Page 91 of The Defiant One
"Do you know, Celsiana Blake de Montforte, I am dangerously close to admitting that I could quite easily fall in love with you. In fact, I am dangerously close to admitting that I'm already half in love with you as it is."
"Well then, if you're half in love with me, and I'm half in love with you, does that make us a whole?"
"Sorry?"
"Does that make us wholly in love with each other?"
He laughed. "Well, now, that's rather interesting logic, isn't it? I hadn't quite looked at it that way, but yes, I do suppose it must."
"Well then, show me how much you half love me by letting me open my present!"
He looked suddenly shy, and she saw a faint red flush suffusing his cheeks. "Oh, well, nothing I could ever give you would even come close to what you've just given me."
"You're probably right," she said jokingly, trying to lessen his sudden embarrassment. "I cannot imagine what a huge chunk of iron is going to do for me! But never mind, you've intrigued me, Andrew. I'll open it now."
She knelt down beside the large crate, flipped open the rope latch, lifted the cover —
And blinked.
"Do you like it?" he asked, standing over her shoulder and displaying the same false innocence she had shown just moments ago.
She just knelt there, staring rather stupidly at the pulleys and wooden crank handle and gears with their wolfhound-sized teeth, at this strange concoction of iron that was the ugliest and most unromantic wedding gift imaginable, and didn't know quite what to say. She didn't want to hurt his feelings; he sounded so excited, so eager for her to like it . . .
Whatever "it" was.
"Um, Andrew . . . it's, uh, rather interesting, but I haven't the faintest idea what it is."
"Guess."
"Um . . . it's the inner workings for a new clock you've designed?"
"Try again."
"Something you've seen in one of your visions?"
"No — you've got one more guess."
"Something to do with a new carriage."
"Wrong again. Shall I tell you what it is, then?"
"I think you're going to have to," she said, trying not to sound too glum.
"It's a mechanized roaster," he said happily. "To go into the kitchen. To turn the meats. To turn the meats over the open fire, Celsiana, so that your little turnspit dogs can now go looking for another line of work."
It took a moment for his words to sink in.
To turn the meats over the open fire, Celsiana, so that your little turnspit dogs can now go looking for another line of work.
Celsie's gaze flew back to what had been, just a moment ago, a confusing and ugly jumble of iron and wood; and then, suddenly, a lump caught in her throat and all those gears and pulleys and strange bits of metal went blurry beneath the sudden sheen of tears.
Her hand went to her mouth.
"Oh, Andrew," she breathed, turning to look up at him over her shoulder with huge, watery eyes. She felt her jaw quivering. "I can't believe you did this . . ."
His cheeks were a little red. He shrugged, trying to make light of what he'd done, but she saw the pride in his eyes, the vulnerability, the desperate hope that she'd like what he had made for her. "Oh, well, it didn't take long," he admitted. "I got the idea when we were in London. I know the blacksmith in Ravenscombe quite well, and he was happy to fashion this to my specifications —"
"You mean to say you thought this up just like that?"
