"No . . . but you're the one who drank the whole damned bottle of laced brandy. I only had a sip. Just enough to keep me from saying no . . ."
"If you want me to stop, I'm afraid you'll have to bodily throw me out of this carriage."
"I don't want you to stop," she managed, opening her eyes to stare fixedly up into his face.
"Then if you have any fears, qualms, or misgivings, you have only to voice them and I will soothe them to the best of my abilities."
"I have no fears. After all —" she faltered, feeling a sudden pain in her heart — "I am no longer a maiden, am I?"
He sobered. His gaze softened, and for a moment, he was the Andrew she had only glimpsed, the one who gently stroked his dog's head, the one who'd respected her on the dueling field, the one who had warily joked with her a few moments ago, the one who was usually gaoled behind the bars of anger and rudeness. "As I expect you do not remember much, if anything, of what occurred between us yesterday, I'll have you know, Celsie, that I still consider you a maiden in all senses of the word except one."
Celsie
. He had called her Celsie. Something hitched inside her heart.
"And I shall contrive to treat you as gently as a maiden deserves to be treated."
So he said. And all the while, she could feel the hard, flat blade of his hand thrust against her dampening cleft, the thumb lazily caressing the silky hair there and igniting the whole area into something hot and twitchy and wanting. She wanted his hand to touch her even more intimately, though she could not think how that would be possible. She wanted his thumb to move slightly more toward the very center of these oh-so-strange, oh-so-delightful, feelings. And she wanted —
The coach hit a bumpy section of road, and Celsie, still gazing up into Andrew's smoldering eyes, gasped as the jerky movement of the coach caused his hand, which he himself hadn't moved, to begin agitating her exposed, already aroused flesh.
"Oh!" she cried, her mouth falling open, her blood frying in her veins as she saw the wicked, lupine gleam in his eyes.
"A rather singular sensation, is it not?"
"You — how could you know?"
"I know a lot of things about your body, madam, that you have yet to learn. And I also know that in a few moments, this road is going to change to chalk rubble for a good mile or two and then your senses are
really
going to explode when these iron-clad wheels go vibrating over it."
"Will it feel . . . good?"
"Oh, yes," he said, chuckling darkly. "It will feel
very
good."
God help her, she felt really good,
now
. She felt really good as her lover knelt down on the floor of the coach, stretched her out on the seat, and began kissing the still warm spot on her belly where his broad palm had so recently rested. And she felt really good as his tongue, drawing little circles on the taut, electrified skin there, began moving closer and closer toward where his hand, shuddering rapidly with the movement of the coach, still lay, his fingers stroking her, his thumb pushing hard against that hot button of sensation.
Celsie whimpered and moaned, her head twisting on the seat, a strange, wonderful sensation gathering inside her like a horse gathering itself for a titanic hurdle . . .
"You may not remember all that happened between us yesterday, madam," he breathed, his lips now seeking the outermost curls of her femininity, "but I guarantee you shall never forget what's about to happen between us now."
One hand on her breast, the other holding her legs apart, his hot mouth dragged through her curls and planted itself with hard, unrelenting firmness,
there
.
Celsie cried out — and at that moment the coach hit the chalk rubble that he had heralded, making the vehicle, making her body, making Andrew's tongue as it plunged and dipped within her moist folds, shudder with a rapid, unceasing, crescendo of agitation.
"Oh, dear!" cried Celsie, gasping.
He raised his head the merest of inches. "
Faster,
" he shouted, to the driver above.
"Oh — oh, you fiend!" wailed Celsie, as the coach picked up speed, and so did the maddening agitation that was repeated in every cell in her body, in Andrew's mouth as he opened it wide against her shamelessly wet cleft once more, in his stiffened tongue as it pressed against that hidden button of flesh there, licking, stroking, the rumble of the chalk beneath the wheels rapidly agitating it beyond anything Celsie was physically capable of enduring.
"Oh, please —- oh please, oh please," she sobbed, her fingernails clawing at the seat.
"
Faster!
"
The escalating rumble of the wheels, rapidly shaking everything inside the coach like the onset of an earthquake, was too much. Celsie came against him with a harsh, rending cry, her body arching straight off the seat, his tongue never retreating but only pressing harder, deeper —
"Oh, oh God,
help
me!" she cried, flailing in the seat, writhing against his tongue, her hair whipping wildly back and forth as she climaxed once more. And then, just when she thought she would die, he drew back, thrust his fingers, vibrating with the shudder of wheels over rubble, deep inside her, and watched her senses explode yet a third time.
She was still convulsing when he climbed on top of her, opened his breeches, and drove himself into her, hard, thrusting over and over again until he finally reached his own satisfaction.
And on the box above, the driver never heard a thing.
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."