Page 50 of The Defiant One
And now the coach had stopped. It was time to get out.
"Celsie."
She didn't move.
Andrew leaned forward and touched her shoulder. "Celsie, wake up. We're here."
She made a faint, unintelligible sound, pulled the short blanket up around her shoulders, and didn't move any further.
The door opened and a footman let down the stairs. Andrew didn't know quite what to do — so he did the only thing he could do.
He stood as best he could, slid his arms beneath Celsie's sleeping body, and lifting her from the seat, stepped down from the coach.
She was tall for a woman, but she was all legs, her bones light, her weight insignificant. She fit easily in his arms. He liked the feel of her there. He liked the way that, in her half sleep, she nestled her cheek against his chest, one palm placed trustingly against his heart. Again, he felt that curious stab of tenderness. Aware that the footman was standing there trying to remain inconspicuous, Andrew turned and carried her into the house.
Issuing commands to the servants for food, hot baths, and rooms to be made ready, he bore his sleepy burden up the stairs. He would not, of course, remain with her. He had no intention of sleeping with her. He would stay as far away from her as possible.
Reaching the top of the stairs, he turned and carried her into his rooms, thinking that would be the best place for her until morning when they could sort this sordid mess out.
She opened sleepy eyes as he shut the door behind her and laid her on the bed. Immediately, wariness came into them when she saw where he had put her.
"Relax, I'm not going to touch you," he said gruffly.
"Where are we?"
"London. De Montforte House. You're in my bed, but have no fear, I have no intention of staying." He drew back, away from her, giving her privacy and space. "A maid will be up shortly with some supper, and they're already preparing water for a hot bath. Good night."
She sat up. "Where are you going?"
"I, madam, am exhausted. I'm going elsewhere, and there, after supper and a bath, I'm going to bed."
"Oh."
He turned, irritably, and looked at her. She was still on the bed, though obviously uncomfortable about being seen in such an intimate place. She still had the lap rug, clutching it rather tightly around her shoulders. She looked unhappy. Confused. And heartrendingly vulnerable. The tender feeling she aroused in him irritated him.
"Now what?" he asked impatiently.
She sighed and ignored his curtness. "This isn't right. I have a townhouse here in London, too. I think I'd better go there instead . . ."
For some reason, his peevishness increased. "Fine, then. Go."
"Yes. I think that would be for the best." She flashed him a look he couldn't quite decipher and started to get off the bed. He noticed that she kept her eyes down, away from him, as though the experiences of the past two days had sent her beyond mortification. Her cheeks were pink. He would not feel sorry for her. He would not. She kept the lap rug tightly shut around her.
"You can take our coach," Andrew said.
"Thank you."
"Maybe we can meet in the morning over breakfast." He turned away from her, feeling oddly bereft, oddly betrayed, oddly confused over why he was feeling suddenly angry with her all over again. "We, uh, need to discuss how we can get out of this devilish predicament."
"Yes. What time should I call?"
"It doesn't matter."
She raised her gaze then, and met his. "I'll make it around noontime, then. I know you're a late sleeper."
"Trust me, madam, I don't expect to be getting much sleep tonight."
She nodded in understanding. He bowed to her, and she turned and walked out of the room, leaving him standing there alone. Andrew's palms went damp. His heart turned into a racehorse. He hailed her, almost desperately. "Wait."
