Page 48 of The Defiant One
"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.
