Page 26 of The Defiant One
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."
