Page 27 of The Defiant One
"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.
