we were going to try it topically."

"Don't know . . . don't
care."

"Oh, get it.  Get it, and
let's see what it does."

He got up, opened his coat,
fumbled in the pocket and found the tiny vial.  Celsie lay draped over the
sofa, bathed in the glow of the sun coming in from the window above, her long
legs framed by white underpetticoats and wool overpetticoats and the rich red
damask of the settee.  She could feel her body temperature rising.  She could
feel an empty ache in her arms, in her belly, in that spot between her legs
where desire throbbed hot and moist, aching to be fulfilled.

She began to tremble with need.

To breathe a little heavier.

He returned with the vial,
forcing a space for himself on the seat beside her, his hand stroking the
velvety skin of her inner thigh, coming near to but never quite touching the
part of her that needed him more than any other.  He held the vial up to the
light, examining it, prolonging the ecstatic inevitable.

"Shall we try it on me or on
you?" he asked, his hand skimming back up her thigh and now gently pushing
the leg that hung off the seat, further away from the other.

"You choose."

"All right, then."

He pushed her thighs even further
apart.

"Andrew, you're going to
split me right in half," she gasped, a little breathlessly.

"I want to see you.  I want
to see all of you."  His fingers were playing with the silky hair
of her mound now, gently stroking the hidden folds within, making her entire
body thrum with sensation.  He looked intently down at her, watching everything
his fingers were doing.  "And I want to see just what happens when I put a
drop or two of this solution right here between these pretty pink folds — and
touch it to this hard little nub."

His erotic suggestion caused
Celsie to melt yet further into the cushion.  Just the thought of that
fervently potent aphrodisiac against her most intimate flesh was enough to
double her already pounding pulse.

"Well, then . . . go
ahead," she managed, stretching an arm over her head and gazing up at his
handsome, intent face.

He slowly uncapped the vial, the
deliberate delay in his movements causing the anticipation to build all the
more.  Celsie felt the room's cool, unheated air drifting around her exposed
thighs . . . her knees . . . kissing her shamelessly exposed cleft.  Trembling,
she curled her right toe into the floor rug and pressed the other leg, still
bent at the knee, to the red damask that covered the back of the settee.

"You're not cold, are
you?"

"No — just incredibly
impatient to have you inside of me."

Her gaze followed Andrew's hand
as he put a finger over the top of the open vial and briefly turned it upside
down.  Then he took his finger away, a drop of the liquid standing upon the pad
of his forefinger, shimmering in the fiery afternoon light.

She gazed up at him.

He gazed back, smiling a little
wickedly.

He reached down and parted her
with one hand; then he touched his finger to her opening, and dragged it down
the inside length of one damp petal of inner skin.

Dragged it back up the length of
the other, painting her with the solution.

Celsie, her gaze still locked
with his, began to shake.

"Do you feel anything
yet?" he asked.

"Nothing but you . . .
Which is erotic enough in itself."

He smiled.  Again, he put his
finger to the vial, this time opening her with the other thumb and forefinger,
observing her while the drop of potion stood upon his finger.  Somehow he
managed to recap the bottle.  Then, slowly, torturously, he forced her inner
lips wide, touched the drop of liquid to that hard, swollen button that hid
between them — and keeping his finger there, pressed hard.

Celsie moaned, sucking her lips
between her teeth.

He increased the pressure.
"Now do you feel anything?" he asked softly.

"It's . . . it's starting to
tingle down there."

"Hmm, yes."

"It's — I think it's
starting to — to burn."

"Does it hurt?"

"Oh, no.  It's not that
kind of burning . . . if you know what I mean."

"Ah, yes.  I know what you
mean."  His smile was positively wicked.  "I must remember to make a
note of that."

He kept the pressure against her,
pushing down with his finger, watching her flushed face as her head began to
move slowly back and forth on the satiny red pillow.

"Andrew," she managed,
on a choked little gasp.

"Yes, dear?"

"Andrew, I think I need you
to be inside of me now."

"I'm not done observing,
Celsie."

Heat was building within her, all
of it centered around his finger . . . and every inch of flesh the aphrodisiac
had touched.  "To hell with the experiment, Andrew . . . I'm getting
desperate."

He merely caught her nub between
thumb and finger and began gently rolling it.

"Oh —" Celsie moaned,
fingers clenching and unclenching, toes curling, the sensation beginning to
feel like a thousand little needles all stabbing into that one fiery spot,
screaming for pressure, screaming for release, screaming for his mouth, his
tongue, his finger, his manhood, anything.  And now he was rubbing that
hard bit of flesh a little more forcefully, intently watching her face,
intently watching the nub itself.  Celsie choked back a moan and grabbed at his
hand, trying to push it against her all the harder.  "Oh, Andrew —
I think I'm going to die if you don't do something!"

He was smiling, one brow raised
as he observed her reactions, his eyes glowing with passion as he kept on.
"Hmm, yes — you're blushing down there."

"To hell with the science
stuff, Andrew, take me — oh please, take me, I'm burning up!"

Little whimpers began to escape
her and she started to pant, to squirm, to struggle to get her legs together if
only to put pressure against that keening, ravenous pins-and-needles ache that
was screaming for fulfillment.

"Touch me, Andrew — oh touch
me, I'm going mad!"

She shoved his hand against the
burning flesh, crying out and twisting her hips against him as she fought for
release.

"I say, this is a
most unusual reaction," he teased.

Celsie couldn't take any more.
In one swift movement she lunged upwards, spilling Andrew off the sofa and onto
the floor.  He landed with a hard oomph on his back, the fall knocking
the breath out of him and sending the vial skittering across the floor.  In a
flash Celsie was on him, her hand ripping at his breeches, little sobs coming
from her throat.

She was maddened, desperate,
strong, but no match for him.  He caught her flailing hands, rolling her over
onto her back and kissing her hard on the mouth.  She broke free, one hand
sliding up his nape and through his hair, the other raking his back through the
shirt.

"Celsie, hold still —"

"I can't — I'm trying,
Andrew, but I just can't!"

He fumbled with his breeches, but
she was thrashing too much, whimpering with need, heels digging into the floor
and her body shaking violently.  She tried to reach him through his breeches.
Andrew grabbed her arm, pinning her to the floor, trapping her before she could
reach for him and send him careening over the edge.

And then he looked down and saw
that her wild fighting had sent her skirts up, and there was nothing between
him and the rug on which she lay but long white thighs, downy curls, and a damp
slit of pink, plush, flesh.

Andrew groaned, pulled her up a
foot or two on the floor, and holding her legs open with both hands, buried his
face between them.

At first touch of his bristled
cheeks scraping her inner thighs, she arched upward on a half wail, half sob.
His hands anchored her thighs apart, the thumbs pressing into her flesh, and a
moment later he was kissing her, his tongue hot, his mouth wide-open against
her inner flesh.  Celsie gave a harsh cry and arched her back, one hand
breaking free, her nails clawing at the rug and bunching it in one fist.  She
felt his tongue darting out to probe and excite the nub of flesh that still
burned out of control from the potion, felt him stroking and kissing and licking,
and now everything inside her was gathering forces and careening toward a
violent explosion.

"Andrew — I need you inside
me, need you inside me, now —"

He only pressed his mouth harder
against her, his tongue sliding between her wet folds in search of the very
core of her, stroking, stroking —

"Andrew —"

And then Celsie cried out as
everything inside her splintered and blew apart.  Convulsing, she bucked
upwards and tumbled Andrew onto his back, clawing at his breeches, ripping away
the drop front with desperate fingers.  He sprang hard and free against her
belly, already thundering toward climax himself; just in time, Celsie got him
inside her, and he came with a hoarse, ripping groan that mirrored her own
cries as he fell with her over the precipice.

She lay there atop him, damp with
sweat, her face buried in the curve of his neck and shoulder, and both of them
breathing like winded horses.

"You and your damned
experiments!"

"You asked for it!"

"Yes, well, next time, you're
the one who's going to see what it feels like!"

He guffawed.  She laughed.  And
then he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pinned her to his spent body.

"If I survive a month, let
alone a week, of being married to you, it's going to be a damned miracle,"
he said.  And then, flinging out an arm, he caught the corner of the rug,
dragged it over the both of them as a makeshift blanket, and for the first time
in days, finally shut his eyes.

Beneath his back the floor was
hard and drafty, but they were exhausted.

"I was wrong, Celsie,"
he murmured, feeling sleep rushing down on him as he snuggled her tightly
against his heart.

"Wrong?"

"About being only half in
love with you . . . "

She smiled.  He put his lips
against her cheek.

Oblivion came quickly to them
both.

And on the high, soft bed,
Freckles, snoring deeply, slept on.

Chapter 29

At about the time that Andrew and
Celsie finally crawled into bed some hours later, shivering and squeezing to
one side so as not to disturb the sprawled-out Freckles, Gerald was having tea
with the very virtuous, heavily dowered, passably pretty, and altogether silly
Miss Sarah Madden.

He had a small vial in the pocket
of his jacket, his portion of the aphrodisiac, though he had done nothing
himself to obtain it.  He did not begrudge Eva the lion's share of the stuff;
if she needed it to bring down tyrants of power, to force marriages that would
benefit America, to do whatever it was she needed it to do, well, that was her
prerogative.  He patted his pocket; he had his prerogatives, too.

"More tea, my lord?"
asked Miss Sarah, lifting the teapot.

He nodded, watching as she
refreshed his beverage.  She turned away to address a footman, and it was then,
while she wasn't looking, that Gerald discreetly tapped a few drops of the
potion into her own cup.

He had it back in his pocket
before she returned her attention to him.

The footman approached.  "Miss
Madden — "

"Not now, Perkins."

"But Miss Madden, I must
have a word with you — "

"Later, Perkins!"
Irritated, she turned back to her guest.  "So, as I was saying," she
babbled, taking a few sips of the brew and setting the cup down in its saucer,
"this is my very first Season, and Mama was determined that I should be
dressed in the very finest that Madame Boulanger had to offer.  She thought
that I might set a new style with this particular style of sleeve.  What do you
think, Lord Somerfield?"

"It is charming," he
said, far less enamored of her sleeve than he was of her money — which, if
things went according to plan, would soon be his.

How long did it take for the
damned potion to work?

Perkins was still trying to get
her attention.  Fed up, Miss Madden waved him away, her face pinched and
annoyed.  "I rather think that this sleeve will be all the rage in London
this year, too.  And this lovely shade of blue . . . Mama says it sets off my
eyes to their best advantage, would you not agree, my lord?  Do you remember
when Lord Charles de Montforte's wife, Amy, made her debut last year wearing
that brilliant peacock gown?  And how everyone was wearing peacock after
that?"  She gave a twittering, grating little laugh.  "Well, I was
thinking that if Lady Charles could set a fashion, then so could I.  In fact .
. ."

She trailed off, her face going
suddenly white.

"What is it, my dear?"
asked Gerald, setting down his cup and feigning concern when inside, his every
muscle was tensed and waiting for her to attack him and rip off his clothes.  Waiting
for her ferocious mama to come storming in from the room next door.  Waiting
for the two of them to be caught in a compromising position so that she'd have
to marry him and he'd finally have his hands on a fortune.

"I . . . suddenly don't feel
very well," she said faintly, her hand going to her stomacher and tiny
beads of sweat breaking out on her brow.

He rose.  "Here, let me
assist you."

"No!"

"I insist."

But she leaped to her feet, her
cheeks pasty beneath their rouge, and with a panicky look, bolted from the
room.

Moments later, the formidable
Mrs. Madden swept in.  "Lord Somerfield," she said gravely.  "I
fear I must beg your forgiveness.  My daughter has suddenly become quite
violently ill and has taken to her bed.  Perhaps you will call again tomorrow,
when it is hoped she will be feeling better?"

Gerald bowed, confusion and anger
warring within him.  "Of course, madam.  Please convey my best wishes for
a full recovery to Miss Sarah."

He turned and left, the footman,
Perkins, escorting him to the door and handing him his hat.

It was only after the door had
shut behind him that a troubled Perkins begged a private word with his
employer.

"I don't know what is wrong
with Miss Sarah," said the man, unaware that the subject of his query was,
at that very moment, squatting upstairs over a chamber pot while ferocious
cramps purged her insides, "But I do know I saw something a few
minutes ago that I tried to warn her about, something I'm thinking you ought to
be aware of."

"And that is?"

"That Lord Somerfield tapped
a few drops of something into her tea right before she fell ill."

"You don't say!"

"I do say.  And I'll swear
it on my life, ma'm, that I saw him do it."

~~~~

Eva de la Mouriére arrived in Paris
later that evening and was immediately ushered into the young queen's private
chambers.

"Ah, mon amie!"
cried Marie Antoinette, rushing forward.  "You are here at last!  You have
the potion, no?"

"Yes, Your Majesty,"
said Eva, curtseying.  "I have the potion."

Or that part of it, in any case,
that she was willing to part with.  She had retained a good half of it in
preparation for whatever the future might demand of it.  But at the moment, America's
future demanded it, and so Eva sacrificed part of her trophy.  She stood watching
with veiled triumph as the queen all but grabbed it from her hand and held it
up to the light from the window, her face flushed with excitement.

"Ah, Eva!" she cried,
clasping the bottle to her bosom and looking as though she was actually going
to hug her benefactress.  "Thanks to you and this English inventor,
perhaps I shall succeed where time and nature have failed!  Ah, you are splendide,
trés splendide!  You have ensured the succession of the monarchy, and
your generosity will not go unrewarded.  I cannot thank you enough for what you
have done for me!  What you have done for France!"

Eva hid her satisfied smile.
Marie Antoinette had good reason to be thankful; she had been desperate to
provide the king with an heir, desperate to disprove, once and for all, the
ugly rumors that he was incapable of great passion.  Let the young queen be
grateful.  Eva knew just what she wanted as payment for the trouble she had
gone through to get the potion.

She inclined her head.  "I
am delighted to be of service," she said diplomatically.  "And I am
sure that I, as well as Mr. Franklin, would find ourselves deeply in your
debt, Your Majesty, should France lend her weight to our struggle to throw off
the yoke of Britain forever."

"If this potion," cried
Marie Antoinette, holding up the bottle, "produces the next king of France,
your country will have all the aid we can give!  You want ships?  We supply
them.  You want an army?  We send one!  You want a war?  We make one!  And now
you must excuse and forgive me, Eva, for I am eager to see my Louis!"  Her
voice dropped to an excited whisper.  "Eager to see if this famous love
potion works on French kings as well as it does on English nobility, ha!"

Laughing gaily and leaving Eva to
smile in savage triumph, Marie Antoinette swept from the room in a rustle of
silk and perfume and headed for her husband's bedchambers . . .

Never knowing — as Eva did not
know, as Celsie did not know, as Lord Andrew himself did not even know — that
the bottle did not contain the aphrodisiac at all . . .

But something very, very
different.

~~~~

Lady Brookhampton wasn't the only
society matron who had a mouth.

Two hours after Gerald took his
leave of his prospective heiress, all of London knew of his attempt to
"poison" her.  By that evening, the news was spreading out into the
countryside as fast as couriers could speed a letter.  But it wasn't until
Gerald walked into his club that evening and straight into a reception as warm
as the Arctic that he realized something was wrong.

Horribly, dreadfully, wrong.

Conversation immediately ceased.
A roomful of faces all turned to stare at him.  And there, at the table nearest
the fire at which were also seated Sir Roger Foxcote, the earl of Brookhampton,
and a very cold-eyed and intimidating Major Charles de Montforte, lounged the duke
of Blackheath.

A glass of brandy dangled from
his hand.  His coat was of midnight blue velvet, and he was gazing at
Somerfield with a smile that did nothing to align itself with the total lack of
warmth in those chilling black eyes.

Gerald swallowed.

"I say, Somerfield, is it
really true that you tried to poison a certain young heiress this
afternoon?" he said, still smiling that terrible little smile.

Gerald's glass of brandy slipped
from his nerveless fingers and hit the floor with a tinkling crash.  "What?"

"Oh, do you mean you haven't
heard?"  The smile broadened.  "My dear boy, it is all over London."

Gerald's mouth fell open.  His
panicked gaze shot to the crowd of hostile faces, all watching this horrifying
drama unfold.  Back to the duke of Blackheath.  "I — I don't know what
you're talking about —"

"Certain sources close to me"
— the duke's black gaze flickered to the army officer beside him — "have
also told me of a recent . . . robbery.  Dear me.  The lengths to which some
men will go in order to get a woman into bed with them.  I do wonder if
that bottle of love potion that . . . disappeared . . . causes illness such as
Sarah Madden is suffering?"

Nausea rose in Gerald's gut and
his brow exploded in sweat.  Oh, God.  He knew!  But how the devil could
he know?!

And now, all around, people were
getting to their feet, a low murmur like a swarm of angry bees going through
the room.

"Do you mean he poisoned the
gel with a love potion?!"

"Ain't letting him anywhere
near my daughters, I tell you!"

"Don't even want him in my
house!"

"Is this claim of yours
true, Blackheath?"

The duke, still lounging in his
chair, merely picked up his glass and smiled.

Lord Brookhampton walked forward,
his eyes hard.  "You had best be away from here, Somerfield, if you value
your health.  You will find no friends here."

Gerald stared around him at men
he had known for years, people he had gambled, socialized, got drunk, and grown
up with, and fought down panic as he sought out a friendly face, a sympathetic
smile.  But there were only icy stares, hostile eyes, and a wall of black,
tension-charged silence.

And now, at another table, the
earl of Tetford was setting down his glass and getting to his feet.  The
marquess of Morninghall was clearing his throat and rising.  Around them,
others, too, began to push back their chairs.

Gerald fled the club.  In a state
of rising panic, he went to his friend Taunton's house and was refused an
audience.  He pounded on the door of Mrs. Bottomley's bawdy house in hopes of
finding another group of acquaintances, only to be denied entrance.  Even
Bonkley refused to see him, and as one door after another slammed in his face,
Gerald sunk further and further into a nightmare from which there was no
awakening, clawing futilely for the remains of his life.

The truth hit him.

Andrew de Montforte's potion had
cost him not only Miss Sarah — but every heiress in the country.  Andrew's
potion had cost him his place in Society, his friends, his honor and his
respect.  Andrew's potion had cost him not only his present — but his future.

Lord Andrew de Montforte had
ruined his life.

Fearing her wrath if he didn't
warn her, Gerald sent a note off to Eva and returned to his rented rooms only
long enough to retrieve his pistol and ammunition.

By midnight, he was galloping
west towards Rosebriar . . .

And revenge.

~~~~

Celsie awoke sometime just after
dawn.

The room was gray.  In the
distance a long, low rumble heralded an approaching thunderstorm.  How strange,
she thought, for late autumn.  She sighed and reached for her husband.  The bed
was empty save for Freckles, sprawled across her legs.

She sat up.  "Andrew?"

Blinking, she looked around the
room.  A single chrysanthemum stood in a glass decanter by the bed, a note
tucked beside it.

"Dearest heart.  I love
you more than half.  I love you more than whole.  I love you with everything I
am, which is why you have woken to find yourself alone — I am wide-awake and
could not bear to trouble your sweet slumbers with my restlessness.  I am off
to inspect and set up my delightful new laboratory.  Will you meet me for
breakfast at nine?  I am hungry for far more than just tea and toast . .
."

Your adoring husband,

Andrew

Celsie smiled and held the note
to her heart.  Well, she was hungry for far more than just tea and
toast, too!  Her first thought was to go to the laboratory and help him set it
up . . . or simply seduce him into an early breakfast.  But even an
adoring husband needed a little time to himself — not only to adjust to the
sudden institution of marriage, but to find a sense of familiarity in the
things that made up his working world.  Let him play in his new laboratory.
She could wait an hour or so for breakfast.

She went about her morning
toilette, dressed in a riding habit of dark plum wool, and pinning a smart
round hat to her upswept hair, called for Freckles, who jumped down from the
bed and trotted stiffly to the door.  There he stood, tail wagging, his cloudy
old eyes watching her expectantly.

"I know.  I'm getting far
too lazy, being a married woman, aren't I, Freck?"

She bent down to hug him, but he
was impatient; he needed to go out.

Outside, the morning was still
and grey and unseasonably warm, with low, fast-moving clouds filing in from the
west.  There was rain in the air.  An expectant hush.  No birds were singing,
and a light breeze was already moving ominously over the grasses.  Yes, it
would rain soon, and even as she watched Freckles trot off over the heath,
still a bird dog despite his aging body and senses, she heard again the low,
distant rumble of thunder.

Leaving Freckles to his business,
Celsie headed down the hill towards the kennels.  How she had missed her dogs!
There was Tipper, short, scruffy, and loveable, tail wagging as she ran out of
her indoor area in greeting; there was Molly, barking in excitement as she
spotted Celsie; and there — what was he doing here? — was Gerald.

He had been leaning against the
old oak that in summertime shaded the outdoor runs, arms folded, obviously
waiting for someone.

Her.

"Gerald?"

He smiled and straightened.
"Good morning, Celsie.  You're late for your morning doggie visit.  New
husband replaced them in your affections already?"

She stilled, not liking his tone
of voice, not liking his unkempt, unshaved appearance, not liking the way he
was looking at her with that ugly, angry light in his eye.  She saw an empty
wine bottle on the grass near his feet.  Again, the thunder rumbled, far away
still, but getting closer.

Celsie drew herself up to her
full height.  "I thought I asked you to leave."

"You did."  He was no
longer smiling, and his bloodshot eyes were hard and glittering.  As he
uncrossed his arms, she saw that he was holding a pistol.  "But I have no
where else to go, you see, thanks to your husband."

"I don't know what you're
talking about," she said, nervously eyeing the gun.

"Oh, Celsie.  Why lie to
me?  Surely you knew he sabotaged the aphrodisiac.  Surely you knew that the
solution Eva stole was not the same stuff that caused you to attack your
eccentric young inventor like a bitch in heat."

"So you did have a
part in the robbery, then!"

"Of course I did."  His
face twisted and she saw then that he had been crying.  "What choice did I
have?  My debts were choking me, my creditors were pounding down my door, and
my sister, patron saint of dogs but too bloody selfish to help her own
suffering brother, turned her back on me.  I needed money, Celsie, but you
wouldn't give it to me."

"I gave you enough money to
feed the population of London three times over, Gerald, so don't say I didn't
help you!"

"Well, I needed more than
that.  And since you wouldn't give me any more, the only recourse left to me
was to marry an heiress . . . but even that blew up in my face, thanks to that
scoundrel you call a husband!"

"Gerald —"

He hauled the pistol up, staying
her, his eyes fierce.  "I thought that stupid chit Miss Sarah Madden would
do nicely, so I began courting her.  All was going to plan, but I needed to
hustle things along, so yesterday I slipped a few drops of my share of the
potion into her tea.  She took immediately ill, and somehow, someway, someone
must have found out what I did, because it was all over London by ten o'clock last night.  I was run out of my club.  All but run out of London.  I shall
have to leave the country, but I'll tell you one thing, Celsie:  I'm not
leaving until I have the real aphrodisiac."

"Gerald, that was the
real aphrodisiac.  Why, the duke of Blackheath gave it to us himself . .
."

She trailed off as she realized
what she had just said.

The duke of Blackheath had
given it to them himself.

No.  Oh, no.  Lucien could not
have substituted the real solution with a false one.  He couldn't have . . .
He wouldn't have —

Would he?

Gerald moved toward her and,
pretending a show of brotherly love for the benefit of anyone who might be
watching from the house, wrapped an arm around her waist.  But the pistol
nudging her ribs was no act.

"Gerald, what are you
doing?!"

"You and I, Celsie, are
going for a little ride on horseback where you will meet with a slight
accident.  Your horse is going to go galloping back to the house without his
rider.  Your ever-so-gallant and oh-so-worried husband is going to leave his
lair and go out looking for you."  He smiled, and his voice turned ugly
with suppressed fury as he marched her toward the stables.  "And when he
does, I am going to destroy him — as he has destroyed me."

Chapter 30

The sound of distant thunder
penetrated Andrew's single-minded concentration.

Frowning, he looked up and out
the window, and then at the clock, surprised that so much time had slipped past
without his noticing.  Stripped down to his shirt, breeches, and a sleeveless
waistcoat, he had spent the last two hours setting his laboratory to rights.  He
felt at peace, his heart happier than it had been in years.  How long had it
been since he'd been able to bask in the freedom and joy of having his own
permanent space?  This time, he would be organized.  This time, he would stay
organized.  It was a vow he had often made in the past, but for some strange
reason, had never quite been able to honor . . .

"What do you think,
Esmerelda?" he asked, going over to the sofa beneath the window where the
dog lay watching him.  He sat down beside her, rubbing her silky ears and
admiring the way his new laboratory was shaping up.  "Looking pretty
damned impressive, isn't it?"

She thumped her tail, then,
pricking her ears, turned to look toward the door.

Andrew had left it open.  Though
he had always shut and barred the door against Lucien back at Blackheath, there
was no need to guard his privacy from Celsie.

And yet it was not Celsie, but
Lucien who suddenly appeared in the doorway.

Immediately Andrew's face
darkened.  "I thought I was well rid of you."

Lucien smiled and bowed.  "I
beg your pardon.  May I come in?"

"You are in, so you might as
well come the rest of the way."

The duke entered.  Though he was
freshly shaved and dressed in his usual understated elegance, he seemed faintly
preoccupied.  Tired.  Distracted.

"You look like hell,"
Andrew said.  "Evil machinations finally catching up with your
conscience?"

"On the contrary.  I had
business in London and decided to call on you and my new sister on my way
home."

"Why?"

Lucien just looked at him.
"Why, to reassure myself that my decision to . . . shall we say, throw you
to each other was a sound one."

"It was.  Now, leave."

"Lord Andrew?"

The two men looked up.  A servant
stood in the door — Andrew could not yet remember his name — his face bleak
with worry.  He was wringing his hands and chewing his lower lip.

"What is it, man?"
asked Andrew, rising to his feet and instantly crossing the room.

"It is my lady — she went
riding some thirty minutes ago, and Sheik just returned to the stables without
her.  Oh, my lord!  I fear that something dreadful must have happened to
her!"

~~~~

"I can't believe
you're dong this," Celsie spat over her shoulder, as Gerald hustled her at
pistol-point through the darkening woods bordering Rosebriar's most southern
pastures.

She felt as though she were
walking a path through her worst nightmare; with Gerald partially inebriated
and very desperate, she dared not predict what he might do.  She had never seen
him like this, and her only thought was of escape, her only fear for Andrew.
She must find a way to warn him!  She must find a way to disarm Gerald and turn
the pistol on him!

But although Gerald had been
drinking, his wits were honed by the blistering need for revenge.  With a rough
slap on the rump, he had sent poor Sheik flying back to Rosebriar, and now here
they were, all alone in the gloomy woods, the rain beginning to pelt her nose,
and the thunder growing louder, deeper, with its approach.

"Gerald, I beg you to
reconsider what you're doing," Celsie said again, when he didn't answer her
the first time.  She looked at him from over her shoulder, her palms damp with
sweat, her heartbeat quickening with every step they took through the darkening
woods.  "My husband has done nothing to deserve this cold-blooded plotting
to end his life, and I swear I'll die before I let you harm him!"

"Don't tempt me, Celsie.
You're all that stands between destitution and fortune and trust me, I intend
to have that fortune.  Now, move."

He shoved her forward.  Her toe
hit a root hidden amongst the carpet of moss and she fell heavily, scraping her
chin on a stone and getting a faceful of wet, decaying leaves.  Her heart
pounding, her nerves taut with growing panic, she picked herself up and, on
shaky limbs, forced herself to continue on, feeling the savage nudge of the
pistol against the small of her back, propelling her ever forward.

"Gerald, listen to me,"
she pleaded, trying to make him see reason.  "You haven't thought this
through.  You can't just go around killing people . . . especially a duke's
brother!  Don't you realize that if you shoot Andrew, you'll be hanged for
murder?"

"Not if I flee the country,
and I can assure you, Celsie, that after what your husband has done to me,
there's no way in hell I can remain in England.  Maybe not even in Europe.  Oh,
no.  It's off to America and its unlimited opportunities for me.  Now, hurry
up, damn you, we're about to get soaked."

"Then just tell me how much
money you need and I'll give it to you!  This is not an unsurmountable
problem!"

"Will all the money in the
world buy back my honor?  My standing in Society?  Will it undo all the damage
your half-witted husband has done to my reputation?  Oh, no, Celsie.  Your
handsome young inventor is going to come looking for you.  And I am going to
kill him when he does."

"But, Gerald, think of the
aphrodisiac!" she cried, grasping at every thought that came to her.
"If you kill him, you'll never have it!  Only Andrew knows what's in it!
Only Andrew is capable of re-creating it!  If you kill him, the aphrodisiac
dies with him!"

"Your pleas are falling on
deaf ears, Celsie.  Besides, even if I were to spare your clever husband, I can
assure you that Eva, if she has been tricked as I have been, will not."

Eva.  Oh, God.

"Now, move."

She moved.  The trees were
thinning out into a clearing that overlooked the rapidly darkening valley, and
above them, the sky was the color of slate — and growing blacker.  It was
starting to rain in earnest now.  Celsie could hear it falling all around her,
pattering down on grass and earth, rising in volume as though heralding the
oncoming storm.  And there, just ahead, stood the deserted ruins of what had
once been a sixteenth-century manor house, long since lost to fire and
abandonment.  Its roof was all but gone, its west wall had fallen into a
misshapen hill of loose stone and brick through which grasses, brambles and
burdock were thrusting, and great empty holes in the walls marked where windows
had once looked out onto the surrounding countryside.

Celsie had often played here as a
child, but now, the place was downright eerie.

"You'll be safe enough
here," Gerald said, motioning her forward with the gun and pulling a
length of hemp from his pocket.  "Get under what remains of the
roof."

She eyed the rope and stood her
ground.  "No."

He looked away, clenched his
teeth, and then hit her hard enough to send her sprawling to the ground.  Her
head ringing from the blow, Celsie surged to her feet.  She made a mad grab for
the pistol, but Gerald was too fast — and too strong for her.  Twisting her arm
behind her back, he instantly overpowered her and bound her wrists with the
length of hemp.  Then, hauling her to a young maple springing from the rubble,
he tied her to it, gagged her with his stock, and finally stood back, meeting
her angry, frightened eyes with a look that was at once sullen and wounded.

"I didn't want to do
this," he said defensively.  "But you leave me no choice."

He turned and walked away even as
Celsie sank to the ground, her fingers groping in the rubble behind her for a
sharp stone.  A moment later, she saw him leading his horse, previously hidden,
from around the other side of the ruins.

And then he galloped away, back
in the direction from which they had come.

Toward the woods and pastures
beyond.

Toward the house.

Toward her husband.

~~~~

Andrew grabbed his hat, stuffed
his arms into his frock coat as he ran and with Lucien on his heels, charged
toward the stable, his animosity toward his brother temporarily forgotten in
his panic over Celsie's safety.  Word had been sent ahead, and already grooms
were leading Newton and Lucien's diabolical black stallion, Armageddon,
outside.

"Any idea which direction
she might have gone?" Lucien asked, swinging up onto Armageddon in a swirl
of dark cloak.  He glanced up at the darkening sky as the stallion pranced and
pawed, eager to be off.

"Damned if I know, it's only
the first morning I've spent here.  Why don't you head east and I'll head west,
and if we don't find anything, double around to the south and north
respectively."

"Very well then.  Godspeed,
my brother."

But Andrew had already turned Newton
and kicked him into a gallop.  The big Thoroughbred pounded down the drive, his
steel-grey mane lashing Andrew's face, the trees whipping past on either side
in a blur.

And there — a figure on
horseback, galloping toward him.

Bloody hell.  Of all people —

"Lord Andrew!" cried
the earl of Somerfield, waving his hat frantically.  "I say, hold up
there!"

Andrew never slowed.  "Look,
Somerfield, I don't have time to exchange pleasantries right now; Celsie's gone
missing and may have suffered a fall —"

"I know that, damn
it!"  Somerfield had turned his horse and was now thundering alongside
Andrew.  "I was just coming to get you!  That confounded man-hating horse
of hers just went flying past me . . . I headed in the direction from which it
came and found Celsie!"

"Dear God, man, is she all
right?"

"Broke her leg," Gerald
yelled breathlessly.  "She needs help."

"Where is she?"

"Old ruins — south
pasture!"

Andrew swore beneath his breath,
torn between sending Gerald back for a carriage and charging headlong to
Celsie's rescue.  He had no idea where the ruins were, and now the rain was
starting to come down harder, the sky off to the west crackling with eerie
purple light as lightning split the clouds and forked down into the valley.
There was no time to lose.

"Lead me to her," he
commanded.  "That storm's going to be upon us any minute."

"But —"

"For God's sake, hurry,
man!"

Andrew pulled Newton up just
enough to let Somerfield take the lead, then let the gray have his head.
Newton, who had once made a name for himself at Newmarket, had no trouble
keeping up and pulled hard against the bit in his demand for more rein.  The
wind whistled in Andrew's ears.  Rain beat against his face as the horses veered
off the drive, plunged down a muddy embankment, and charged headlong across the
south pasture, heading toward a copse of trees that bordered fields of newly planted
wheat, all going dark now beneath the oncoming storm.

Hurry!  Andrew stared out
over Newton's ears, cursing Somerfield's mount for its slowness.

Thunder cracked down just ahead.
Somerfield's horse shied violently, nearly unseating him.  He kicked the
animal, hard, yanking on its reins as he sent it charging into the woods.  Newton
followed, his hooves cutting up the earth and sending clods of mud flying
behind him.  Lightning flashed, and just ahead through the trees, Andrew saw
the cold gray walls of an ancient ruin.

He gave Newton his head, charged
past Somerfield, and was leaping off the Thoroughbred's back before the great
animal had even slowed to a stop.

And it was at the exact moment
that he saw Celsie tied to a tree, her eyes wild with fear and blood running
down her wrists, that he heard the click of a pistol from behind.

He whirled.

Somerfield had dismounted and was
standing just behind him, a pistol in his hand.  "I am sorry,"
he said, raising the weapon and training it on Andrew's chest.  "Sorry,
that is, that I'm not going to regret killing you."

Andrew stared at that deadly
black hole, his mind, his heartbeat, racing as Gerald walked slowly toward
him.  "Why, you're mad!"

"Not mad, just desperate"
— Somerfield's voice thickened and his eyes became two burning holes of hatred —
"as you would be, too, if you found yourself impoverished, robbed of your
friends, your reputation, your honor and even the dignity of your own name.
You, de Montforte, have robbed me of everything I have — everything, that is,
except my ability to exact revenge, and revenge, I tell you, is exactly what I
intend to have."

Andrew had moved in a slow circle
so that he had his eye on Celsie and Gerald did not.  Her back against the
tree, he saw that she had chafed steadily away at her bonds with a rock that
she must have managed to pick up, and was now in danger of freeing herself.  Please,
God, don't let this madman see her.  Don't let her get free just yet.  And if
she does, please don't let her do anything foolish.

He determined to keep
Somerfield's attention.  "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking
about," he scoffed, truthfully.  "You speak of revenge, but I've done
nothing to you.  If you're so intent on sending me to my death, the least you
could do is tell me my crime."

"Destroying my life, that's
what!"  Somerfield moved closer, viciously kicking aside a brick.  His
eyes were savage, tears streaked his cheeks, and his breath was tainted by
fumes of alcohol.  "You stole Celsie's inheritance right out from under
me, you miserable blackguard.  You switched the aphrodisiacs so that I am
ruined forever.  And now I have you right where I want you, don't I?  Hand over
the aphrodisiac, de Montforte.  The real aphrodisiac.  It won't spare
your life, but maybe it will spare Celsie's."

The real aphrodisiac?

A flash of lightning split the
sky.  Thunder rolled overhead, shaking the ground upon which they stood, but
Andrew remained unmoving, determined to stay calm, waiting for Somerfield to
drop his guard.  "I don't have the aphrodisiac," he said mildly.
"Your cousin stole it from me."

"My cousin stole a forgery!
A forgery that ruined my life, and probably hers as well!"

Andrew shrugged.  "Well
then, let that be a lesson to you both, that thievery will get you nowhere.
And as for the aphrodisiac, well, I certainly didn't switch it.  Did you ever
consider, Somerfield, that it might have been unstable to begin with, and
merely followed the chemical course that nature intended for it?"

Somerfield stared at him, the
rain plastering his hair to his face, his cheeks streaked with what could have
been tears, could have been rain, could have been both.

"Besides, even if I did
have the aphrodisiac, I can assure you that it is not something I would carry
around with me."  He smiled patiently and, hands spread innocently before
him, moved towards Gerald, whose face was twisted with hatred and bitter
anguish.  "Now, please, put the gun down, Gerald.  You are distraught.
Desperate . . ."

But as Andrew slowly reached for
the pistol, still pointed at his heart, Somerfield's fragile control broke, and
he seemed to explode in a fury of emotion.

"Get away from me, you
bastard!"

Everything happened at once.
Somerfield brought the pistol to full cock at the same moment that Andrew
launched himself forward, his charge catching the earl squarely in the chest
and sending him toppling backwards.  The gun went flying.  Both men went down
in wet grass and rubble, Somerfield landing beneath Andrew but immediately
twisting out from beneath him.

Celsie, just cutting through the
last threads of the hemp, saw it all.  Breaking free, she raised bloody wrists,
tore off the gag and raced through the rain towards the two figures rolling on
the ground, engaged in deadly combat.

Where was the pistol?  Oh
God, if she could only retrieve it —

Again lightning cracked close
overhead, and rain poured down on the two combatants as they each tried to get
the other in a fatal throat-hold.

"Stop it!  Gerald, stop
it!"

She circled them, shouting for
reason, for sanity — and there, in the grass near a few wet, scattered bricks,
saw the fallen pistol.  Crying out, she lunged for it — too late.  With an
inhuman roar, Gerald threw off Andrew, shoved Celsie sprawling, and grabbing up
the pistol, swung it straight into his adversary's face and fired.

"No-o-o-o!"
Celsie screamed.

With hideous clarity Celsie saw
Andrew's hand jerk up toward the side of his head even as his knees crumpled
beneath him, the blood streaming down his face and blinding him.  He fell half
on his side, supporting himself with one elbow, dazed but not dead, oh thank
God, not dead!

"Damn you for what you've
done to me, de Montforte!" Gerald cried, hurling aside the spent pistol
and grabbing one of the bricks as Andrew gazed dully up at him through streams
of blood.  "Damn you to the hell where you belong!"

Raising the brick high in both
hands, he gave a primal roar of frenzy and began to bring it down on his
adversary's bleeding head —

"Andrew!"
screamed Celsie —

At that very moment, a shot rang
out — and Gerald's body pitched backward, the brick dropping from his lifeless
hands as he fell to the earth, shot neatly through the heart.

With a cry, Celsie spun around
just as a brilliant burst of lightning exploded around them . . . lighting up
the ruins, lighting up the trees . . .

And thirty feet away, lighting up
the grim, cloaked figure of the duke of Blackheath astride a mighty black
stallion, a smoking pistol still in his hand.

Chapter 31

"Ah," said Lucien,
urging Armageddon forward and pulling him up just before the earl's lifeless
body.  He gazed contemplatively down at his handiwork.  "I must confess
that I've been waiting to do that ever since he tried to kill you during the
duel.  Not very sporting of him, was it?  Should have finished the scoundrel
off then, but I thought it would look bad with the locals."  He swung down
from the stallion and stretched out a hand to help his brother to his feet.
"You'd better see to that head wound, Andrew, as well as your wife.  I
daresay she's fainted."

Andrew, barely able to see
through a hot film of scarlet, touched his fingers to the side of his head.  They
came away wet with blood.  He took the handkerchief Lucien offered and wiped at
his face.  "I guess I ought to be thanking you for saving my life yet
again," he said gruffly.  "This is getting to be a habit."

The duke was eyeing his head
wound in concern.  "Another inch or two and you would have been forever
denied the chance."

Andrew shoved the handkerchief
into his pocket and bent down to Celsie, whose face was as white as the
sheepskin pad beneath Newton's saddle.  He gathered her tenderly in his arms.
"Thing is, Luce, I don't even understand why he hated me so . . .  He was
past the point of desperation, as though he had nothing left to live for.  What
had I done to bring him to such a state?"

"I am afraid it was mostly
my doing," Lucien admitted, turning Somerfield's body over so that Celsie
would not see his dead face when she came to her senses.  "Do you
remember, Andrew, the day you got married?  When, just as you were leaving, you
demanded that I relinquish the aphrodisiac to you?"

"Yes . . ."

"Well, I did not relinquish
the aphrodisiac."

Andrew shut his eyes on a curse.

"I know you thought your
laboratory was impervious to my presence, but I can assure you, I had my ways
of getting in.  It was really a small matter, thanks to various textbooks you
had strewn about the place, to duplicate your solution such that it appeared,
at least to the naked eye, to be the real thing.  Unfortunately, what I created
was rather . . . purging, I'm told."

Andrew bent his head into his
hand.

"I know you must despise me
for interfering yet again, but I simply couldn't allow you or anyone else to
have it.  The stuff is quite priceless, you know.  Best left in my own personal
safe.  Of course, had I known that it would bring such trouble down upon your"
— he smiled — "and Charles's heads, I would never have given you even the
forgery."

"I ought to choke you with
my bare hands," Andrew said, but his tone of voice implied anything but a
resolve to do just that.  Why should he be surprised that Lucien had tampered
with fate yet again?  Why should he be surprised that Lucien had masterminded
what had been, in the end, yet another victory?  "I ought to throttle you
for what you did to force Celsie and me together.  I ought to hate you . . . "

"And do you?"

Hazel eyes met black — and for
the first time in years, there was no animosity in Andrew's.

He expelled his breath on a great
sigh.  "No."  He wiped fresh blood from his eye and gazed tenderly
down at Celsie.  "No.  I hated you earlier, Luce, for all your
interfering, but things are different now . . . now that I love her."

Now that I love her . . . love
her . . . love her. . . .

Celsie heard the words through
the parting veils of fog as she drifted back toward consciousness.  She became
aware of Andrew's warm arm just beneath her neck, the protective cradle of his
embrace, the steady beat of his heart just beneath her ear.

His heart.

He was alive.

Oh, thank you God.

She swallowed hard.  Now that
I love her.

She dragged open her eyes.  Sure
enough, there he was — her lover, her husband, her friend — head tilted up as
he spoke with his brother, a trickle of blood, diluted and hastened by rain,
running down his face.

"Do you?" she asked.

That got his attention.

"Celsie!  Celsie, dearest .
. ." he cradled her close and then reared back, his worried gaze searching
hers.  "My God, my heart stopped in my chest when you threw yourself
between me and that gun!  Don't you ever — "

"Do you?" she repeated.

"Do I what?"

"Love her," Lucien
supplied, helpfully.

Andrew gazed down at Celsie — and
then his face seemed to undergo a miraculous transformation.  In his
changeable, intense eyes, green one moment, brown the next, she saw a distinct
softening, a melting, the simmering heat of desire.  She didn't need to hear
the words, though she wanted to.  She didn't need to hear the words, because
they were all right there, shining brightly in his sleepy de Montforte eyes.

And then he smiled and lowering
his head, kissed her, driving his mouth against hers even as the rain poured
down on their heads, dripped from his hair, trickled down their cheeks.  Her
arm came up to encircle his neck.  She sighed, deep in her throat.

At last he finally drew back, and
raising her hand, brought her knuckles to his lips.

"Ah, yes.  I love you,
Celsie.  I love you more than half.  I love you more than whole."  And
then he repeated the words he had left for her just hours ago; beautiful,
affirming words that were the open door to their own glorious future.

"I love you with everything
I am."

Celsie touched his wet,
bloodstained face.  "I love you too, Andrew.  I love you so much that my
heart can no longer contain it.  And now, my dearest love, take me home.  Take
me home, and show me just how much you love me."

Andrew needed no urging.  Grinning,
he scooped her up in his arms, cradled her close so she would not see the
corpse of her stepbrother, and gently hoisted her up into Newton's wet saddle.
He pulled himself up behind her, his arms forming a protective cage around her
body as he turned the horse for home.  A moment later, he was cantering away,
leaving Lucien, forgotten, behind.

The duke watched them go.

And then he mounted Armageddon,
retrieved Gerald's frightened horse, and walking slowly, headed back toward
Rosebriar as the rain began to fall off and cracks in the clouds revealed
jagged chunks of blue.

Lucien smiled, congratulating
himself once again on a job well done.

It was going to be a lovely day.

Epilogue

The duke of Blackheath arrived
back in Ravenscombe late the following evening.

The miles had passed quickly
beneath Armageddon's swift hooves, but Lucien had still had plenty of time to
contemplate and savor his most recent triumph.  And a triumph, it was.  Another
sibling, perhaps the most difficult of the lot, happy and set for life.  Another
new sister-in-law, madly in love with one of his brothers.  Even now, he
couldn't help but smile as he remembered the exchange of farewells early this
morning.  How strange it had felt when Celsie had actually embraced him for the
first time, her eyes full of gratitude.  How bizarre it had felt not to be at
odds with Andrew, who had warmly shaken his hand.  And how empty he was feeling
now, knowing that there was only one sibling left to settle before his vow to
his parents was finally fulfilled.

Nerissa.

She would not be the challenge
her brothers had been.  She was already in love with Perry, and surely would
only need the smallest . . . push, to send her in the right direction.

No, Nerissa would be no trouble
at all.

He was feeling quite proud of
himself as he finally rode through the gatehouse of Blackheath, swung down from
Armageddon, and handed the horse into the care of a groom, who came out of the
darkness carrying a lantern.  "Welcome back, Your Grace," he said,
bowing, and turning the horse, led him back to the stables.

Lucien watched them go; then he
headed toward the castle, looking forward to a change of clothes, a hot meal,
and a long soak in the bath.

Servants ran to open the great
doors for him.  Servants ran to take his hat, his coat, and his gloves.
Servants ran to prepare his meal.

Ah, it was good to be home.

The lord of Blackheath strode
down the dark, dimly lit corridors, his footsteps echoing against the ancient
walls that surrounded him.  It was a windy night, and as he climbed the
spiralling stone stairs that led to his apartments high in the tower, he could
hear the gusts howling around the great turret, evoking memories he wished he
could forget.

He pushed open his door.

Stepped inside.

And stopped dead in his tracks.

There, bathed in the light of a
single bedside candle and sitting cross-legged on his bed, was a woman.  A
woman with slanting green eyes, vibrant red hair, and a smile that oozed
malevolence.

Eva de la Mouriére.

"Ah, Your Grace.  I have
been waiting for you.  You see, I found a little bottle in your safe there, and
since I really cannot afford another error, you — like it or not — are
going to sample it prior to my departure."

She held a gun in one hand,
pointed straight at his heart.

And in the other . . .

The aphrodisiac.

Lucien looked into her angry,
glittering eyes for a long moment, his expression giving nothing away.  And
then, his lips curving in a dark smile, he moved across the room.

Moved silently toward the bed.

And began slipping off his
waistcoat, even as the door swung shut behind him.

###

-- the end --

LOOK FOR THE
STUNNING CONCLUSION TO THE DE MONTFORTE BROTHERS SERIES!

THE
WICKED ONE

About The Author:

Multi-award winning
and critically acclaimed author Danelle Harmon is the author of ten books,
previously published in print and distributed in many languages worldwide.
Though a Massachusetts native, she has lived in England and is married to an
Englishman; she and her husband make their home in Massachusetts with their
daughter Emma and numerous animals including three dogs, an Egyptian Arabian
horse, and numerous pet chickens. Danelle welcomes email from her readers and
can be reached at danelleharmon@danelleharmon.com or through any of the means
listed below:

Connect with me
online!

Danelle Harmon on Facebook

Danelle Harmon's Website

Danelle Harmon on Twitter

Danelle Harmon's Blog

Danelle Harmon on Pinterest

KEEP READING FOR MORE BOOKS
BY DANELLE HARMON

FOR
YOUR KINDLE!

Discover other
titles in the de Montforte Brothers Series by Danelle Harmon at

Amazon

THE
WILD ONE - Book 1 of the de Montforte Brothers Series (try it FREE on
Kindle!)

THE
BELOVED ONE - Book 2

THE
DEFIANT ONE - Book 3

THE
WICKED ONE - Book 4 - the spectacular conclusion!

~~~~

and:

from Danelle
Harmon’s romantic and bestselling

HEROES OF THE SEA
SERIES:

MASTER OF MY DREAMS

The emotional and
unforgettable story of a tough Royal Navy captain and the beautiful Irish
stowaway who teaches him how to love once again

An Amazon KINDLE Top
Ten Bestselling Historical Romance!

An Amazon KINDLE
#1 Bestseller (Sea Adventures)!

###

CAPTAIN
OF MY HEART

Thrilling romantic
adventures aboard the 1778 Yankee privateer schooner Kestrel, captained
by dashing Irishman Brendan Merrick — who meets his match in the outrageous
shipbuilder’s daughter, Mira Ashton!

An Amazon KINDLE
Top Ten Bestselling Historical Romance!

An Amazon KINDLE
#1 Bestseller in Sea Adventures!

#   #   #

MY LADY PIRATE

The sexy,
swashbuckling tale of Pirate Queen of the Caribbean Maeve Merrick
(daughter of Captain Brendan and Mira Merrick from Captain Of My Heart) and the
powerful English hero who is determined to win her heart at all costs.

Winner of Romantic
Times Magazine’s Reviewers Choice Certificate of Excellence!

Winner of Romantic
Times K.I.S.S. Hero Award!

An Amazon KINDLE
Bestseller!

#   #   #

WICKED AT HEART

A Beauty-and-the-Beast
tale of love and redemption between a dark and brooding marquess and the woman
who is determined to heal his tortured heart.

Winner of a
Romantic Times Magazine K.I.S.S. Hero Award!

Nominated for
Romantic Times Magazine’s K.I.S.S. Hero of the Year!

An Amazon KINDLE
Bestseller in Historical Romance!

###

TAKEN BY STORM

Disgraced naval
hero Colin Lord wants only to pursue his new career as a London
veterinarian and put his tragic past behind him. But when fugitive heiress Lady
Ariadne St. Aubyn convinces him to help get her prized racehorse to Norfolk
before every reward hunter in England can catch her, Colin finds
himself swept up into an adventure he could never have imagined. A treat for
animal lovers everywhere!

# # #

and…

THE ADMIRAL’S HEART

A sweet and sexy
short story/novella about second chances, with appearances by Captain Brendan
Jay Merrick, Captain Christian Lord, and the de Montforte Brothers!

An Amazon KINDLE
bestseller in Short Stories!

An Amazon KINDLE
bestseller in Anthologies!

Want to know when
the next new title from DANELLE HARMON is released?

Click here!