Reaching the top of the stairs, he turned and carried her into his rooms, thinking that would be the best place for her until morning when they could sort this sordid mess out.
She opened sleepy eyes as he shut the door behind her and laid her on the bed. Immediately, wariness came into them when she saw where he had put her.
"Relax, I'm not going to touch you," he said gruffly.
"Where are we?"
"London. De Montforte House. You're in my bed, but have no fear, I have no intention of staying." He drew back, away from her, giving her privacy and space. "A maid will be up shortly with some supper, and they're already preparing water for a hot bath. Good night."
She sat up. "Where are you going?"
"I, madam, am exhausted. I'm going elsewhere, and there, after supper and a bath, I'm going to bed."
"Oh."
He turned, irritably, and looked at her. She was still on the bed, though obviously uncomfortable about being seen in such an intimate place. She still had the lap rug, clutching it rather tightly around her shoulders. She looked unhappy. Confused. And heartrendingly vulnerable. The tender feeling she aroused in him irritated him.
"Now what?" he asked impatiently.
She sighed and ignored his curtness. "This isn't right. I have a townhouse here in London, too. I think I'd better go there instead . . ."
For some reason, his peevishness increased. "Fine, then. Go."
"Yes. I think that would be for the best." She flashed him a look he couldn't quite decipher and started to get off the bed. He noticed that she kept her eyes down, away from him, as though the experiences of the past two days had sent her beyond mortification. Her cheeks were pink. He would not feel sorry for her. He would not. She kept the lap rug tightly shut around her.
"You can take our coach," Andrew said.
"Thank you."
"Maybe we can meet in the morning over breakfast." He turned away from her, feeling oddly bereft, oddly betrayed, oddly confused over why he was feeling suddenly angry with her all over again. "We, uh, need to discuss how we can get out of this devilish predicament."
"Yes. What time should I call?"
"It doesn't matter."
She raised her gaze then, and met his. "I'll make it around noontime, then. I know you're a late sleeper."
"Trust me, madam, I don't expect to be getting much sleep tonight."
She nodded in understanding. He bowed to her, and she turned and walked out of the room, leaving him standing there alone. Andrew's palms went damp. His heart turned into a racehorse. He hailed her, almost desperately. "Wait."
She turned, the look in her eyes almost hopeful, but no, he was imagining it.
"You can take one of my greatcoats if you want," he offered. "You wouldn't want anyone to see you wearing" — he jerked his chin to indicate her breeches and stockings, just visible beneath the short blanket — "that."
"Thank you," she said, slipping off the woolen throw and putting it across the back of a chair. He went to the wardrobe, retrieved a heavy woolen coat, and gently settled it around her shoulders, letting his fingers linger longer than they should as he adjusted it.
"There." He swallowed and drew back, rather reluctantly. "Until tomorrow, Lady Celsiana."
"Until tomorrow, Lord Andrew."
There was an expression in her eyes that he couldn't quite read. Something like sadness. Or hurt. He couldn't quite discern which. He didn't
want
to discern which. He had to get this woman out of the house, out of his life, before his anger broke down even more.
He turned away so he wouldn't have to see her disappear, when something outside the tall window that looked down on the street caught his eye. His curiosity aroused, he took a few steps toward it and froze.
"Dear God . . ."
The street was glowing with an eerie amber light, but where the cobbles should have been, there was only a broad, flat ribbon of grey bracketed by lines of bright yellow and white. Strange, frightening noises filled his head. Strange, frightening lights dazzled his eyes. Andrew stared, the hair on the back of his neck rising. Holding his breath, too afraid to move, he slowly raised his gaze, trying to locate the source of the eerie light . . . and saw that the full moon, riding so high above the city, was repeated over and over and over again the length of the street, in a perfect, unbroken line of amber moons all glowing down on the scene beneath him.
He shut his eyes and gripped the sill of the window, his knees shaking, and when he opened them a heartbeat later, everything was as it should be.
Only one bright moon, riding high in the night sky above. Cobbles, over which the iron wheels of carriages, gigs, and coaches were rumbling and rattling. Smart-stepping horses, pedestrians on foot, a dog sniffing around in a gutter.
And Celsiana, who had come up behind him and put a concerned hand on his arm.
"Andrew?"
He gave his head a good shake, as though he could shake away the madness, as though he could forget all those amber moons that had been lined up above the street just a moment ago. "Did you see it?" he asked harshly.
"See what?" She went to the window, frowned, and turned concerned eyes on him. "Andrew, are you all right?"
"Yes, yes, I'm fine," he snapped, turning on his heel. He was trembling. He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, wanting only to flee before he ended up telling her of the strange moons and lights he'd just seen outside that very same window.
Before he ended up telling her that he was going mad.
But she was there, her hands gripping his rigid forearms. She pulled them down, dragging his fists away from his face, seeing the panic in his eyes. Her gaze was dark with concern. He shut his eyes as she palmed his forehead. "You're ill. You're sweating. You're as white as the tip of a beagle's tail."
"Celsie, leave me alone. Go away. Go away,
now
."
"I will, after I make sure you're all right."
"For God's sake, woman —"
Her grip around his wrist was fierce as she dragged him away from the window and back toward the bed. "Stop acting like a foolish
man
and sit down for a moment. You were ill this morning, too, weren't you? That's why you fell during the duel. Oh, don't think you can deceive me, Andrew. Gerald didn't stun you with his sword; you're ill. And you need to rest."
"I'm fine, I just . . . need some food, that's all."
"Andrew,
sit
."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me. Sit!"
He had no chance to recover from his amazement at being the first human on earth, surely, to be given an obedience command, before she shoved him down and backward. Andrew sat. Somewhat stunned, he allowed Celsie to tug off his boots, to remove his stock, to sit on the bed beside him and lift a concerned hand to his brow to check for fever.
The devil, but he had never had anyone fuss over him before. Maybe his mother had, but he'd been young when she'd died, and he sure as hell couldn't remember it. His life had been spent in self-imposed solitude. He'd never craved affection of any sort. But now, here she was touching him. Worrying over him. What a novel feeling. What a
nice
feeling.
Embarrassed, he smiled a little weakly. "I suppose you're going to tell me
down
next."
"Actually, that's exactly what I was going to tell you." She completely missed his feeble joke and stood back, studying him narrowly. "Well, you're cooler now, but you still don't look well at all. I'm going down to the kitchens to find something for you to eat so you won't have to wait for a meal to be prepared. Some food, hot tea, and a nightshirt ought to be just the thing. Now, get under those covers and don't move until I return, is that clear?"
"What?"
"You may be ill, my lord, but I know for certain that your hearing is quite unimpaired."
Andrew was staring at her. "I'm not sure whether I should be grateful, amused, offended, or amazed by such . . . treatment . . ."
"You can be all of them except offended," she said, giving him a fleeting smile that brought out the sparkle in her eye. "After all, I'm treating you no differently than I would a dog."
"Coming from anyone else, that would be an insult. Coming from
you
, I suppose I should consider it the highest of compliments."
She grinned. "Yes, well, just so that you don't get too high an opinion of yourself, you've got a long way to go before I choose you over Freckles." She turned and headed for the door, but Andrew was still sitting up, watching the sway of her bottom and her mile-long legs in the shockingly snug breeches.
He was still looking when she, reaching the door, turned and gave him a glare of mock severity.
He understood. Sliding down beneath the covers, he pulled them up to his chin and gave a long-suffering sigh.
It was then, and only then, that she left him.
Chapter 16
When Celsie tiptoed back upstairs with a tray in her hands twenty minutes later, she half-expected to find Andrew sound asleep in bed. Instead, he was sitting up, his back against the headboard and his notebook balanced against one blanket-clad knee. His pencil scratched rapidly across the page.
She stood in the doorway for a moment, just watching him. He was so focused on what he was doing that he hadn't seen her. The light from a bedside candle flickered over his intent face, gilding a complexion that still looked more wan than it should. He had untied his queue, and rich waves of dark chestnut hair gleamed in the light and hung in his eyes and about his shoulders. He kept pushing the hair back off his brow. It kept flopping forward. He looked incredibly boyish, unconsciously distracted. Handsome. She stilled, just watching him. There was something eminently fascinating about observing a genius at work, creating wondrous new inventions that would someday change the world. Celsie couldn't prevent the swell of admiration, and for a moment — a brief, insane moment — she had an urge to go to him, to slide beneath the covers with him, and kiss the mouth that looked so grim and unhappy until it was smiling once again.
What are you thinking?!
It must be a lingering aftereffect of the aphrodisiac. It had to be. Just like her absurd hope, when she had been about to leave, that he would ask her to stay —
And her crushing disappointment when he had not.
She cleared her throat to announce her return. His head jerked up in startled surprise.
"Hello," he said. To her amazement, he immediately stopped writing, shut the notebook, and putting it dutifully on a bedside table, gave her his complete attention. Celsie raised her brows. Well now, this was a change. Had her little sermon in the coach got through to him, after all?
"Feeling better?" she asked, smiling in acknowledgement of his improved manners as he took the tray from her hands.
"Much."
"Good. Here's a fresh pot of tea, and I found some leftover pork pie in the kitchen, peas, and potatoes boiled in their jackets."
She'd made up two plates. He took one for himself, along with flatware, and handed the tray back to her so that she would have something on which to eat her own food.
"No, you take it," she said, trying to wave away his kind gesture. "You're the one who's in bed. You'll have nothing to balance your plate on."
"I've got my lap."
"You'll spill something. Here, wait." Holding the tray in one hand, she pulled up the night table and put her own plate on it, as well as the teapot and cups. She handed the empty tray back to Andrew.
He eyed her wryly, but finally relented and accepted it.
"I trust you're a very good dog trainer," he mused, setting his plate back down on the tray, straightening up a bit in bed, and tucking in to the pork pie.
"Why do you say that?"
"You don't take no for an answer. Dogs will walk all over you if you let them. I bet no one walks all over you — dogs and people included."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Do you want it to be?"
She shrugged. "Compliments are always easier to take than insults, so yes, I think I do want it to be a compliment."
He smiled. "It was intended as one."
She poured him a cup, wondering why her hand felt suddenly shaky. She could feel his gaze upon her. Her blood warmed in response, and her heart was doing strange things beneath her pitifully inadequate bosom. It was almost easier to function around this man when he was being surly and brusque. When he chose to be charming, it was flustering. Unnerving. And this whole act of pouring tea for him while he was lying abed felt intimate.
Too
intimate. Was this what wives did for their husbands when they woke up in the morning?
"Milk and sugar?"
"Please."
She stirred both into the cup and handed it to him. He went to take it, but the cup was hot, and there was nowhere to put his hand, for she was the one holding the handle. Their fingers touched; he drew his back.
"Sorry," she said, and hastily set the cup down, feeling foolish and awkward and more than a little silly for her sudden nervousness.
Conversation. I've got to make conversation. But what on earth does one say to a reclusive man of science? What do we have to talk about? And why do I suddenly feel so nervous?
She watched him sip the steaming brew. "You still look rather pale," she said, noticing how dark his hair looked against his skin.
He shrugged. "I don't get out much, you know. Comes from spending too much time in my laboratory instead of out of doors."
That wasn't quite the truth, of course. Andrew spent a fair amount of time out of doors; he liked to ride. He liked to study nature. He just didn't like to wander far from the privacy — and safety — of Blackheath Castle. He sipped his tea, keeping his gaze downcast. Good thing she hadn't wanted to see his notebook. He'd been recording what he'd seen outside the window in the hopes that it might yield something of benefit to science or medicine or those who wanted to remember him long after he became a chained, drooling idiot in Bedlam. He shuddered uncontrollably, nearly upsetting his tea. The fear was there. It was always there.