Page 49 of The Defiant One
Andrew bit his lip, not knowing what her reaction was going to be. Disgust? Anger? Horror?
It wasn't what he expected.
Laughter.
A burst of it escaped her mouth, only to be quickly muffled by her hand. She kept her hand there and looked up at him, her eyes dancing with mirth.
Andrew felt the corners of his own eyes crinkling.
She took her hand away then, and began to giggle. Andrew grinned and reclaimed the sketchbook. And this time, when their gazes met, neither looked away.
Chapter 15
Andrew and Celsie weren't the only ones who felt like killing the duke of Blackheath.
Gerald, along with his valet and Celsie's dog, reached Rosebriar late that evening. Gerald's temper had cooled somewhat, though anger still simmered just beneath the surface. He could think now, instead of just react. And think, he did.
Blackheath, damn his eyes, had hit upon the truth: Gerald had nothing against Lord Andrew de Montforte personally, as a bridegroom for Celsie, save for the fact that he couldn't control the Defiant One the way he knew he could control Bonkley and a score of other men he could think of.
And as far as Gerald's bailing himself out of debt was concerned, that was a problem.
He didn't know whom he despised more: the arrogant duke of Blackheath, whose wishes were only one rung down the ladder from God's; the duke's bat-brained brother for creating the love potion that had stolen Celsie right from out of his grasp; or Celsie herself for refusing to lend Gerald any more money than she'd already done. She was a selfish, ungrateful bitch, no better than her whoring mama. And now he could hear barking coming from the kennels outside, could see Freckles standing next to his water bowl, empty and dry, and looking up at Gerald in quiet expectation. Gerald ignored the old dog. He hated its sorrowful eyes. Hated the claim it had on Celsie's life. Bloody hell, his sister cared more for these stupid beasts than she did her own brother. She was willing to pour all her time, energy and money into them, but she wouldn't lift a finger to pay off his debts.
He despised the de Montfortes, Celsie, even his own father, who'd promptly lost all interest in his only son the moment he'd met and married Celsie's beautiful mama, worshipping her until the discovery of her in bed with another man had broken his heart and hastened an untimely end. 'Sdeath, he felt as though the entire world were against him.
Just as he knew every creditor on earth was banging on his door back in London. Good thing he could hide here for a while, though after he'd tried to kill Andrew this morning, it was a certainty that Celsie would throw him out when she returned.
He couldn't hide from debtor's prison forever. He needed blunt, and plenty of it, and if he couldn't get it from Celsie one way or another, he was going to have to find it from somewhere else.
He left the hall and went outside, needing fresh air, needing to think. Freckles, abandoning his dry water bowl, followed painfully, but sore and tired and unable to keep up with Gerald's long stride, soon fell behind. The earl didn't bother to wait for the old dog. He was sick of dogs. Sick of everything.
It was as he strode out past Celsie's neglected rose gardens that a snippet of the conversation he'd had with His Arrogance the duke of Blackheath came filtering back to him . . .
Really, Somerfield, if you are desperate to get your hands on a fortune, perhaps you should consider marrying an heiress yourself and have done with the matter.
Gerald stopped in mid-stride.
By God, that was it. That was the answer.
Marry an heiress himself!
Of course, he had to find one first. And far more challenging, he had to make her fall in love with him enough to want to marry a penniless earl with a less-than-sterling reputation and a penchant for the gaming tables.
But how?
He stared down at one of the garden's last roses, blooming bravely in the moonlight despite the fact that any time now, it might wither beneath the season's first hard frost. That aphrodisiac. I have got to get my hands on that aphrodisiac.
An impossibility, of course.
And then he thought of Eva.
~~~~
By mutual consent, Andrew and Celsie had decided to go to London, to give themselves time to think — away from their families and the troubles they'd left behind. By the time the coach finally pulled up before the elegant wrought-iron gates of de Montforte House, the moon was a soaring beacon that lit up the night sky.
Andrew, shivering in his sleeveless waistcoat, had spent most of the trip in silence. He had wanted to be alone with his thoughts, alone with his problems. The slight softening he felt towards Celsiana was both welcome and somewhat worrying. He was determined to keep her at arm's length — but she had found a chink in his armor. Truth be told, he was much happier being friendly with her than antagonistic. Even now, looking at her on the opposite seat, dozing peacefully beneath the lap rug he'd put over her after she'd fallen asleep, he felt a sharp pang of tenderness in his heart. He didn't like being so rude and abrupt to her — but it was necessary. He couldn't let her get close to him.
He had too much to lose.
