Chapter 13

By the time Gerald reached his room at the Lambourn Arms, his terror had abated and self-disgust sat in his gut like an undigested bone. He galloped up to the stables, handed his winded horse to a groom, and stalked into the taproom.

A glass of hard whiskey calmed him. A second fortified him. A third managed to restore some of the courage that his Grace the duke of Blackheath had so easily stripped him of, and halfway through his fourth, Gerald was on his way back out to the stables.

He would deal with the duke. He would make him see reason, make him see how unsuitable his brother was for Celsie.

He would make sure this marriage would not go through.

Moments later, he was in the saddle once again, wheeling his already exhausted mare and sending her thundering toward Blackheath Castle. Gerald had his doubts that the duke would even receive him. The duke did — but arrogantly kept him waiting in the Great Hall for a full forty minutes, which was enough to infuriate Gerald all over again.

Presently, a footman came for him.

"His Grace will see your lordship in the library now," said the servant, bowing. "If you will just follow me . . ."

Gerald found his nemesis standing before a wall of bookcases, idly perusing an old leather tome. The duke had changed his clothes, but was still dressed in black, or rather a deep, inky-blue velvet that, on his lean and dangerous frame, was somehow even more sinister. His back was turned, his manner unhurried. He took his time replacing the book, then turned, a cold, terrible smile just touching his mouth, and his eyes as warm as a cobra's.

"Ah, Somerfield. I have been expecting you. Do sit down. I would offer you some refreshment, but I am not feeling particularly well disposed toward you this morning." Again that chilling, unpleasant smile. "I trust that you understand why, under the circumstances."

He reached for the decanter to pour a drink for himself, but Gerald, who wanted to get this business over with, wasted no time in pleasantries. He glared at the duke's handsome profile, severe, aristocratic, a nearly unbroken line from nose to backswept brow, and said rudely, "I cannot permit Celsiana to marry your brother."

Blackheath never faltered. Never allowed even the faintest suggestion of a reaction to mar his expression. Nonchalantly watching the sherry splash into the crystal goblet, he said, "Well, that is indeed unfortunate, as I am in favor of the union."

"In favor of it? Are you mad, man?"

"Mad?" Black ice glittered in the duke's eyes as he calmly raised his glass to his lips. "I can assure you, I am quite sane. In fact, I find myself wondering if you, Somerfield, are the mad one."

Gerald, fortified with liquor, bristled. "I don't know what you mean."

"Don't you? Yesterday you challenged my brother to a duel because he refused to offer for the lady's hand. This morning your cowardly and pathetic attempt on his life nearly cost you your own. And now here you are again, protesting the impending nuptials. My patience with you, Somerfield, is dangerously short. I should think you'd have had more sense than to come here spouting nonsense that will do nothing but strain it all the more."

Gerald's hand shook; he wished he had another drink.

"I am willing to pretend that this morning's little incident was the product of your overwrought passions, Somerfield. I am even willing to pretend a certain civility toward you for the sake of my soon-to-be sister-in-law. But what I cannot pretend is to even try to understand why you suddenly find Andrew unsuitable, when yesterday you wanted him to do right by Celsiana. Quite a sudden change of mind, no?"

"It wasn't a change of mind, I was simply caught off guard yesterday by what even you will admit were shocking circumstances. Celsie is supposed to wed Sir Harold Bonkley, and if she marries your brother instead, it will make both Bonkley and me the laughingstocks of polite society."

"I fail to understand why a marriage between the two will be so detrimental to what" — again, that deadly smile —"dignity you and Bonkley possess."

"At the ball the other night — we told everyone who matters that Bonkley and Celsie were as good as betrothed!"

"Then you are foolish as well as cowardly."

"I demand that you do everything within your power to put an end to this lunacy!"

The duke lifted one black brow, and put down his glass. "You demand?"

Gerald sputtered and flushed crimson.

"My dear Somerfield," Lucien continued smoothly. "I can assure you that I have no intention of putting an end to it whatsoever, as I happen to think our siblings are very well suited." He brushed a speck of lint off his sleeve and turned his stare, which had gone very black, and very wintry, on his guest. "Surely, you don't find my brother wanting, do you?"

Gerald felt his guts seize up. He did not know Lucien well, but something on an animal level of instinct warned him that he was treading on dangerous, if not deadly, ground. Too much whiskey, however, made him reckless.

"Damn right I do! He's aloof. He's arrogant. He's obsessed with crackbrained inventions and love potions, which proves that he's not only strange, but a pervert. In short, Blackheath, he will make my sister miserable. He has no prospects for an admirable career or future, and he has nothing whatsoever to offer Celsie. Absolutely nothing."

The duke regarded him for a long, uncomfortable, unblinking moment. Gerald felt dread tingling up his spine. His palms began to sweat.

"And do you think that this Bonkley, whose name I can hardly utter without pitying his poor bride, will make your sister any happier than my brother might?" murmured Blackheath in a dangerously soft tone.

"He, at least, has — has prospects!"

"Does he, now? Pray, enlighten me."

Gerald opened his mouth, and then shut it. Sir Harold Bonkley had nothing over Lord Andrew de Montforte, and both of them knew it.

Blackheath gazed at him for a moment longer, and then, with a long-suffering sigh, returned his attention to his sherry. "D'you know, Somerfield, I am beginning to suspect that your real complaint with my brother has nothing to do with the fact he compromised your sister, but that he is not, shall we say" — he held up his glass, examining the golden depths — "malleable."

"What?"

The duke turned his head and flatly met Gerald's gaze. "Not malleable to your wishes, that is. I'm afraid my brother has always done, and will always do, exactly as he pleases. You will not bend him to your will."

"I don't know what the devil you're talking about."

"Don't you? Ah, but I think you do. It does not escape my notice that you would quite like to see your sister married to Sir Harold so you can control him and thus your sister's fortune."

"I beg your pardon?" cried Gerald, outraged.

The duke's smile was studied politeness, but the black eyes were dangerously cold, flat, and deadly. "It is no great secret, my dear Somerfield, that your sister allows you to live at Rosebriar because you have nowhere else to go. And it is no great secret that you have amassed a rather considerable number of gaming debts and now find yourself without the means to make good on them. Of course, a union between Sir Harold and your sister offers the perfect solution to your little dilemma, does it not?"

Gerald spluttered. "How dare you, sir!"

"I dare quite a lot. It is a particular defect in my character — or so I'm told." Smiling faintly, the duke went back to nonchalantly studying his sherry. "Really, Somerfield, if you are so desperate to get your hands on a fortune, maybe you should consider marrying an heiress yourself and have done with the matter."

"You insult me, sir!"

"A thousand apologies," Blackheath murmured. "Perhaps the fact that your sister usurped you on the duelling field this morning has left you feeling a bit deprived? We can rectify that, you know. I can assure you that I wouldn't mind getting up at dawn tomorrow at all —" he turned his head, smiling blandly as he met Gerald's gaze — "if you understand my meaning."

Gerald felt the blood drain from his face. Involuntarily, he took a step backward, sliding a finger beneath his stock and preferring to let the challenge go unanswered. "So you will do nothing to stop this unseemly union, then."

"On the contrary, my good man, I will do all in my power to ensure that it is made."

"Then I have nothing more to say to you," Gerald said, and turning on his heel, stalked from the library.

~~~~

Lady Nerissa de Montforte was in her apartments, tending to her morning correspondence over a leisurely cup of chocolate, when a brief knock on the door signalled the presence of her eldest brother.

"Ah, Nerissa," said Lucien, wearing that self-satisfied smile she had long since come to know and dread. "I am delighted to find you at your letters. You may wish to write both Charles and Gareth, I think, notifying our dear brothers of the impending wedding."

"What wedding?" asked Nerissa, confused.

"Why, Andrew's, of course."

"Andrew's?"

"Surely you didn't think I would allow him to remain a bachelor until his hair goes grey, do you?"

"Andrew's getting married?"

Lucien stroked his chin contemplatively. "Yes, and imminently, I should think."

Nerissa surged to her feet, her correspondence forgotten. "Lucien, what have you done?"

"My dear sister, I didn't do anything. While dueling with Somerfield, Andrew had one of his . . . episodes. Somerfield was about to kill him, so I stepped in, and the fair Lady Celsiana Blake threw herself between us, begging me to spare her brother's worthless life."

"And did you?"

"Yes, but only for a price."

Nerissa's blue eyes narrowed. "What price?"

"Why, marriage to Andrew, of course. Oh, don't look at me like that, my dear. It is all for his own good, as well as the girl's. Lady Celsiana Blake is going to make him very happy indeed. Though of course, he doesn't quite realize that yet . . ."

"I cannot believe I'm hearing this. Andrew is the last person on earth who should be married, who wants to be married, who will benefit by being married!"

"On the contrary, Nerissa, marriage will do him good."

"Lucien, how could you do this to him?"

"My dear Nerissa, I have already told you. He did it himself."

"Oh, and I suppose that you didn't have something up your sleeve at the ball the other night when you set Lady Celsiana on him by telling her he was experimenting on animals and then making Andrew believe your action was anything but innocent?"

Lucien merely smiled.

"And I suppose your having the servant bring poor Celsiana to Andrew's apartments while he was not only still abed, but in a state of shocking undress, was also innocent? You go too far, Lucien!"

"It will be a superb match. Andrew will thank me for it some day, and so will the lady who is destined to be his wife. He is quite smitten with her already, though I daresay he'll never admit it. She is quite smitten with him already, though I daresay she'll never admit it, either. But ah, the eyes tell all . . . 'Twas a good thing there was steel between the two of them this morning, otherwise I fear our two lovers might have caused quite an embarrassing scene, and in front of the entire village of Ravenscombe, too."

"Steel between them this morning? Entire village of Ravenscombe? I thought dueling was a private affair! I thought Andrew was to fight a duel with that odious man Somerfield, not his sister!"

"Well, that was the plan, but the situation went a bit . . . awry."

"How?"

"Why, the lady locked up her own brother and arrived in his place. It would have been injurious to both her and Andrew's honor had he not agreed to fight her. Oh, don't look so appalled, my dear. Somerfield managed to free himself and arrived just in time to take his rightful place on the dueling field. It was only when he attempted to murder Andrew that I thought it timely to intervene." He smiled, obviously pleased with himself. "Celsiana herself declared that she would marry our brother if only I would spare hers."

"Oh, dear God . . ."

"It all happened rather quickly . . . I daresay the lady is as unconventional in her behavior as our brother is in his. But ah, the look on Andrew's face when she, instead of Somerfield, stepped down from the carriage . . . it was beyond priceless. Our poor brother didn't even have time to recover from his shock before she was insisting that he fight her."

"She didn't!"

"She most certainly did."

"And did he?"

"He most certainly did."

"Oh, Lucien!"

"Have no fear, Nerissa. She appeared to be an accomplished swordswoman, though she could not, of course, have hoped to match Andrew in skill or strength. Still, I thought it prudent to suggest that the two of them fight till first blood only . . . though Somerfield was determined to fight for far more than that when he reclaimed his place on the duelling field."

"Oh, dear God . . ."

Nerissa, recovering, took a deep bracing sigh and faced her brother. Everything was falling into place. "So you would have killed Somerfield knowing his sister would do anything to save him."

"But of course."

"And you were doubtless the one who arranged for the whole village to turn out, so that you'd have plenty of witnesses for whatever manipulation you had planned."

"And why not? They see so little in the way of entertainment . . ."

Nerissa, tight-lipped and angry, pushed back from her desk. "Lucien, what you have done is not only upsetting, but totally incomprehensible. Why? Why? Though I do not condone your actions, I can understand your tricking Gareth into marrying Juliet so that her baby could have its proper name; I can understand your giving Charles the push he needed to offer for Amy when his confidence was at an all-time low; but this — this is heinous! It is cruel sport indeed! Andrew is a dreamer, a loner . . . different! He doesn't need a wife! He doesn't want to get married! He simply wants to be left alone!"

"So he has informed me. But what's done is done, I'm afraid," said Lucien, looking anything but contrite.

"And I suppose the next life you're planning to manage is mine?"

"Only if you don't do a good job of managing it yourself."

Nerissa swept up her letters and slammed her chair back against her desk. "Do you know something? I hope that someday, after you've schemed and manipulated all of our lives to your liking, you'll get a taste of your own medicine. That some woman will bring you to your knees. Because when that happens, I'm going to be the first one in line to celebrate your long-overdue downfall!"

Real amusement shone in Lucien's black eyes. "I can assure you, my dear, that it will never happen."

"Ohhhhhh! You are insufferable!" Nerissa snapped, and turning on her heel, marched from the rooms.

Lucien remained where he was, waiting for her angry footsteps to diminish before he allowed his smile to fade. From far away a door slammed, and he let out a sigh of infinite weariness as he picked up her discarded pen and replaced it in its holder.

Contrary to Nerissa's hopes, no woman would ever bring the Duke of Blackheath to his knees.

His time, as he well knew, was running out.