Page 53 of The Defiant One
She shrugged. "Compliments are always easier to take than insults, so yes, I think I do want it to be a compliment."
He smiled. "It was intended as one."
She poured him a cup, wondering why her hand felt suddenly shaky. She could feel his gaze upon her. Her blood warmed in response, and her heart was doing strange things beneath her pitifully inadequate bosom. It was almost easier to function around this man when he was being surly and brusque. When he chose to be charming, it was flustering. Unnerving. And this whole act of pouring tea for him while he was lying abed felt intimate. Too intimate. Was this what wives did for their husbands when they woke up in the morning?
"Milk and sugar?"
"Please."
She stirred both into the cup and handed it to him. He went to take it, but the cup was hot, and there was nowhere to put his hand, for she was the one holding the handle. Their fingers touched; he drew his back.
"Sorry," she said, and hastily set the cup down, feeling foolish and awkward and more than a little silly for her sudden nervousness.
Conversation. I've got to make conversation. But what on earth does one say to a reclusive man of science? What do we have to talk about? And why do I suddenly feel so nervous?
She watched him sip the steaming brew. "You still look rather pale," she said, noticing how dark his hair looked against his skin.
He shrugged. "I don't get out much, you know. Comes from spending too much time in my laboratory instead of out of doors."
That wasn't quite the truth, of course. Andrew spent a fair amount of time out of doors; he liked to ride. He liked to study nature. He just didn't like to wander far from the privacy — and safety — of Blackheath Castle. He sipped his tea, keeping his gaze downcast. Good thing she hadn't wanted to see his notebook. He'd been recording what he'd seen outside the window in the hopes that it might yield something of benefit to science or medicine or those who wanted to remember him long after he became a chained, drooling idiot in Bedlam. He shuddered uncontrollably, nearly upsetting his tea. The fear was there. It was always there.
"Shall I find you another blanket?" she asked, noting his shudder.
"I'm fine."
"You're cold. You don't look well." She set down her own plate. "I think I will send for the doctor."
"No. Don't."
"Lord Andrew —"
"I feel better already. Truly." He turned his most persuasive smile on her. "I'm just tired, Celsiana. I didn't get any sleep last night. I have a lot on my mind. A little food and a good night's rest are all I need."
"Why didn't you sleep last night? Surely you weren't worried about the duel, were you?"
"The duel? That was the last thing on my mind. No, madam, I spent the night with my nose buried in a book, trying to discover what I could about my accidental aphrodisiac. I'm exhausted. Nothing more."
She just narrowed her eyes and looked at him.
"Really," he added, trying to be convincing as he held her gaze. But there was something in her eyes that was nearly his undoing. Concern. Kindness. She was worried about him.
His grin faded. As much as he was enjoying this very novel experience of being fussed over by a woman, as seductive as he found her touching concern for him, he felt like a cheat.
He really ought to tell her. After all, unless he could think of a way to escape the matrimonial noose, she was going to end up marrying him. She deserved to know the truth about what she was getting herself into. And she deserved to know that Lucien had dragged in every researcher, every specialist, every authority on dementia and madness and other mind disorders from every corner of Europe, and that none of them — not one — had been able to come up with a diagnosis, let alone a prognosis for his condition.
His gut clenched. Yes, he had to tell her. But could he risk her reaction? Could he stand her pity, her certain shudder of fear and revulsion? There was no way in hell she'd want to marry him once she learned the truth about him. So why didn't he tell her? What was stopping him? Didn't he want to call off this marriage?
Then again, maybe she wouldn't want to call it off — in which case, he'd have to point out the possible benefits of his illness to her. Ha, ha, ha. Laughter was the way to get through the worst that life had to offer, wasn't it?
Just think, Celsie. If your money ever runs out, you can just exhibit me at Bedlam and start charging a fee for people to see me. I can hear them now. Ah, look! There's the famous Lord Andrew de Montforte, creator of failed flying machines and successful aphrodisiacs and mad inventor in the truest sense of the word! And look, he wears a collar and lives in a cage and drools just like one of his wife's dogs!
Anger seized him, and the bite of pork pie he'd just taken went to sawdust in his mouth. He pushed his plate to the edge of the tray, his appetite gone.
Her hand was on his brow. "You are ill, aren't you?"
"I'm fine."
"Then it must be the peas."
