Page 28 of The Defiant One
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."
