Page 81 of The Defiant One
He had seen the last of his brothers safely married off, and now only Nerissa was left. But he didn't feel the peace he longed for. He felt infinitely weary, like a man putting his last affairs in order as he tried to outrace a terminal illness.
The dream had come to him again last night.
He had been having it for weeks now. The first time he had written it off as a foolish nightmare and promptly forgotten about it within moments after rising. But it had come to him again three nights later, this time weighing heavily on his mind all through breakfast, unwilling to be shaken off, refusing to be forgotten. Again he'd forced himself to forget it, to write it off as fanciful nonsense. But it was impossible to forget something, to dismiss it as nonsense, when it began to recur night after night with mounting urgency, so vivid and real that it haunted one's waking as well as sleeping hours.
The shadows that Andrew had noticed under his eyes were not the imaginings of an angry younger brother.
And yes, Andrew was angry with him. They all were, even Charles, the sibling with whom Lucien had always been the closest. He was accustomed to their anger, of course. It was something he had lived with for most of his life. He could have told them about the dream, told them why he had been so desperate to get Andrew safely married to Lady Celsiana Blake. But no. Anger was far easier to handle than the concern and the pity they might end up feeling for him — and Lucien could not tolerate that.
Far easier to let them all think he was the diabolical monster he pretended to be. They would never believe that his machinations were done out of love, that he had only their best interests in mind and at heart. He was the oldest brother. He was the duke. It was his duty to take care of them, though that was something they had always resented and would never understand. But Lucien understood it. He understood his responsibilities, and he never forgot a promise. He had made a vow to his dead parents that he would take care of his siblings, that he would see to their welfare and happiness until the day he died.
Even if that day might come sooner than he would have wished.
The duke turned his gaze from the far-off horizon and began the long trek back to the castle. The air felt raw, cold, moist; it would rain soon. He could feel the wind playing tag with his back, making all the thousands of little grasses shiver and tremble all around him as the sky grew increasingly darker.
Time was running out.
For even now, the dream was with him. A duel at dawn. A masked opponent dressed entirely in black. A fatal slip and then red, raw agony exploding in his chest.
He died with a sword through the heart.
Every time.
Chapter 25
It was drizzling by the time Newton, a horse with heart if ever there was one, finally brought Celsie to the imposing wrought-iron gates of de Montforte House.
Cold and soaked through, she swung down from his tall back, patted his steaming neck, and bade the groom who came for him to give him an extra ration of hay and oats at feeding time. Then, adjusting her cocked hat and squaring her shoulders, she marched toward the house.
If the staff was surprised to see her, they were too well trained to show it. "Yes, my lady," said the housekeeper in response to her terse query. "Lord Andrew arrived late yesterday and has been closeted in his laboratory ever since."
"Thank you. And where, pray tell, is this laboratory?"
"On the second floor, my lady. You can't miss it."
Celsie removed her damp cloak and handed it to a footman. All the worry, all the wondering, all the tension of the past two days had pinnacled in her heart, leaving only a firm determination to put an end to this nonsense. Still in her riding habit, her whip in one hand, she strode for the stairs.
As the housekeeper had said, the laboratory was on the second floor. And sure enough, the door was locked.
Celsie raised her fist, rapped sharply, and then stood back, rhythmically slapping her whip against her palm in an attempt to keep her temper in check.
"Who is it?"
"Your wife."
Silence. She pictured him on the other side of the door, wondering where he could run to now that she'd found him, probably cursing her from Kent to Cornwall. Celsie's whip tapping increased. Her jaw tightened. And then, to her surprise, the latch lifted and the door swung open.
"Andrew?"
He looked like hell. Two days worth of russet stubble shadowed his jaw. His eyes were bloodshot with fatigue. His shoulders were slumped, his waistcoat hung open, and there were faint smudges of exhaustion under his eyes. He gave a tired smile, and for a moment, she almost thought he looked relieved to see her. But that was ridiculous, of course. If he'd wanted to see her, he would have stayed at Rosebriar.
"Hello, Celsie," he said, calmly meeting her glare. "I suppose I should ask you what you're doing here, but then you'd doubt my intelligence as well as my sanity." He leaned against the door, bent his head to his hand and rubbed at his eyes. "Guess I'm not surprised to see you . . . you shouldn't have come, you know."
"Andrew, when is the last time you got any sleep?"
"I don't know. Maybe Saturday . . . Sunday . . . before the wedding, I think."
"Do you realize I am this far from strangling you?" She raised her hand, holding thumb and forefinger together and glaring at him.
