The Defiant One Read online

  By

  Danelle Harmon

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Danelle Harmon

  The Defiant One

  Copyright © 2012 by Danelle Harmon

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  THE DEFIANT ONE

  By Danelle Harmon

  Book 3 of the de Montforte Brothers Series

  ~~~~

  Prologue

  November, 1777

  Lord Andrew de Montforte hadn't set out to discover an aphrodisiac.

  He was an inventor. He was a man of science. He was an attentive student of the laws of physics, nature, and God. He was not a crack-brained amateur, some curious schoolboy mixing random chemicals in the hopes of making a pretty color or getting a violent reaction. However, the discovery of the aphrodisiac was just that, the product of random mixing, and it resulted in a very interesting reaction indeed.

  It all started when Andrew and his impossibly interfering, maddeningly Machiavellian eldest brother Lucien, His Grace the fifth duke of Blackheath, had another furious row concerning Andrew's questionable health. Ever since the fire that had so changed the life of the youngest of the de Montforte brothers, Lucien been calling in reputed experts in an attempt to "cure" him and return him to the man that he had been.

  All four of the late duke's sons had been given nicknames by the villagers of Ravenscombe, and Andrew's sobriquet, "The Defiant One," was well-deserved. He had been blessed — or perhaps cursed — with a fiery temper, a strong will, and a blatant disregard for his brother's ducal wishes, and his only desire was to be left alone. He wanted to set about getting a patent for his newest invention, a double-compartmented coach designed to carry more passengers than the conventional ones. He wanted to redeem himself in the eyes of both society and the scientific community after his flying machine had plummeted to earth eleven months past, humiliating him in front of not only two hundred onlookers, but the king of England himself. And by God, he wanted Lucien to stop calling in these infernal charlatans — some physicians, some university dons, some men of the cloth — none of whom had been able to tell him what was wrong.

  And now the dogs were barking. Andrew, standing in the library and making notes from an ancient book of drawings by Leonardo da Vinci, lifted his head. He shot a glance at Lucien, who relaxed near the fire with a book. His brother never looked up. Narrowing his eyes, Andrew gazed out through the leaded windows that overlooked the meticulously groomed lawns of Blackheath Castle, the copper beeches whose branches were nearly bare, the sparkling moat beyond. A gig was coming up the long drive of crushed stone.

  Immediately, his expression hardened.

  Damn you, Lucien!

  Incensed, he slammed the book down on the table, strode past Lucien, and headed for the door.

  "Discover something interesting in that old tome of yours, Andrew?" the duke asked, his expression benignly innocent as he finally looked up from his own book.

  Andrew whirled, his fists clenched and his eyes full of fire. "What I've discovered is another meddling popinjay on his way up the drive, no doubt summoned by you to poke, prick and prod me, and I'm having none of it."

  "Ah, but perhaps Dr. Turner will be able to cure your problem."

  "The devil he will. My problem is only getting worse and you know it as well as I do. There is no cure, I am a marked man!"

  "Which is exactly why I have asked Dr. Turner to attend you. He is a most respected authority on —"

  "Perhaps I don't want Dr. Turner to attend me. Perhaps I don't want any more bacon-brained pillocks examining me as though I were some freak at the village fair. Perhaps I'm sick to death of being treated as if I had no feelings, thoughts, or dignity, and perhaps you should damn well start minding your own bloody business for once!"

  Andrew stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  His anger, his resentment, and yes, even his fear that one of these "experts" would give him the diagnosis he dreaded burned hotter with every stride he took. Determined not to let this latest fool have so much as a glimpse of him, he stalked down the hall, his height and bad temper making him a formidable presence indeed. Even a trio of comely young chambermaids, who usually giggled and blushed behind their hands when he passed, curtsied and shrank back against Blackheath's forbidding stone walls, silently staring after his commanding figure as it moved down the castle's ancient corridors . . .

  "'E must've 'ad another row with 'is Grace, I reckon," said one, sighing as she watched those broad shoulders round a corner and disappear from sight.

  "No doubt about that. An' I wager I knows what it's about, too. Lord Andrew's far smarter than all these doctors and other learned men that 'e's consented to let examine 'im! Ye know 'ow well 'e did at Oxford! Why, I 'spect 'is patience with the lot of 'em must be pretty well exhausted."

  "Can't blame 'im there . . . 'E's so smart 'e could probably teach them a thing or two!"

  Their whispers were lost on Andrew, who didn't stop until he'd reached his new laboratory on the second floor of the recently-rebuilt west wing. Barricading himself in the room, he splashed port in a glass, drained it I one swallow, and finally threw himself down at his worktable where he wished both his brother and his manipulations to hell.

  It was only as he stretched his long legs out beneath the table, and his toes bumped something soft and yielding, that he realized he was not alone. He peered under the table and saw a pair of caramel-colored eyes, sleek, shining fur that was only slightly redder than his own tousled queue, and a long tail, now thumping the floor in greeting.

  "Esmerelda. What in blazes are you doing under there?" Andrew kept a jar of biscuits on his desk; opening it, he took one out and offered it to the elegant red and white setter. Always the lady, she took it from his fingers, chewing it thoroughly before swallowing and pleading with her eyes for more.

  She was not alone. Pork, her fat companion, was down there, too. Pork belonged to Andrew's sister Nerissa, and he was as common as Esmeralda was aristocratic. Seeing that Esmerelda had received a treat and feeling left out, the bulldog heaved himself out from beneath the table and waddled up to Andrew. Pork was in no need of a midday snack, but Andrew was a fair-minded man. He took another biscuit, gave it to Pork, and watched as the bulldog bolted the morsel without bothering to chew. Disgusted, Esmerelda turned her head away from Pork with lofty disdain, one lip curling as the bulldog sniffed her muzzle. She was nearly as well bred as the dukes of Blackheath, and would not suffer the attentions of a common cur like Pork.

  The dogs might have softened Andrew's surliness if the crunch of gravel outside hadn't reclaimed his attention. Moving to the window and craning his neck, he could just see the doctor's gig, empty now, standing in the drive. His ears burned. He knew they were downstairs discussing him as though he were an object instead of a man, perhaps, even at this moment, on their way up here to invade his private sanctuary. And he could just imagine Lucien walking along with the physician, describing his "condition" in that suave, careless drawl that could be so bloody irritating . . .

  "You see, Doctor, my brother was perfectly all right until he was caught in the fire last year. That's when he changed . . ."

  Andrew clenched his jaw. Why don't you just go ahead and say it, Lucien? Why don't you just go ahead and tell him what we all know is rea
lly wrong with me!

  His anger, a worthy defense against the fear that always lurked beneath, blazed back into force. The hell with Lucien. The hell with all of them.

  Mouth hard, pulse starting to hammer, Andrew turned from the window, smashed a space through the papers and notes that cluttered his worktable, and dumped a measure of sodium carbonate into a glass beaker.

  "Miserable bastards," he snarled, trying to take his mind off the discussion he knew was occurring downstairs as he absently splashed oil of vitriol into the beaker and watched it fizz to the top. "Miserable, interfering bastards . . ."

  He poured himself another glass of port. It had come from Lucien's private stock and was vintage 1754, the year Andrew had been born. He polished off two thirds of the glass in one swallow and then, as if to show his absent brother just what he thought of both him and his port, dumped the rest of it into the beaker. The devil take it. He threw in some vinegar and some harmless indigo dye and something left over in a long-forgotten jar, and sat there stewing in his anger as he stared into the solution without really seeing it.

  A loud rap at the door jolted him from his sullen reverie. Barking furiously, the dogs shot out from beneath the table, Pork's stout body catching one of the legs. The beaker tipped. Cursing, Andrew grabbed it just in time to save most of the contents, but a stream of purple-garnet liquid spilled onto the floor, where it hissed and bubbled and fizzed like a live thing. The dogs immediately fell on it. Andrew, desperate to haul them off before they could poison themselves, immediately fell on the dogs.

  "Andrew, open the door."

  "Go to the devil!" he shouted over a fresh outbreak of barking as he pushed the dogs away, grabbed a cloth and tried to wipe up the spill.

  The duke's voice, still mild, had an edge to it now. "Andrew, for the sake of you and you alone, Dr. Turner has left his research and traveled all the way here from Paris. Surely you can spare him a few moments of your time. After all, we only want what is best for you."

  "I am tired of people who think they know best for me!"

  "Andrew, must you behave like such a . . . juvenile?"

  Balling the damp cloth and hurling it across the room, Andrew stalked to the door and tore it open.

  There stood the duke, looking as impeccably contained as ever, one black brow arching in that unique mixture of reproach and hauteur that he'd probably mastered by the time he was old enough to crawl. He was gazing most intently beyond Andrew's shoulder.

  With him stood an erect, white-haired gentleman whose kind, intelligent eyes were widening with shock as he, too, stared at something behind Andrew.

  Andrew scowled, turned on his heel —

  And froze.

  His jaw dropped open. For there was fat, drooling, bug-eyed Pork, struggling quite valiantly to climb up on Esmerelda's aristocratic haunches.

  And she was not only letting him, but crouching to make his amorous ascent easier!

  "Good God above," Andrew breathed, in astonishment. "I daresay I've discovered an aphrodisiac!"

  Chapter 1

  Rosebriar Park

  Near Windsor, England

  "I don't care how much he claims to adore me, I am not marrying him, Gerald. He has no chin. He has no teeth. The only thing he does have is a surname that would make me the laughingstock of England were I to accept his offer. I'm telling you right now, I am not accepting it."

  "Now really, Celsie, you're being ridic —"

  "I'm being ridiculous? How would you like to be known as Celsiana Bonkley? I've told you once, and I will tell you again. I will not marry Sir Harold. Not now, not next week, not ever."

  Trying to keep a rein on his patience, trying to ignore the headache that some thirty or forty barking, baying, chaos-causing dogs running loose across the dance floor were bringing on, Gerald, the third and very-much-in-debt Earl Somerfield, stared angrily out over the crowded ballroom of Rosebriar Park, his stepsister's vast Berkshire estate. Here was the cream of the English aristocracy in all its glittering array. Here were decorated generals, French princes, Scottish lairds, famous statesmen. One would think that with such splendid pickings to choose from, she wouldn't have any trouble finding an acceptable mate. But not Celsie. She had standards, and Gerald was beginning to doubt there was a man in the kingdom who could meet them.

  "Besides," she added, playfully swatting him with a fan upon which was painted a trio of Russian wolfhounds, "he hasn't yet asked me."

  "And what are you going to say to him when he does?"

  "Why, the same thing I say to every man who asks to marry me."

  "Blazes take it, Celsie, not that —"

  "Yes, that." She grinned, enjoying his discomfort. "Honestly, Gerald, I cannot understand why you're so upset. I know Bonkley's a friend of yours, but I really don't want to get married. You know what happened the last time I tried to become someone's wife."

  "Listen, Celsie, just because Lord Hammond died at your betrothal feast doesn't mean that every prospective bridegroom is going to choke to death on a pea!"

  "Yes, well, you're forgetting the marquis de Plussons."

  "The marquis reneged because that damn dog of yours bit him!"

  "Regardless, Gerald, my feet are tired from walking to altars, and I am not inclined to try it again. To be quite honest, I was not inclined to try it the first — let alone the second — time, but Papa, God rest his soul, thought he knew best for me. I am tired of people who think they know best for me. And now here you go again, trying to pass me off on yet a third one, and what will he succumb to?"

  "Dogs, probably," said Gerald, acidly.

  "Probably not, as none of my dogs would deign to lick the face of one whose breath smells worse than the inside of a chamber pot."

  "For God's sake, would you lower your voice?" He shooed off a merry-eyed little turnspit dog that had taken a sudden interest in his shoe. "It's bad enough that tongues are already wagging about you!"

  She smiled sweetly. "Are they?"

  "Yes, and you know it! Sometimes I swear you delight in making a spectacle of yourself! In making people talk! Only you would dare throw a ball to benefit homeless animals! Only you would stand up in front of all Society and make a ridiculous speech about the plights of cart horses, stray cats, and kitchen dogs! And to ask people to not only donate time and money towards such nonsense, but to invite them to bring their pets along to this . . . this debacle! Get off my shoe! I swear, Celsie, if I step in one more pile of —"

  "I do believe I'm thirsty," she said breezily, only the sudden glitter in her eyes belying her anger with Gerald and his endless diatribes. God in heaven, why was he so intent on trying to marry her off? Why did he feel that her business was his own? And plague take it, her speech imploring her guests to consider the sad plight of turnspit dogs had not been ridiculous, it had been . . . impassioned! Men! Scooping up the little turnspit, she turned her back on Gerald and moved off through the crush, leaving her stepbrother standing there with his cheeks turning a dark, ugly red.

  Whispers followed her across the ballroom, and through the chaotic barking, the laughter of dancers, the strains of the music, Celsie thought she heard every one.

  "My God, would you look at her. A damned pity she wasn't born a man. She could teach the lords in Parliament a thing or two about putting some fire in their speeches, ha ha ha!"

  "I just can't believe that's the same shy little chit we all wrote off when she was presented for her first Season."

  "Well, she was ugly, uglier than the arse end of a mule."

  "Gawkier than hell, too."

  "Remember how you tripped her and made her cry when she was presented at Court, Taunton? My God, that was funny!"

  "Well, she had more spots on her face than eyes on a spud."

  "And no tits, either."

  "And now look at her."

  "Still hasn't got any tits."

  "No, but she owns half of southern England. To hell with the rest of her!"

  Yes, to hell with the re
st of me, Celsie thought bitterly, cuddling the little dog and leaning her cheek against its grizzled head as she walked. And to hell with you, too.

  Cradling the turnspit to her sadly-deficient bosom, she continued past the group of swains with head held high. Though she was named for a variety of that most romantic of all flowers, Celsiana knew she was no English rose. She was too tall. She was too skinny. Her face was a collection of angles, with a thin blade of a nose, high cheekbones, and frosty, peridot eyes as cool as a leaf of spearmint. People say you look like your dog. Well, she looked like an emaciated greyhound.

  But she was rich, wasn't she?

  And that, she thought woefully, made her far more desirable than a full bosom, rosy cheeks, and one of those curvy little bodies that men seemed to so adore.

  Yes, to hell with all of you. She reached the refreshment tables, put the turnspit down, and coaxed a frightened whippet out from beneath the cloth with a handful of sugared almonds plucked from a nearby dish. Her own dog, Freckles, a large brown and white Spanish pointer who'd been just a pup when Papa had given him to her for her tenth birthday, lay beneath the table. His dark eyes were now cloudy with age as he watched the other canines crowding around his mistress, the whippet nuzzling her hand for more treats. Celsie swallowed hard and hugged the animals to her, trying to forget the hurtful words she's just heard. At least Gerald made no secret of the fact that he despised her. Even her own mama, who hopped from bed to bed like fleas on a foxhound, had openly disdained and neglected her once it had become apparent that her infant daughter hadn't inherited her own famous beauty. Hurt, hurt, hurt. Dogs, at least, were loyal, non-judgmental, and loved you for who you were — not for what you looked like, or how you behaved, or how much money your dear papa left you when he died.

  Oh, if only there were such a thing as a man who loved as unconditionally as dogs did!

  Straightening up, Celsie brushed the sugar from her hands and gazed out over the sea of powdered heads. Dancers whirled and spun in a maelstrom of color, the women laughing gaily, the men — well, a depressing few of them, anyhow — tall, handsome and elegant in their powdered wigs and rich satins and velvets. She felt detached, excluded, an outcast in her own house. But she would not ruin the evening by thinking about how cruel and shallow people really were. Better that she return her attention to this ball she had given to raise awareness about the plight of the turnspits, those tiny dogs enslaved by cooks to turn the spits that roasted their meats.