The Defiant One Read online

  "The damned door is open!"

  "No one will come. Besides, don't you like to live dangerously?"

  Her hips were pressing against his, pressing against his already straining erection. And now she was reaching out, dragging her fingers down the cleft of his chest, running her fingernail around his nipple and down over his ribs, following the thin arrow of dark auburn hair toward —

  "Madam, please contain yourself!"

  "Why? I've been wanting to touch you from the moment I saw you lying there in that bed. You have such a splendid physique, you know . . . Such taut, powerful muscles . . . such a perfectly masculine form. I think I am very glad that you are not wearing any clothes, after all."

  "You must stop this, now!"

  "Stop what? Let go of the blanket, Andrew. Take it off and let me see if the rest of you is as magnificent as what I can see . . . what I can feel . . ."

  "No, this is not a good idea," he said, then let out a choked gasp as her fingers brushed teasingly over the blanket, which he clutched to himself like a shield.

  Her fingers settled on the upper edge, her knuckles pressing into the point of one bare hip, her smile coy, teasing, a mixture of virginal innocence and pure, female intuition. "Of course it's a good idea. Surely, you don't have something to hide, do you?" She tugged persistently at the blanket. Andrew, his hand shaking, clenched it at his hip. And then she grinned and sidled closer to him, rubbing her bare breast, her aroused nipple, against the crisp hair of his chest.

  "And you accuse me of being a coward," she teased, with a little smile.

  Andrew groaned. He was losing control of his will. Of his body. He felt his muscles liquefying as Celsiana began kissing his chest, looking up at him through her lashes, her fingers still tugging at the blanket. He tightened his hold. And now her knuckles were sliding across his bare, taut abdomen, going out to one hip, and then, agonizingly, back to the other, as she traced the blanket's folded rim.

  A blanket that Andrew was clutching desperately against himself.

  Help, he thought, muddily. Frantically. He backed up, wondering if he could make an escape, knowing, with some carnal part of his no-longer-scientifically-inclined mind, that escape was really the very last thing he wanted.

  What he wanted was —

  He took another step back. She moved right with him. And then the back of his thighs came up against the worktable. Through the blanket, he felt its hard edge. He felt Celsie's fingers tickling, brushing, teasing his belly . . . skimming the bony points of his hips . . . coming back around again and now touching the huge, rigid bulge that he was helpless to hide, helpless to prevent, jutting up through the blanket in proud, unmistakable arousal.

  "Oh, my," she said, her eyes widening. "Now this is interesting!"

  "Madam, please, come to your senses, you will regret this, I tell you, this is —"

  Her fingers wrapped around him through the blanket.

  "This is . . ."

  She squeezed him, and Andrew's knees threatened to buckle.

  "This is wonderful," she finished for him, as he reached behind him, and with his free hand, caught the edge of the table. His knuckles felt as though they were going to burst their skin. His grip on the tabletop was the only thing keeping him on his feet. Where his knees had been there was only water.

  "Isn't it, my Lord Andrew?"

  "Isn't it . . . isn't it what?" he managed weakly.

  "Wonderful."

  "Oh God, please help me."

  "Let go of the blanket, Andrew."

  "No, madam, you will regret this . . . we both will."

  For answer, she merely began rubbing his arousal through the blanket, touching him, squeezing him, inciting him, and Andrew thought he was going to explode into a thousand pieces. He wanted her to rip the blanket off. He dreaded what would happen when she did. His eyes began to close. His fingers all but left dents in the tabletop. She bent her head, and he felt her silky hair against his belly, felt her fingers cupping his testicles, and knew he was lost, even as she reached out and pulled the bunched blanket from his slackening fist and slowly dragged it down, off his hips, and off his huge and very hot erection.

  Andrew, his senses all at sea, could do nothing to resist.

  Absolutely nothing.

  Her hand found him. His knees buckled and, letting go of the table, he sank to the floor in defeat, pulling her with him, kissing her desperately.

  "The devil take it . . ."

  They fell sprawling into a pile of drawings. Andrew groaned, trying, with the last part of his mind that could still reason, with the last shreds of will that remained to him, to slide backward away from her ruthless seduction, from her maddening touch, but he couldn't hear himself think, couldn't feel himself feel, and knew nothing but the sweetly torturous feel of her hand, her gentle, exploring fingers. It was too much, even for him. His outflung hand managed to snare the leg of a chair; he tried to pull himself to safety, but he was trapped by his own passion. He let go of the chair. He let go of his will. And then, catching Celsiana around the waist, he yanked her up and atop him, rucking up her petticoats as he slid his hand beneath them and up her long, smooth-as-silk thighs.

  Oh, God, she was right. Warm and wet . . . oh, so very, very wet. . . .

  He heard her moan deep in her throat, felt her sigh against his cheek as his fingers sank into her moist cleft and began to stroke her.

  "Yes, oh, that feels so much better," she breathed, showering fervent, inexperienced kisses all over his brow, his nose, and finally, his mouth. Andrew claimed her lips, quickly showing her how it was done, devouring the innocent sweetness of her mouth. His own breathing grew shallow. Erratic. He felt her palming his abdomen, and now her hand slid down to wrap itself around the base of his manhood, squeezing him oh so gently, oh so firmly. He sucked in his breath on a raw gasp; but when her fingers started to flicker over the engorged tip, he knew it was all over for him. His eyes flying open, he drew his lips back in a silent scream and made a wild grab for the chair leg to anchor himself.

  It came over with a crash, hitting the table, then the floor near his ear, with a sound that nearly deafened him. A beaker fell and shattered on the floor, along with several bottles and a half-finished cup of tea. "Bloody hell," gasped Andrew. "Sweet, bloody hell!" And as he shut his eyes and tried, oh dear God, tried to delay his climax, Celsie began making little sobbing gasps that heralded her own coming release. The sound was enough to annihilate Andrew's control. Feverishly he seized her around the waist with both hands, plunked her down atop his rigid manhood as she helped guide him in, and, impaling her all the way to the hilt, began thrusting up into that tight, blessedly wet haven with desperate, frenzied, abandon.

  "Oh!" she cried. "Oh, I think that is what I needed . . . what I wanted — oh, please . . ."

  She met his savage thrusts with equal abandon. Her kisses rained down upon his hot forehead, his lips, his face. "Oh, please, Andrew — go faster!"

  Her voluminous skirts and petticoats shrouding his body, her hair swinging wildly about his face as she rode him for all she was worth, he felt her inner muscles beginning to contract all around him.

  "Faster!"

  "Oh, Goddddddddddd —" Andrew shouted through clenched teeth as the white-hot explosion finally ripped through his loins. Carried along by her movements, he gave a final upward thrust, his senses splintering as she cried out and hung poised above him, her head thrown back, one breast jutting free, tears of unexpected ecstacy rolling down her cheeks as climax seized her as well.

  Then she fell, panting and exhausted, across his bare chest just as the door crashed fully open.

  Shocked silence.

  Shocked, stunned, awful silence.

  And then a calm and perfectly unfazed voice penetrating it:

  "Dear me. This is certainly a most interesting experiment you are conducting, Andrew."

  Still weak and dazed, Andrew raised his head. There was the duke of Blackheath. There was a handful of staring se
rvants.

  And there, God help them both, was Celsie's brother, the earl of Somerfield.

  "Bloody hell," Andrew said, and throwing a hand over his eyes, let his head thump back to the floor.

  Chapter 7

  "You rutting bastard!" howled Gerald, drawing his sword and charging forward. "I'll kill you for this, so help me God!"

  Lucien calmly reached out and caught the earl's elbow before he could decapitate his youngest brother. "Now, now, Somerfield, if you feel compelled to kill him, please do so outside. Bloodstains are so hard to get off a new floor, you know." He gazed down at the hapless pair, his angry sibling flat on his back, stark naked, and covered only by Celsie's petticoats. Not to mention her partially clothed body. "Besides, I am sure that my brother has a perfectly reasonable explanation . . ." He gave a maddening little smile. "Don't you, Andrew?"

  "Damn right I do!" snarled Andrew, hooking a finger around a damp lock of Celsie's hair that webbed his face and glaring up at the intruders from beneath her prone body.

  "I, for one, would like to hear it," said Lucien mildly.

  "She drank the damned solution!"

  "What solution?" thundered Somerfield.

  Lucien came forward, retrieved the blanket from the floor, and tossed it over the couple. "My brother here devised an aphrodisiac," he explained conversationally, as though such discoveries were commonplace amongst English inventors. He crossed his arms and looked down at his brother, a faint smirk playing about his mouth. "Really, Andrew, you disappoint me. I would have thought you had more sense than to test such a . . . dangerous composition on a pretty young woman."

  "I didn't test it, she asked to try it!"

  Lucien shrugged. "Well then, I would have thought you had more sense than to say yes."

  "What do you mean, she asked to try it?" raged Somerfield. "How dare you accuse my innocent young sister of such vulgarity!"

  Andrew met the other man's glare with hard eyes. "I daresay your sister is no longer innocent, and I must wonder, indeed, whether she ever was."

  Somerfield's cheeks mottled with outrage, and at that moment, Celsie finally raised her head. Pushing herself up on one hand, she blinked and looked weakly around her, her expression one of confusion and slowly dawning horror. "Good heavens . . . what happened?"

  "You ravished me," snapped Andrew.

  "I what?"

  "I said, you bloody well ravished me."

  "You'll die for that accusation, de Montforte!" howled Somerfield, advancing with drawn sword.

  The duke sighed and casually snared the earl's sleeve once again. "Given the circumstances, Somerfield, I do think it wise to retreat to the library so that you may calm down, and our young lovers here can recover both their wits and their dignity. Andrew? If you and Lady Celsiana would meet us downstairs in a quarter of an hour, I'm sure that reasonable satisfaction can be had for all parties involved."

  "I daresay that reasonable satisfaction has already been had by at least one of them!" roared Somerfield, glaring pointedly at Andrew.

  "Really? Well, it wasn't me, I can tell you that much."

  Somerfield went for his sword yet again, and this time Lucien's eyes lost their amused glint as he seized the earl's arm once more. "Really, Somerfield, you are beginning to annoy me. It would benefit us all if you would demonstrate a little self-restraint. Now come along. I trust that some cognac will steady you and allow you to address this matter in a mature and rational way."

  Steering the hot-tempered earl from the room, he strode toward the door, and it was only as he crossed the threshold and paused to look back over his shoulder, one brow raised and a faint smile on his lips, that Andrew caught the telltale gleam of satisfaction in those fathomless black eyes.

  And then he was gone.

  "Bastard," Andrew muttered beneath his breath — and in that moment, he would have wagered everything he owned that Lucien was — in some way, for some reason — behind this entire debacle.

  ~~~~

  The "mature and rational" way that Lucien suggested, once Andrew and an upset, embarrassed, and very, very angry Celsie were seated in the library, was an immediate marriage.

  Lucien gazed thoughtfully at the pair, sitting as far apart from each other as the placement of chairs would allow, neither looking at the other, both quietly furious. "Regardless of the circumstances that led to the act, Andrew, there is no denying that you have ruined the girl," he said, pouring another glass of cognac and handing it to his now fully clad brother. Andrew adamantly refused to take the glass and sat staring mutely out the window, his jaw clenched, his eyes blazing as Lucien continued. "You have robbed her of her virginity, her innocence, and any chances of making a successful marriage. Therefore, I think you owe it to her to do the right thing."

  Andrew leaped to his feet. "I will not marry her!"

  "And I will not marry him!" cried Celsie, also leaping to her feet.

  "Sit down, both of you," said the duke, irritably. "Lord save us, you'd think I just sentenced the two of you to the gallows, the way you're carrying on."

  "I said, I am not marrying her," Andrew repeated hotly.

  "And I said, I am not marrying him!"

  "Well, then," said Lucien, smiling and gazing calmly at the earl. "What do you suggest we do, Somerfield?"

  "He ruined my sister! If he's any sort of a gentleman, he'll do the right thing!"

  "I wasn't the one who told her to take the damned solution!"

  "But you were the one who damn well invented it!"

  Celsie could feel herself losing her already frayed control. "Gentlemen —"

  "And you were the one who allowed her to take it!" Gerald continued.

  "Gentlemen —" Celsie bit out, louder this time.

  "And furthermore, you were the one who was lying stark naked beneath her," thundered Gerald, advancing on Andrew with fists clenched. "Your brother's right — your judgment is to be questioned, and so, by God, are your motives!"

  Celsie slammed her own glass down. "Damn it, listen to you! The two of you go on as though I am invisible, as though I have no brain or will of my own, as though I'm nothing but a — but a — flea on a dog's ear!" She rounded on her brother. "Gerald, I told you before and I shall tell you again, I was the one who asked Lord Andrew to give me the solution. I was the one who doubted its efficacy. I was the one who attacked him, and I am the one who is responsible for this . . . this mess, and I will not have you forcing us into some ill-advised union when it is obvious that Andrew has no more wish to marry me, than I do to marry him!"

  "And what if you're with child?" shouted Gerald.

  "If I am with child, that's my responsibility, not Andrew's! He didn't ask for me to . . . to . . . ."

  "Ravish him," finished the duke urbanely, topping up his glass.

  "Damn you, Lucien!" exploded Andrew, as Celsie flushed crimson. "Must you be so damned crude?"

  The duke merely smiled and lifted a brow. "My dear brother, I am merely repeating the words you used earlier."

  "Did I ravish you?" demanded Celsie, her insides clenching.

  Now it was Andrew's turn to go red. "Don't tell me you don't remember."

  "I don't remember a thing except opening my eyes to find myself — "

  "On top of him," finished the duke, smoothly.

  "Curse it, Lucien!"

  Celsie was trembling with mortification. "Thank you, Your Grace, for stating the matter so succinctly," she ground out.

  Blackheath merely inclined his head and lifted his glass to her as Celsie turned angry, desperate eyes on Andrew. She saw his own gaze soften, momentarily, before he looked away, his jaw hard. He was as much a victim of this entire debacle as she was. He had warned her not to imbibe the solution, had even tried to talk her out of it. But no. She had taken his warning as a challenge, and now look at what happened.

  "Did I?" she demanded, anger and self-disgust making her voice brittle.

  He cleared his throat. "Well, let us say that your manner was no
thing short of predatory," he allowed.

  "Did you resist?"

  "Really, Celsie!" thundered Gerald.

  "Did you?"

  "Well, I did at first, but to be truthful, madam, you were rather . . . well, persuasive in your designs."

  "Oh, dear God," she moaned, momentarily covering her face with her hands. Then, raising her head, she looked Andrew directly in the eye. "Well then, since it was your honor that was compromised, your body that was — was —"

  "Ravished," supplied Lucien, helpfully.

  "Ravished," fumed Celsie, eyes flashing, "then I think that you ought to decide what should be done."

  "This is highly irregular!" stormed Gerald, his complexion mottling. "Really, Celsie, I have never heard of anything so preposterous in my life!"

  "Be quiet, Gerald. After all, I was the one who coerced Lord Andrew into giving me the solution, so therefore, it is up to me to deal with the consequences."

  "I thought you said you didn't remember what happened!"

  "Well, I remember that much!"

  "Regardless, he was the one who deflowered you!"

  "Maybe I deflowered him!"

  "Highly unlikely," interrupted the duke, idly studying his cognac. "I daresay Andrew lost his virginity long ago." He smiled and slanted a benignly innocent grin at his brother. "Is that not right, Andrew?"

  Celsie saw Andrew turn and glare out the window once more, his eyes like flint.

  "So you see, my dear? That settles that."

  "That settles nothing," Celsie snapped. "Lord Andrew? What are your wishes in this matter?"

  "I have already stated them. With all due respect, madam, I have no need or wish for a wife. Indeed, I would prefer to forget this matter ever happened and simply get on with my life."

  "Well then, as I also have no need or wish for a husband, I daresay we are of like mind, and I, too, would prefer to forget it ever happened. Please take me home, Gerald. I find that I am developing quite a headache."

  The duke sipped his cognac. "Really, my dear, that's an excuse you should have used an hour ago." He turned to his brother, eyes gleaming. "I beg your pardon. Perhaps you should have used it, Andrew."