The Defiant One Read online

  She had just pasted a smile back on her face and accepted a glass of punch when she spotted both Gerald and Taunton pushing their way through the crowd from opposite directions and making their way toward her. Oh, bother!

  "Time for some fresh air," she declared, handing her glass to Gerald, who reached her first. "Here comes Taunton, homing in on me like a beagle on a hare."

  "Really, Celsie, must every analogy you use have to relate to dogs?"

  She was just opening her mouth to deliver a tart reply when the latest arrivals were announced.

  "His Grace the duke of Blackheath . . . Lord Andrew de Montforte . . . Lady Nerissa de Montforte."

  Instantly, all movement in the ballroom seemed to stop, and even the barking dogs quieted as anyone who was Anyone — and anyone who wanted to be an Anyone — converged on the newly arrived trio, bowing, scraping, posturing, smiling. Sycophants, all of them, thought Celsie, who had no patience for opportunists and hangers-on. Nevertheless, she was grateful that the duke and his siblings had come, for the presence of the de Montfortes, a family renowned for its generous contributions to society and famed for its extraordinary good looks, would put the seal of approval on her charity ball. Only the king of England himself might have endorsed it better.

  "I say, Lady Celsiana!" Celsie nearly leaped out of her gown. She had forgotten all about Taunton, who had managed to corner her behind the refreshment table. He was dark-haired, with merry blue eyes and a slightly lopsided smile, saved from classic handsomeness by a nose that was too big for his face and a certain lack of chin.

  Celsie frowned. What was it about these chins tonight?

  He was also drunk.

  Disgustingly so.

  "I say, Lady Celsiana!" he repeated, falling — quite literally — to his knees and clutching her hand for balance. He pressed it to his lips and immediately frowned; it had just been licked by the turnspit and was still faintly slimy. "Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

  Taunton's earlier words came back to her. No, but she owns half of England. To hell with the rest of her!

  Celsie gazed down at him, arched a brow, and said in a high, clear voice, "And would you, Lord Taunton, allow my dogs to sleep in the marriage bed if I were to accept your offer?"

  Taunton sobered. Shocked gasps nearly drowned out his stunned reply.

  "S-sorry?"

  She smiled sweetly. "I said, would you allow them to sleep in the marriage bed? I would be much obliged if you would, for I'm told that her wedding night is a most frightening event in a woman's life and I would like the comfort of their company."

  The hinges broke in Taunton's jaw. Then he leaped to his feet, his cheeks turning as pink as the inside of a spaniel's ear. He managed a curt bow, then shot off into the crowd, loud guffaws following him all the way.

  Celsie, her dog-painted fan pressed to her smirking lips and her eyes twinkling with mirth, smiled triumphantly after him.

  Yes, to hell with the rest of me. And my fortune too, you grasping cad.

  "I say, madam, that was the most charming rejection I have heard in some time."

  Celsie turned, the smile still dancing on her lips. "Your Grace!" she said, curtseying. "It is good of you to come."

  The duke of Blackheath bowed over her hand. "I am glad I did, otherwise I would have missed the delightful setback you just gave that pup Taunton. Really, my dear. You can do better than him . . . why, the lad has no chin."

  Celsie frowned. Now how on earth could he have known about her feelings about chins?

  "Chins aside," she said, raising her own, "he doesn't like dogs, either. I could never marry a man who doesn't like dogs."

  "Ah, yes. Especially one who won't tolerate them in your marriage bed."

  Celsie stiffened. The duke had eyes like nightshade, black, unfathomable . . . omniscient in an unnerving sort of way. Was he laughing at her? Mocking her? Flustered, she added, "Never mind that, he would never take in a homeless or suffering creature as I would — and do." She gestured toward the open doors on the far side of the room. "Why, I have kennels outside and shelters set up throughout Berkshire just so these poor little animals will have a second chance. I've started a program here in the local village to educate the children. I plan to create more of these programs throughout the county, until every animal is saved."

  He was listening intently, perhaps too intently, his black-ice gaze studying — no, assessing — her in a way that was making Celsie feel vaguely, inexplicably, uneasy. Rattled, she was just about to excuse herself when he gave a slow, spreading, smile that might have put her at ease if the cunning gleam hadn't remained in his compelling black stare. "It seems, my dear, that you have a quite a soft heart for . . . shall we say, the cast-offs of society?"

  "As a castoff myself, I suppose my empathy is quite natural."

  "Surely that is not how you perceive yourself?"

  Her mouth tightened, and, suddenly fanning her hot face, she gazed stonily at a group of young bucks gathered around Lady Nerissa de Montforte. "These are the same people who took a savage delight in taunting me when I made my debut. Then, I was just another young chit on the marriage mart. But now that Papa has died and left me everything, they find me irresistible. Or they pretend to." She turned and regarded him with defiant eyes. "Is it no wonder I prefer the company of animals? The unconditional love of a dog?"

  "My dear girl, you must pay no attention to Taunton and his sort. Why, there are plenty of eligible young men in England, probably right here in this room, who not only could care less about your fortune —" again, that slightly unnerving smile —" but would quite happily let your dogs sleep on the bed."

  She looked down, finding a sudden interest in her fan. "You flatter me, your Grace."

  "Do I? Well, I purposely sought you out in order to do just that. Flatter you, that is. How much more interesting our world would be if every woman had the sort of courage and creativity you have displayed here tonight."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Raising a hand framed in expensive lace, he indicated the swell around them, the dogs dashing between people's legs, the general air of gaiety and carefree abandon. "Why, this grand affair, of course, all on behalf of homeless and abused animals. And what a novel idea, inviting everyone to bring along their favorite canine to support your cause . . . though I must confess I had to leave ours at home." He gave a rueful sigh. "Two of them are not, shall I say, fit to bring out in public at the moment, I am afraid."

  "Sorry?"

  Blackheath, casually straightening his sleeve, was gazing out over the crowd from his superior height. "It is all quite tragic, really . . ."

  "What is quite tragic?" demanded Celsie, growing alarmed.

  He was still looking out over the room, obviously preoccupied with something else. "Why, what happened to them, of course. They have been most bizarrely affected by a certain solution of chemicals that my brother Andrew forced them to imbibe. They are not . . . themselves."

  "A solution of chemicals that your brother forced them to imbibe? What do you mean?"

  The duke turned his heavy-lidded stare on her and smiled. "My dear girl. Their particular ailment is not an appropriate topic for a young lady's ears."

  "Are you saying that your mad inventor of a brother has been experimenting on animals?!"

  "Did I say that? Hmm. Well, yes, I do believe that about sums up the situation. Experimenting on animals . . . Yes. Andrew always did do things that I heartily disapproved of, if only to defy me . . . Ah, there is Mr. Pitt. If you will excuse me, my dear?"

  He bowed deeply and, leaving her open-mouthed with indignation, moved off through the crowd.

  Celsie stared after him for a moment. Then, as her temper flared to life, she drew herself up to her full height.

  Preparing for battle, she went in search of Lord Andrew.

  Chapter 2

  She saw him from well across the ball room.

  The first thing she noticed was that he had a chin.
r />   The second thing she noticed was that a ring of females surrounded him.

  And the third thing she noticed was that Lord Andrew de Montforte had changed since the last — the only —- time she'd seen him. That had been back in '72, when she'd come to London for her first Season.

  She had been a shy, spot-ridden sixteen-year-old, slouching beneath the awareness of too much height. He had been a tall, rather gangly youth with a sullen, lazy insolence about him that had made him all but unapproachable. Though Lord Andrew was anything but gangly now — with shoulders that filled out his frock of dark olive silk and a height to rival his brother the duke's — time did not seem to have improved his disposition in the slightest. Then, as now, a crowd of blushing beauties had surrounded him like dogs all fighting over the same bone. Then, as now, Lord Andrew paid them only the slightest of attention, present in body, perhaps, but little more. With his weight slung lazily on one hip, arms crossed, a glass of champagne dangling from his fingers and the occasional flicker of a distracted smile — or was it a grimace? — twisting his mouth as he acknowledged each giggling remark, he gazed out and over the heads of his ardent admirers, his sleepy, down-turned de Montforte eyes betraying a look that screamed of boredom.

  Not just boredom, but defiance.

  It was all too obvious that he did not want to be here.

  It was all too obvious that in all ways but one, he wasn't.

  Probably thinking of his next way to torture those poor dogs, Celsie thought, recovering her anger.

  And for some reason, all those brainless ninnies swarming around him like wasps on a September apple, drawn by his broody autumnal looks, his air of ennui, his classic de Montforte handsomeness — or perhaps a seductive combination of all three — only stoked the flames of her temper higher.

  Well, she was immune to his broody autumnal looks! She was immune to his air of ennui! And she was immune to classic de Montforte handsomeness, even if he did have a . . . did have a . . . chin!

  Smiling acidly, Celsie slid through the crowd and came right up to him.

  "Lord Andrew."

  He took forever to turn his head and acknowledge her, and when he did, his gaze moved over her in a slow, assessing way that made her wish that someone made fire shields for the human body. "Good evening, Lady Celsiana," he drawled, finally taking his gaze from her bosom and bowing over her hand. Was he silently considering her lack of tits, too? Something about his negligent, offhand manner made it seem as though he regarded the gentlemanly courtesy as the greatest of efforts. Or sacrifices. "Interesting party, this."

  "Really? You look about as interested as an Irish setter over a plate of boiled mushrooms."

  "A strange analogy, perhaps, but nevertheless an honest, and accurate observation. No offense, of course. Social events are not my cup of tea."

  "Yes, so I gather," she said tartly. "I understand that conducting experiments on helpless animals, is?"

  Several women gasped. Lord Andrew, ignoring them, raised a brow. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Oh, don't try to pretend ignorance. I'm fully aware of what you've done to your dogs!"

  "My dear madam, I haven't the faintest idea what you're babbling about."

  "Well then, let me refresh your memory. I've heard all about how you force them to drink chemical solutions so you can note the effect on their poor bodies. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

  He stared at her as though she'd just told him she'd discovered a bridge to the moon. Around them, all conversation had ceased. Celsie's fan beat the air a little faster, and dampness filmed her palms. She was getting a crick in her neck from glaring up at that cool, remote face, but she did not back down. Neither did Lord Andrew. Finally, his mouth, so sullen and angry before, curved into the barest hint of a smile. A very dangerous, unpleasant smile.

  "Ah. That."

  "Yes, that."

  "And just where did you come by such information, hmm?"

  "Your brother."

  "My brother." The thin smile faded. "Of course."

  Lord Andrew gazed once more over the heads of the crowd, finally locating the informant, and Celsie swore that if looks could kill, the duke of Blackheath would have to be carried out in a coffin.

  Not that the duke appeared to care in the least. He seemed too busy conversing with Pitt and several Members of Parliament to pay any notice to the drama that was dominating Celsie's corner of the ballroom.

  She folded her arms. "So, what do you have to say for yourself, my lord?"

  "Nothing, madam, that must also be said to you."

  "This is a charity ball! The welfare of animals is the whole reason I'm holding it, and if you're abusing them, then I'm going to have to ask you to leave!"

  He shrugged and took a negligent sip of his champagne. "Very well, then. Ask me, and I will be more than happy to go."

  Celsie stamped her foot. "Are you experimenting on animals?"

  "It all depends on what you mean by experimenting."

  "You know what I mean by experimenting, you . . . you mad inventor, you!"

  Something in his demeanor darkened. It was in the barest tightening of his lips, the chill that suddenly seemed to emanate from his tall, powerful body. Though he remained the very image of unruffled calm, of well-bred élan, there was anger glittering in those lazy, down-tilted eyes now — and it was directed fully at Celsie.

  "Very well then, yes, I suppose I have done. Experimented on animals, that is. Do you want the sordid details? Perhaps you wish to hear that I pry open their jaws and pour solutions down their throats so that I can note the effect on their insides. Or that I strap them into flying machines before going up myself. Yes, I suppose that is experimenting, wouldn't you say?"

  His circle of admirers gasped in horror and stepping back, began twittering amongst themselves.

  Lord Andrew smiled and fixed Celsie with a look of malevolent innocence.

  And Celsie was struck speechless.

  He saluted her with his glass, looked once more out over the ballroom, and was just lifting the vessel to his lips when he suddenly went still. Frightfully still. His face lost its color, he looked up at the ceiling, and for the span of several seconds, his gaze seemed to turn vacant, as though the man behind those intent, far-too-intelligent eyes had gone away for a moment or two. With an unsteady hand, he put down his glass, shaking his head as though to clear it, and then, giving Celsie a look of confusion and irritation, he swept her a curt bow.

  "Excuse me. I must go."

  "Go where? I'm talking to you!"

  He didn't bother to answer, instead turning smartly on his heel and walking away, through his slack-jawed admirers, through the crowd, past the gossipy Lady Brookhampton, and towards the door.

  "What's the matter with him?" whispered one fresh-faced girl.

  The others clustered close, staring after him. "I don't know! But did you see the way his eyes got all distant? What a pity that one so handsome is also so very strange . . ."

  "Perhaps he is ill?"

  Celsie, alarmed, thrust past them. "Lord Andrew! I want to talk to you!"

  He never slowed, impatiently waving aside the servant who ran forward with his hat, desperate to reach the great doors that led out into the frosty night.

  "Lord Andrew!"

  He ignored her and pushed through them, so anxious to get outside that he didn't even wait for a footman to open them for him.

  Celsie picked up her skirts and ran down the hall after him. She burst outside — and stopped short in dismay, her breath frosting the night air. Over one hundred carriages were lined up out there on the drive, torch light gleaming from their polished paintwork, from the bits and buckles of the horses' bridles, from iron wheels and windows that reflected the clear black night. Somewhere, a horse whinnied. A few giggles came from a nearby coach, where a footman was no doubt dallying with one of her housemaids. From inside, she could hear the now-distant sounds of the musicians, the laughter of the guests.

  Lord Andrew
was nowhere to be seen.

  Celsie took a deep breath, let it out, and shivering, sat down on the top step of the stairs, her hoops belling out around her. Her frustrated gaze swept the darkened lawn, the distant copse of trees, the low, black horizon filled with stars.

  He didn't really strap animals into flying machines . . . did he?

  She put her head in her hands, blinking, trying to make sense of his strange behavior and wondering what had caused him to suddenly flee the ball. Oh, what a night this was turning out to be, what a —

  "Why, Lady Celsie. There you are. I've been looking for you all evening!"

  — bloody, awful night.

  "Good evening, Sir Harold," she murmured, with all the enthusiasm of a hound with heatstroke.

  "Celsie, sweetheart, you shouldn't be out here without a cloak," the baronet chided, sitting down beside her and taking her hand. You'll catch your death of a cold!"

  "I'll catch my death anyhow, because that breath of yours is enough to fell a horse," she grumbled.

  "I'm sorry, my dear. What was that?"

  "I said, I'll catch my breath now, because air is a wonderful resource."

  He laughed. "What a silly thing to say. Come, my dear. Why don't we go back inside?"

  "Because I don't want to go inside. I want some fresh air."

  "Shall we walk, then?"

  "I prefer to be alone, Sir Harold."

  "Yes, but being the gentleman that I am, I am obligated to protect you. To look after you. Especially since I have a very important question that I must ask you, Celsie."

  "I'm not answering questions tonight."