Page 79 of The Defiant One
He turned his head, the little flecks of green in his otherwise rusty eyes beginning to glitter dangerously beneath his sleepy de Montforte lashes as he met, and held, her questioning gaze. She stared calmly back from over the top of her velvet chin rest, refusing to respond to his anger, refusing to back down or let him scare her off. Because that was just what he was trying to do, wasn't it? Scare her off. And yet Celsie sensed there was some wounded core part of him that craved her compassion and understanding; a part of him that he himself probably would never recognize, let alone acknowledge.
He pulled away from her hand. "I think I've had enough of this conversation," he said coldly, and without another word, he walked out of the room.
This time Celsie let him go. For a long, quiet moment she stood there in the ballroom, alone. Then she raised her chin and walked, with as much dignity as she still possessed, toward her own apartments, feeling the tearful sting of defeat prickling just beneath her lashes.
It was morning.
It was all that remained of her wedding night.
The door was ajar to her bedroom, and she felt the tears threatening as she opened it and stepped inside. The drapes were still drawn. The room was shrouded in lonely gloom. Quietly shutting the door, she walked toward the curtained bed, fighting the tears and hoping against hope that when she got there she'd find Andrew waiting for her — kind, contrite, and open-armed once again, ready to resume where they had left off back at the foot of the drive.
She parted the curtains and, not even bothering to undress, climbed into bed, the tears burning the back of her nose. Oh, Andrew. But she knew the bed was empty as soon as her knee touched the mattress.
Well, not quite.
Freckles was there, waiting for her.
So much for wedding nights, Andrew had said.
Celsie buried her face in the pillow and cried, the soft down muffling her sobs of anguish.
Chapter 24
Making his way upstairs, Andrew heard the tattoo of fading hoofbeats as Somerfield made his timely departure.
He heard the hushed whispers of the servants, no doubt already worried about the strife their new master had brought with him.
And as he paused at Celsie's door, he heard the sounds of muffled weeping.
He hung his head, his gut churning with emotion, his hand poised on the latch. Shame and frustration filled him. He hadn't thought Celsie was the crying sort, but she was crying now, and he had done this to her. He felt lower than an earthworm. He knew he should go in there and try to comfort her, but what could he say? What could he offer her? The truth? A half-truth? A downright lie?
His hand slid from the latch. He pressed the heels of his hands to his brow, then raked his fingers back through his hair, tearing out the bit of ribbon that held it queued and crushing it in his fist. Leave her alone, he thought. Just leave her alone for a while. After all, they were both upset, overwhelmed, exhausted from the stress of the wedding, the robbery, and a night without sleep. She needed time to adjust. He needed time to work up the nerve to tell her.
Hell, maybe they both just needed time to be apart.
But even as he thought it, Andrew knew it was an excuse. He was not accustomed to sharing his life with someone, especially a woman, and even less accustomed to confiding in other people. The very idea made a chill snake up his back. No better to just . . . go away for a while. He needed his laboratory. Any laboratory. Someplace where he could lose himself, someplace where he could be alone, someplace where he wouldn't have to think.
He turned and continued down the hall.
In a small study off one of the staterooms, he found a desk containing paper, pen and ink. He scribbled and sealed a note. On his way back down the hall, he paused outside Celsie's door, propped the letter against it, and made himself continue on, telling himself, trying to convince himself, that he was doing the right thing. The weeping, thank God, seemed to have stopped. Or maybe he had simply closed his ears to it.
His heart heavy, he left the house and strode purposefully out to the stables. Newton looked at him expectantly, but the big grey was exhausted and Andrew would not ask him to take him to London. Every other horse in the stable was either too old, too lame, or too small to suit, leaving him to suspect that most had probably been rescued from cruelty or death by his kindhearted wife and were now her beloved pets.
All except a bright chestnut stallion in the last stall. He was a short-backed but handsome fellow, with a long, flaxen mane, a dark eye, and a white blaze that tumbled down his sculpted face and ended at the pink seam of his mouth.
Andrew reached out and stroked the sleek neck. This must be the infamous Sheik, who refused to mount mares, who had been, in his own way, responsible for Celsie's taking the aphrodisiac that had proved to be the undoing of both their ordered lives.
He smiled grimly. Let Sheik, then, be the one to take him to London.
Ten minutes later, Andrew was in the saddle and Rosebriar was disappearing behind him.
~~~~
It was still dark in the room when Celsie awoke.
She lay there in bed for a moment, wondering why her heart was a granite boulder in her chest — until she suddenly remembered the reason for its heaviness.
Andrew had never come to join her. Only Freckles, snoring, was with her, sprawled across the bed, the covers pinned beneath his big body. Celsie reached out and stroked him, blinking in the darkness. Oh, how empty she felt. Like a child promised a toy that was never given. Like a sweetheart promised a kiss that was withheld at the last minute.
