Page 84 of The Defiant One
Andrew raised himself up from the mud on one elbow, and blinking, looked dazedly, uncomprehendingly, around him.
"Celsie?" he whispered.
But Celsie was already there. Positioning herself so that her body shielded him from the gathered onlookers, she had knelt beside him and now pulled him up against her, uncaring that he was filthy with mud. He was trembling violently, his skin waxy and cold beneath a film of sweat. She held him close, talking gently to him as excited whispers darted back and forth above their heads.
"Why, it's Lord Andrew de Montforte! I say, what ails him?"
"Got an opium habit, I'd guess . . . what a waste. . . ."
"Genius ain't without its price, eh, Smithson?"
"Aye, he's done so much thinking he's melted his own brain."
Celsie raised her head and glared fiercely up at them all. "I can assure you that my husband does not suffer from a drug habit, madness, or shortcomings of any kind, he is merely exhausted from three days without sleep! Had any of you gone three days without sleep, you'd be seeing strange things, too! Now go on, all of you, and give us some space and privacy!"
One arm still around her fallen husband, she made an angry, shoving motion with the other.
"I said, go!"
Mumbling, the crowd began to disperse, guffawing loudly as someone made a lewd remark about just why the newly wed Lord Andrew de Montforte hadn't got any sleep in three days. Celsie's face flamed, but at least she had deflected attention away from the real question of what was wrong with her husband, and that was all that mattered.
And then she looked up to see Lady Brookhampton still hovering above.
Celsie opened her mouth to deliver a stinging command —
"Shall I hail a cab or a sedan chair for him?" the older woman asked, with unexpected kindness.
Celsie gave a weary sigh. "Yes." She rose to her feet, pulling Andrew up with her. "Yes, that would be ideal."
Chapter 26
Andrew wanted to crawl beneath the wheels of the cab and command the driver to run him over.
He wanted to flee the reality of what had happened to him, what was happening to him, what would eventually happen to him.
He wanted to bury his face against his hands in shame.
Instead, he summoned every shred of his de Montforte pride, straightened to his full height, and like the gentleman he was, handed Celsie up into the cab before him.
Moments later, they were moving.
"So now you know," he muttered, gazing out the window and watching the traffic passing in the other direction. He swallowed hard, refusing to look at her. "We can get an annulment, you know. You have grounds. I would understand perfectly."
She said nothing, but he could feel her gaze upon him. He gripped his hands together and clenched them between his knees, staring out the window as he waited for her to say something, to utter the damning words, to lash out at him with anger and hurt for withholding such a terrible secret. But she didn't say anything. She simply sat there, a presence whose silence said more than words.
"Well?" he said flatly, turning his head to glare at her. "Are you going to get an annulment?"
She gazed calmly back. "Most certainly not."
"You're insane if you don't, you know. You managed to come up with a damned good excuse to satisfy the gawkers and gapers back there, but I can promise you that what happened to me then will only happen again, that sooner or later you won't find some convenient excuse to explain it. Then I'll leave you humiliated and pitied, and you'll wish to God you'd got rid of me when you had the chance."
"I don't want to 'get rid of you'," she said firmly, her eyes beginning to glitter dangerously. "You are my husband. And I care about you very much."
"You can't care for someone you don't know. You don't know me. Oh, God, you don't know me —"
"That is because you won't let me know you."
"Celsie, I implore you, don't throw away your life, your dreams, your pride, on me . . . I'm a worthless oddball, damaged goods . . . There are plenty of men out there who would make far better husbands, men whom you can bring out in public without fear of being humiliated."
