Chapter 11

He had known.

In that heartbeat of an instant, as time seemed to stop and all eyes turned to her, Celsie felt her world sway sickeningly. God help me, Blackheath knew all along that I would sacrifice myself to save Gerald's worthless hide. He knew it. He was counting on it. Why else did he not slay Gerald immediately?

He was waiting for me to rush in and save him!

A roaring started in her ears. Some three hundred people were all staring at her. Gerald, pale and shaken, looked like he wanted to murder her. The duke's cold black eyes were triumphant. While Andrew . . .

She couldn't read his expression. And it was so terrible that she didn't even want to try.

The field of spectators began to revolve slowly around her. The clamor in her ears rose, drowning out the hum of voices, becoming as one with the roaring. Celsie, shaking, turned away, her head high. She briefly shut her eyes so she could not see her world spinning, and bravely, determinedly, began the long walk back toward her carriage.

Please, God, don't let me faint in front of everyone —

But God didn't seem to be looking out for her today.

For at that moment, she happened to catch sight of her sleeve, upon which a very red, very bright, very gruesome blotch of her own blood was seeping through the bleached linen. She staggered. Swayed dizzily —

"Celsiana, are you all right?"

And heard Andrew's voice, seeming to come from very far away, though he was only a few steps behind her, running to catch up.

"Celsie?"

"I think I am going to swoon," she managed in a little voice, and the last thing she felt before darkness claimed her was his strong arms catching her before she could hit the ground.

As indeed they did.

For a moment, Andrew stood in surprise, for he hadn't thought that the mettlesome Lady Celsiana Blake was the sort of woman given to fits of the vapors. But then, he really couldn't blame her. Subjected to the near-slaughter of her brother, a sudden and unwanted betrothal, and worst of all, the knowledge that her prospective bridegroom was something of a freak, it was no wonder she had lost her senses.

He felt a flash of sympathy. Of protectiveness. And then he happened to glance up and see Lucien approaching with his sword, and all tenderness exploded into fury.

"An heiress," the duke murmured benignly. He slid Andrew's blade back into its sheath. "Well, well. I always knew you'd make an advantageous match. Shall we post the banns?"

Andrew's reply caused the blood to drain from the faces of several nearby spectators, for nobody dared speak to His Grace the Duke of Blackheath like that. Lucien, however, only raised an amused brow. "Such language," he chided, not blinking an eye as a red-faced Somerfield galloped past, beating as hasty a retreat as his horse could give him. "Really, Andrew, why don't you set the girl down? Not only are you making everyone think you enjoy holding her, but I daresay she'll be none too pleased to find herself in your arms when she awakens."

"And why don't you wipe that satisfied smirk off your face before I do it for you?" Andrew seethed through clenched teeth.

"Now, now," the duke murmured, letting the smirk remain. "That is no way to speak to the man who just saved your life."

"You're right. Speaking to you is the last thing I feel like doing."

He turned and headed toward the coach, holding Celsiana close to his chest and feeling oddly, disturbingly, protective of her.

"Off to procure a special license, are you? Ah. No wonder you're in such a hurry . . ."

Andrew was so angry he thought his head might explode. "I am taking her away. From everyone. From you. She's going to be upset enough as it is, without waking up to a crowd of strangers gawking at her and offering felicitations on her upcoming nuptials." He glared at Lucien, thinking it was a good thing his arms were occupied, because otherwise Lucien wouldn't be looking quite so smug. "You're a complete and utter sod. A despicable bastard. A contemptible, soulless monster. I hope you're damned proud of yourself."

"For saving your life? Hmm, yes. I don't think 'proud' is the right word . . ."

Andrew snarled a curse and kept walking.

Beside him, Lucien reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a flask. "Very well then, go. But at least take this. I think both of you could use a little sustenance."

"What is it?"

"Brandy. I brought it in the unlikely event you sustained a wound and needed bracing up, but it appears to have found a much better use."

Cradling Celsie in one arm, Andrew snatched the flask from his brother's hand and shoved it into the side pocket of his waistcoat. And then he spun on his heel and strode toward the coach, angry with Lucien, angry with fate, angry that now everyone in Ravenscombe — let alone the woman in his arms — must know there was something more than a little peculiar about him . . .

Bloody hell. At least her desperate declaration to marry him had distracted people from his own unfortunate plight. He had that to thank her for, at least.

Not that he intended to, of course. The less attention he called to himself, the better.

He put Celsie on the seat and climbed up behind her. Then he took her in his arms, slammed the door, and pounded a fist on the roof. "Drive on!" he ordered harshly.

"But His Grace —"

"His Grace be double damned, I said drive on!"

"Where to, my lord?"

"Anywhere. Just get us out of here, and now."

The coach jerked and began to move, showing Andrew a sea of faces just outside the window as it wheeled through a wide turn. Irritably he yanked the shade shut. The team broke into a canter and moments later the well-sprung vehicle was hurtling out of Ravenscombe.

On the seat, Andrew held his burden and stared straight ahead, his jaw hard, his heart pounding with a cacophony of emotions, all of them turbulent, none of them pleasant. He would not look down at her. He would not. No matter how easy it would be to steal a glance at that splendid bosom without her ever knowing. No matter how much he wanted to run his gaze — and his hands — up and down those long, shapely legs so sinfully wrapped in a man's riding breeches. No matter how much the very thought, let alone the possibility, of either caused his manhood to harden against the taut little bottom that lay so innocently pressed against it.

It was a fight that even The Defiant One could not win. Mutinously, he glanced down — and found himself looking into a pair of wide, silvery-green eyes that were staring dazedly up into his.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"For what?"

"Taking me out of there." She closed her eyes, her nape resting on the hard curve of his forearm, her queued hair spilling across his thigh, the seat. "I've never fainted before in my life. How humiliating . . . and to do it in front of several hundred people . . ."

Andrew said nothing. He knew all about how it felt to be humiliated in front of several hundred people.

"Are you all right now?" he asked gruffly.

"Yes. No. Oh, I don't know . . . Things happened so quickly, my head is still spinning."

"Yes, well, yours isn't the only one."

He was angry, and Celsie knew he had every right to be. Beneath the back of her neck and head, his arm felt like a bar of steel. He was staring out the window, his gaze flinty and hard. His jaw was clenched. She could hear his heart beating beneath her ear. She could feel his chest rising and falling with each breath that he took. And she knew that she ought to get up and move to the other seat. In another minute or so, when she felt a little steadier, she would.

"Andrew —"

He stiffened beneath her. "Yes?" he snapped.

"What happened to you out there?"

"Somerfield nearly killed me, Lucien nearly killed Somerfield, and you threw yourself into the fray as some sort of sacrifice on the altar of our mutual freedom, that's what happened."

"I'm not talking about that."

"Then I don't know what the devil you are talking about, except that whatever it is, I don't want to talk about it, is that clear?"

"No, it's not." She searched his face, undaunted by his anger. "I just don't understand any of this . . . such as why you fell out there on the field in the first place. One moment you were toying with Gerald, allowing him his pride and dignity, and the next, you were —

"Nothing happened," he said savagely.

"But —"

"I said, nothing happened."

"It looked like he must have hit you, stunned you, when I wasn't looking. Except I was looking — I mean, I couldn't help but look. Is that what happened, Andrew? Did he stun you with the hilt of the sword or something?"

"Yes, that's exactly what happened, so now that we've got that clear, let's talk about something else, all right? Better yet, let's not talk about anything at all. I'm sick of talking. Just leave me alone."

His abrupt and angry dismissal stung. Reality began to press in on Celsie like frozen hands thawing after a snowball fight. Except it wasn't her fingers that were thawing. It was her head. Her heart. Oh dear God, what have I done? She had just committed herself to marrying this man, that was what she'd done. She had just ruined both his life and her own. And as the layers of protective shock faded, her emotions surfaced: disbelief, guilt, grief, anger, humiliation, denial; they were all there. She wanted to curl up into a little ball and shut everything out. She wanted to run away and never stop until she reached the ends of the earth. She wanted Freckles. What she didn't want was marriage to this man. To any man.

So why did the bitterness in his eyes, his all-too-obvious resentment, hurt so much?

"Andrew," she said tentatively, "I know you're angry, but just because I said I'd marry you doesn't mean you have to marry me."

"And how do you think that will make me look in front of three hundred witnesses, eh?"

"I wouldn't have thought you cared."

"Well I do care. Besides, my brother obviously wants this marriage, and it's quite clear to me now that he's been wanting it from the moment we met at the ball, if not before. Now that he's got what he wanted, don't think he won't blackmail us both if either of us tries to back out."

"He has nothing with which to blackmail me."

"Oh? Do you mean being found on the floor with me in the final throes of passion isn't enough?"

Celsie blushed. "He wouldn't . . ."

"Trust me, madam, he would. And as for me, all he has to do is say one word to the right people and my chances of getting into the Royal Society are ruined. I can't risk the scandal, and if you want to continue to move in high circles so that you can beg the plight of your precious dogs, neither can you."

Celsie pressed her lips together in rising anger. He was the most impossible man, equally given to flashes of temper and random gestures of kindness. Just when she was starting to warm up to him, he turned on her like a badly bred cur. She was getting tired of his short, one-word answers, his ill manners, his brusque treatment. She knew he was capable of being nice; she'd seen glimpses of it in his laboratory, when she had taken an interest in his work and he'd shown her the drawings. That Andrew was a whole lot easier to handle than this hostile, bad-tempered, bristling one. That Andrew was actually quite pleasant and engaging. This one . . . She knew German guard dogs with better temperaments.

"There has got to be a way out of this predicament," she said. "If you're going to sit there and sulk, at least do something. You're the intellectual here. Why don't you put that superior brain of yours to work, sir, and engineer a plan to save us both from a fate that neither of us wants?"

"I can assure you, madam, that I have been putting my so-called superior brain to work on that very problem since we entered the coach, and so far it has yielded nothing of value."

"Ah. So you can design flying machines and double-compartmented coaches and write complicated mathematical formulas that no one but yourself could ever hope to understand, but you cannot outmaneuver your brother."

"That is because it is far easier to design flying machines and write complicated mathematical formulas than it is to outmaneuver my brother."

"So you think he's somehow behind all this, then."

"Don't you?" he fumed, nailing her with a look of hard fury.

Of course she did. The look on the duke's face right after she had thrown herself between him and Gerald had removed all doubt from her mind that he was behind it. Oh, what a mess this was! If Andrew, with all his intelligence and years of dealing with Lucien, couldn't figure a way out of this dilemma, how on earth was she going to do it?

"Andrew —"

"Look, I said I just want to be left alone, all right?"

"You don't have to be so hateful. And I'm sorry I interfered with the duel, but I had to save Gerald. Had it been your brother whose life was in peril, you would have done the same."

"Depends on which brother," he bit out, his eyes hard as he glared out the window.

That did it. Celsie wasn't going to lay here against him a second longer. She started to push herself up on one hand, only to freeze on a hiss of pain. She looked down and saw the bloody sleeve where Gerald's blade had caught her, a sleeve previously hidden beneath the angle of her body against Andrew's own.

Andrew saw it too. "Devil take it," he muttered, pushing her back down onto his lap. "Let me see that."

She snatched her arm away, covering the wound with her hand so she couldn't see it and risk fainting all over again. "No."

"Does it hurt?"

"It does now that I've been reminded of it."

"Here, let me see it."

"Your concern is quite touching, but if you don't mind, I would prefer to have a qualified surgeon look at it, not a mad inventor."

"And I would prefer that you leave the 'mad' out of your estimation of me, madam," he snapped, on a fresh wave of unprecedented anger. "I may not have had any formal training in the healing arts, but I can assure you that bandaging your arm is well within my capabilities."

"You're not a doctor."

"I am a doctor. Just not of medicine."

"Of what, then?"

"Philosophy."

"Oh, well, that's helpful, isn't it?"

"Celsiana, let me see your arm. Now."

"Oh, very well then," she muttered, uncovering her arm and looking away so she couldn't see how bad it was. "Though what you intend to use as a bandage is beyond me."

His hands were far more gentle than his tone of voice as he caught the ripped edge of her sleeve. "Hold still."

With one sharp jerk, he tore the shirt from elbow to cuff. Celsie, who was beginning to wonder if she was squeamish about seeing her own blood, refused to look at the exposed wound. Instead, she gazed up at his face, grave now as he gave his attention to her arm, and tried to take her mind off what he was doing. Looking at his face made it very easy to take her mind off what he was doing. Did he have that same intense, focused look when he was inventing something brilliant? Did he give that same single-minded concentration to everything he did? And oh, what would it feel like to have that powerful concentration fully directed on her?

In the bedroom?

Now, where on earth had that thought come from?

Suddenly flustered, she forced herself to think of her arm instead. He may not be a surgeon, but he went about his task in a confident, no-nonsense sort of way that was wonderfully reassuring. His hands were warm where they steadied her arm, his touch gentle but firm. All too soon he was wrapping the makeshift bandage around the wound, snugging it comfortably, reassuringly, tight. His thumb holding the ends in place, he neatly tied them off, leaving her feeling strangely bereft as he finally relinquished her arm.

"Thank you," she said, sitting up a bit and rubbing her arm through the bandage. "It feels better already."

"Keep it clean and I doubt you'll even see a scar from it."

His gaze met hers, and something warm and undefinable passed between them. Celsie flushed, a jolt of current leaping through her, its heat settling in her very bones even as Andrew stiffened. They both looked away at the same time, and Celsie decided that it was long since time she got up and removed herself to the safety of the other seat.

She slid gingerly off his lap and took the seat across from him. The space around her felt cold. Empty.

The emotions welled up in her heart again. She wrapped her fingers together and squeezed, hard, trying to divert the sudden sting of unshed tears. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Andrew, who had lapsed back into sullen silence, his gaze, like hers, redirected out the window.

Reality was bad enough. But God help her, this punishing silence, this awkwardness, was downright unbearable.

"Where are we going?" she finally asked.

He kept his gaze directed out the window. "Where would you like to go?"

"Anywhere, except back there. What about you?"

"Anywhere, except the altar."

"You really don't want to marry me, do you?"

"No, I don't."

"Which proves that you really don't want me for my money."

"No offense, madam, but I really don't want you at all."

Though Celsie didn't want to marry him either, no woman wanted to be rejected so bluntly, especially when the one doing the rejecting was without doubt one of the handsomest men in all of England. "Well, I can't blame you there," she said breezily, though there was a hard edge to her voice that she couldn't quite conceal. "I suppose the idea of marrying an heiress must be quite appealing, but even a fortune could never make up for the fact that you'd have a wife with no tits."

His head snapped around. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. I know you men all like to compare attributes and acquisitions, and my diminutive chest would be a constant source of embarrassment to you, to be sure."

"Your language, madam, leaves much to be desired."

"So does my chest, if most men's opinions are to be believed."

He flushed angrily. "I could care less about most men's opinions. And for what it's worth, I happen to think you are most prettily endowed."

"And you expect me to believe you?"

"And why the blazes wouldn't you believe me?"

"I know what men say about me."

"Do you, now?"

"I do. And I am utterly convinced that I do not measure up, if you know what I mean."

"No, I do not know what you mean, and I can assure you right now, madam, that the absurd subject which we are currently discussing has no bearing whatsoever on my reluctance to take you to the altar."

"Oh, so you're afraid of choking on a pea, then."

"I am not afraid of choking on a pea. I do not even like peas. What I do like is the complete freedom to live my life as I please, without feminine encumbrances of any sort, be they mistresses, admirers, or God forbid, wives. I have work to do."

She met his gaze, glare for glare. "Well, I have work to do, too. I have a network of shelters throughout Berkshire that need constant upkeep, funding, and attention so they can continue to take in unwanted animals. I'm fighting for the turnspits. I have instituted a program to teach the young people in my village how to properly care for their dogs and cats so they learn that animals are for life, just like children, and are not expendable objects to be given away, killed, or otherwise disposed of simply because they've had an accident on the floor or are no longer as cute as they were when they were puppies and kittens. Like you, I do not need encumbrances of any sort. So you see, Andrew, I have no wish to get married, either."

He stared at her.

"Besides," she continued, "I have yet to find a man who loves dogs as much as I do, who would not only condone but assist me in my efforts to help them, and would also let them sleep on the bed."

He shrugged. "I let Esmerelda sleep on my bed."

"You do?"

"Yes," he said impatiently. "What's so extraordinary about that?"

She stared at him, his candid admission defusing some of her anger. "Nothing, except that you are the first man I've ever met to admit to such a thing. Ha, maybe marriage to you will be tolerable, after all."

"You'll be miserable, I can guarantee it. As would any woman with the misfortune to be tied to me."

"What compels you to say such a thing?"

"The fact that I can think of no female who would willingly and uncomplainingly share her husband with his obsessive pursuit of science."

"Well, I can think of no man who would willingly and uncomplainingly share his bed with his wife's dog, so I guess we're even."

He just looked at her, an odd expression in his eye. "Very funny."

"Well, I thought so," she returned, pleased that she'd managed to break the ice a little between them. "Oh, Andrew. What are we going to do?"

"I don't know." He sighed and leaned his brow into his hand, rubbing it as though he was infinitely tired. "We could always quit the country in order to avoid this deuced marriage. France . . . America . . . no, neither is far enough away from Lucien. By God, the Arctic is beginning to look quite attractive."

"Yes, but you have to admit, it would be an awfully cold place to build a new laboratory."

He lifted his head and looked at her. Again something warm and unexpected leaped between them, but this time he didn't turn away. Didn't chase it off with anger. And as he held her gaze, he began to smile, and Celsie saw, for the first time, that this fiery, bad-tempered man actually had a charm that was quite lethal when he chose to display it.

She looked down at her tightly-clenched hands, confused by the sudden jumble of feelings bouncing around in her heart.

"Maybe you'd better take me back now," she said, a little shakily. "I need to get Freckles."

"Celsiana."

Her gaze flashed to his. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry, too. I . . . just want you to know that I'm not angry with you, but with fate."

"Thank you."

"And that it's not marriage to you that I'm upset about, but the idea of it in general." He cleared his throat. "You have an uncommon amount of courage. It's hard not to admire it."

She looked up. "For a woman, you mean?"

"For anyone." His eyes were warm. "I want you to know that."

He reached into his pocket then and extracted a small flask. "We'll find a way out of this. Somehow, some way." He uncorked the little vessel, and the strong fumes of brandy assailed her nose. "In the meantime, I propose a toast."

"To what?"

He smiled, but his eyes were hard and determined. "To outsmarting my Machiavellian brother."