Page 43 of The Defiant One
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!"
