Page 65 of The Defiant One
Charles and Gareth were full of surprise, confusion, and wary congratulations. And of course, questions. Too many questions. Andrew answered them as best he could, trying not to sound as resentful and volatile as he felt. He did not look at Lucien. He was afraid that if he did, one glance at that smug face would land him in gaol for murder. And now Charles was asking him another question. Andrew forced his mind back to the present. The wedding arrangements? Yes, the nuptials would take place immediately. No, her father, may he rest in peace, could not give her away, her mother was off in Italy with some new lover, and her brother, for whom she bore no love and even less respect, would not, if she had anything to say about it, give her away either.
"She wants Freckles," he explained, helping himself to a cup of tea.
"Who the hell is Freckles?" asked Charles and Gareth in unison.
"Her best friend," said Andrew, with protective evasiveness.
Gareth raised a brow. "Odd name, that. Freckles. Hmmm."
"Is it his given one or a nickname?" asked Charles.
"Why assume Freckles is a he?" mused Gareth. "Sounds more like a woman's name than a bloke's."
Lucien, reposing in a chair near the fire, crossed one ankle over the other and casually reached for the morning paper. "Freckles is the lady's dog."
"Her dog?" exclaimed Charles and Gareth in unison.
"You two ought to go onstage singing harmony," snapped Andrew, sensitive to any possible or perceived criticism of Celsie and ready to defend her if the situation called for it. Scowling, he looked down as he lifted his teacup, thus missing the surprised — and amused — look his brothers exchanged.
"Sorry," said Gareth, hiding a grin beneath the pretense of rubbing his chin. "No offense, man."
"Yes, no offense," Charles added, with a warm smile meant to defuse the bristling defensiveness he perceived in his youngest brother. "Where does she live, Andrew? If it would make either of you any less morose, I'd be happy to go fetch the dog and bring it back here to London."
Andrew gave a sulky shrug. "No need. Besides, we're not getting married here in London, but at Blackheath."
"I see," said Charles, glancing at Lucien as the duke calmly opened his paper. "And where will you live?"
Andrew, too, glanced at Lucien's severe profile. "As far away from certain interfering monsters as possible."
"The lady owns substantial property in Berkshire," drawled the duke from his chair. "I'm sure she can support Andrew in as much style as he desires."
"Sod off," Andrew snapped.
Charles, ever the gentleman, pretended to ignore the flare-up of animosity between the two. "Berkshire, eh?" He sipped his tea and set the cup down in its saucer. "Nice that you'll be so close. I say, Andrew, I can't wait to meet her. Nerissa said she's gorgeous."
"She is." Andrew turned away to hide the sudden flush of pride that touched his cheeks. Then, realizing that Charles was only trying to ease the tension in the room, he allowed a pained but fleeting grin. "Hell, I probably would have got her into trouble even without benefit of the aphrodisiac."
"She must be more than just gorgeous," Gareth remarked, from his own chair. "You've had stunning women throwing themselves at you for years, but I've never seen you pay any notice to any of them. Now I'm curious to meet her, as well!"
Andrew was starting to find this conversation stifling — especially knowing that Lucien was probably sitting there gloating over his more-than-significant part in things. He reached inside the pocket of his frock coat, withdrew his notebook, and suddenly wanting to retreat from his family, his predicament, and any gentle teasing his brothers might feel compelled to hand out, moved to the far side of the room. There he perched on the edge of a chair and began sketching, blocking out the light conversation between Charles and Gareth, and the sound of Lucien every so often turning a page of his paper.
Maybe if he lost himself in an idea, he could temporarily forget the catastrophe his life had become, the calamity his future promised, the casualty that had been his freedom. He focused on the blank page before him, put pencil to paper, and proceeded to lose himself in his latest project.
A project that, when finished, would be his wedding present to Celsie.
Ah, relief. Ah, blessed forgetfulness of immediate problems as the pencil flew as fast as his mind allowed it. The execution of the idea came naturally to him, as easily as molding a loaf of bread might have come to a baker, and as he sketched, and made calculations, and allowed for various gear measurements, tension, and resistance to heat, his mood eased and he began to relax a bit, lulled by the familiar comfort of putting his mind to work. And yet his mind kept returning to Celsie herself. To how she had held his hand last night, her defenses down, just being a friend. To how she had hugged him after all escape routes had been blocked, sympathetic to his despair when she must have been feeling just as devastated, herself. Something caught in his throat. She was really quite remarkable. And brave, too.
And as Charles had guessed, gorgeous.
Again, that flush of pride. God help him, he was actually looking forward to introducing her to the rest of the family. To showing her off a little. He wondered how she would get on with Juliet and Amy, and hoped she wouldn't feel like an outsider because she was English aristocracy and they were from the American colonies.
He calculated a measurement and jotted it down. Hell, maybe it was a good thing he was marrying a woman who, unlike most of her gender, was obsessed with dogs instead of babies. He didn't think he'd be very good around a baby. All that spit-up and screaming and vile-smelling diapers and mess and stuff.
He shuddered.
"Cold feet, Andrew?" asked Charles, who had risen, crossed the room, and was now standing at a nearby window, idly watching the rain pound the cobbles and swell the gutters outside.
"Not yet."
