The Defiant One Page 3

"This is a very easy one, my dear. It only requires a simple yes-or-no answer."

  "No, then. That is my answer."

  He laughed, indulgently. "My dear Celsie. I haven't asked you the question, yet."

  "No matter, sir, I've still answered it. No." She got up.

  He reached up, caught her hand, and quite roughly yanked her back down.

  She fixed him with a frosty glare, her anger mounting. "Sir Harold, I insist that you release me, now. I have neither the time nor inclination to play games with you."

  "I can assure you, Celsie, this is no game. I am in earnest." Still clutching her hand, he went down on one knee, which cracked with the sound of a pistol going off as he bent it.

  "My dear Lady Celsiana, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

  "No, Sir Harold, as I already told you. Now if you'll excuse me, I must get back inside. As the hostess, it's ill mannered of me to be out here when I have guests to entertain."

  His face hardened. "You would spurn me, just like that?"

  "I would spurn anyone, just like that. I have nearly been down the aisle twice, and that's two times too many. I don't want to get married."

  "But your brother said . . ." He trailed off.

  "My brother said what?"

  Sir Harold closed up like an oyster guarding a pearl. "He said nothing. Nothing at all." And then, his face taut with anger, he grabbed both her wrists in one hand, yanking Celsie off balance and against him.

  His mouth snaked towards hers —

  And was brought up short by the flat blade of a sword, an inch before he would have lost his lips.

  "I say, sir, you are obstructing the door."

  Both looked up, only to see the lean form of Lord Andrew de Montforte blocking out the stars above.

  "I seem to have forgotten my hat," he said, never lowering the sword nor losing eye contact with Sir Harold as his free hand sought Celsie's and lifted her to her feet. "Will you stand and step aside, sir, so that I may go back inside and retrieve it?"

  In a strange, scuttling motion, Sir Harold leaped up and backward, away from the deadly blade that never wavered in Lord Andrew's capable hand. "Wh-why yes, of course, my lord." He grinned and bowed deeply. "Please, be on your way."

  "After you, of course."

  Sir Harold stopped grinning. "But I —

  Andrew smiled that same dangerous smile Celsie had seen back in the ballroom and, with his sword, gestured toward the door. His grip on her hand made her feel as though it were caught in the jaws of a trap.

  "I said, sir, after you."

  Sir Harold's face went cold. Then, without another word, he turned and strode angrily back through the doors and inside.

  Celsie, her face flaming, was finally able to yank her hand from her unexpected savior's. Oh, the embarrassment of having been caught in an embrace with Sir Harold Bonkley, of all people! And the indignation that she'd had to be rescued by the very man who had been so rude to her just minutes before! "Really, Lord Andrew, was that quite necessary?"

  He shrugged and slid his sword back into its scabbard. "You looked as though you needed rescuing."

  "And you looked as though you were leaving!"

  "I was. I forgot my hat."

  "Well, let me tell you something, my lord. I am no spineless ninny, no birdbrained puff of feathers who needs some man around to protect her. I can fight my own battles, thank you very much!"

  And with that, she turned on her heel and stormed back inside.

  Chapter 3

  So much for gratitude, thought Andrew, watching her march back toward the ballroom. He noted the stiffness of her back beneath shimmering peach silk, the way her petticoats flirted with her trim ankles, the purposeful manner in which she moved — like a general taking command of his troops. A door slammed and she was gone from sight.

  Shrugging, he retrieved his hat, tucked it under his arm, and strode back out into the frosty night.

  Prickly witch.

  Bloody irritating little bluestocking!

  He wished the devil he'd taken his own carriage. Now he was forced to wait out here in the cold for Nerissa and Lucien for God only knew how long. Why the hell had he ever allowed them to talk him into coming to this foolish ball, anyhow?

  He should have just stayed home.

  He located the ducal coach near the front of the line of vehicles, its paint as black as the sky above. An alert footman ran to let down the steps for him. Andrew vaulted inside and threw himself down on the seat, his breath frosting the cold air. Pulling a blanket around himself, he sat staring into the close darkness.

  His anger did not last long. It couldn't, not with the ever-present fear that lurked just below the surface, keeping him aware of the fact that he was flawed, reminding him all too often, as it had done tonight, that there was something very, very wrong with him. Something that was not getting any better with time. Without the anger to sustain him, and surrounded by the darkness of a quiet night while the faraway strains of music and laughter — making him feel excluded, reminding him of the normalcy and safety of other people's lives, making him feel all the more alone — reached him, he felt the fear clawing for a hold on his heart. His nerves. His composure. He thought about the incident in the ballroom, and wiping a hand over his face, found it damp with nervous sweat.

  God help me . . . I feel so alone.

  He thought about going back inside to try and lose himself in the gaiety of the crowd, but immediately discounted the notion. Someone must surely have noticed his strange behavior.

  He thought about getting out of the coach and walking and walking and walking until he was too tired to be afraid, but the idea was not appealing.

  Finally he pulled out his notebook and tried to lose himself in his work, trying not to think of what the inside of Bedlam must look like.

  He shuddered. Lucien would not commit him, would he?

  Would he?

  Putting the notebook down, Andrew leaned his cheek against the cold glass of the window and, shivering beneath the blanket, stared miserably out into the night.

  ~~~~

  As he crossed the foyer, Gerald saw his stepsister storm upstairs, her old dog Freckles, hampered by equally old joints, trailing in her wake. A moment later he heard a door slam. The noise was so loud that it was clearly audible over the music that had a hundred people out on the dance floor.

  He suspected the worst.

  And sure enough, there was Sir Harold Bonkley, his face equally flushed, but with what looked like humiliation, stalking towards him from out of the ballroom.

  "Well?" said Gerald, impatiently.

  Bonkley snared a drink. "She refused me."

  "Damn it, man, I thought you were going to publicly compromise her so that I could come upon you and demand that you marry her!"

  "Well, things didn't work out as we planned."

  Gerald was furious. "We had an agreement, Bonkley. You marry her, get your hands on her wealth, and bail me out of debt. What the blazes is so difficult about that?"

  "Getting her to say yes, for one thing. And perhaps I might have succeeded in my quest if that deuced de Montforte fellow hadn't interfered just as things were heating up."

  "What do you mean, interfered? The duke has been discussing politics with Pitt for the last fifteen minutes!"

  "I'm not talking about the duke, I'm talking about that damned brother of his, Andrew. He came upon us outside on the stairs just as I was about to ravish her. So much for ruining her reputation! I swear, Somerfield, if I'd been armed, he wouldn't have lived to regret it!"

  "If you'd been armed, I daresay you wouldn't have lived to regret it," muttered Gerald. "He is a master swordsman, Bonkley, and you'd do well to remember it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go find my sister and try to talk some sense into her."

  Sir Harold fumed at the insult as he watched the younger man go. He had been so sure of success where everyone else had failed that he'd told half the people in the room that he was as good as
betrothed to the eccentric heiress. Now she'd made both him and her brother a laughingstock.

  His fists clenched with rage.

  Draining his glass, he stalked off through the crowd.

  ~~~~

  Upstairs in her apartments, Celsie waved off her maid, threw herself down on her bed, and still fully clothed, lay on the silken coverlet, trying not to scream with frustration, trying not to hurl something across the room, trying not to think about Bonkley molesting her and how she'd felt when she'd looked up, only to discover that Lord Andrew de Montforte had been her gallant rescuer.

  God help her, why did it have to be him?

  She loathed him! He was surly, arrogant, and ill-mannered! He experimented on animals! Why, he'd said himself that he sent them up in flying machines and poured evil solutions down their throats!

  The tears came, damn them. She felt them wetting the coverlet beneath her hot face, felt them burning inside her nose and making the back of her throat ache. She did not understand them.

  Why am I so upset?

  Because Sir Harold Bonkley has ruined my evening, she wanted to shout at herself. But Herself didn't quite believe it, so her grasping mind tried something else. Because men are constantly trying to order my life to their own wishes, patronizing me, treating me as though I lack a brain and will of my own. No, that wasn't it either. Toenails clicked on the floor and a moment later the bed sagged as Freckles heaved his big body up beside her. She sat up, wrapped her arms around his neck, and hugged him fiercely. Because Freckles's face is now completely grey and he can't walk very well anymore and now I've found a strange lump just below his ear and I am scared to death.

  Yes, that was it. That was why she was crying. It had nothing to do with the fact that, as usual, nobody had taken her impassioned pleas on behalf of animals seriously. And it had nothing to do with the fact that when Lord Andrew had saved her from Bonkley, she'd had a mad inclination to hurl herself into his arms and let him kiss her instead.

  It had nothing to do with Lord Andrew!

  She buried her face in Freckles's neck and sobbed. "Oh, Freck . . . What is wrong with me?"

  He was too old and too dignified to lick her face. He merely sat there and stoically let her hug him, leaning his body slightly toward hers.

  "Nobody wants to hear about the poor little turnspits who run their legs off in hot kitchens so that people's meat might be roasted," she told him brokenly. "Nobody cares about the way cart horses are beaten until they drop, or how hundreds of unwanted, unloved dogs and cats are starving in the streets because there aren't enough homes for them. No, nobody cares. All they want to do was drink my expensive wine, eat my expensive food, try to win my expensive — and oh-so-wealthy — hand. Oh, how I wish that I'd been born a man instead so that people would take me seriously. How I wish that Papa had had a brother or a son so that I wouldn't have inherited everything." She buried her face in the side of the old dog's neck and hugged him tightly. "And how I wish that there was such a thing as a man capable of loving me as much as you do, Freckles."

  With a groan of pain, Freckles lowered his big body down beside her, molding his back to the curve of her body. She stroked his long, floppy ears and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Dear old Freckles. That was the thing about dogs, wasn't it? They always understood. They never let you cry all by yourself. They insisted on sleeping with you at night to keep you safe and warm, they were always there whether you wanted them to be or not, and they always knew exactly how you were feeling.

  If only she knew exactly how she was feeling.

  Damn you, Lord Andrew!

  That was it. Tomorrow she was just going to have to leave for Blackheath Castle and there, finish the conversation he'd so abruptly ended. Tomorrow she was just going to have to make the journey to see for herself what he was doing to the de Montforte dogs.

  Tomorrow she was just going to resolve this matter, for better or worse, and life would get back to normal.

  She hugged Freckles, and tried not to think of the lump.

  It was not growing bigger, she told herself.

  But Herself didn't quite believe that, either.

  ~~~~

  Outside in the carriage, Andrew must have long since fallen asleep, for the sound of Lucien's voice just beyond the door jolted him with a start. He sat up, blinking, as the sway of the carriage heralded the duke and Nerissa's entrance.

  "Ah, Andrew. There you are. We were wondering what became of you," murmured Lucien, taking the seat opposite him and pulling off his gloves. "Too much excitement for one evening?"

  Nerissa bounced into the seat beside Andrew. "You really should have stayed. Lady Brookhampton's dog jumped onto the refreshments table when no one was looking and managed to eat the whole cake. It was hilariously funny!"

  "Yes, especially when the poor beast got sick all over Bonkley's shoe," Lucien observed dryly. "Rather put an end to things, I daresay." He rapped once on the roof of the vehicle, signalling the driver to move on, then turned his enigmatic black stare on Andrew. "Pray tell, why did you leave?"

  Andrew set his jaw and stared out the window. "Because," he bit out.

  Silence.

  If Andrew weren't gazing out into the night, he might have seen the quickly veiled look of concern in his brother's eyes.

  He might have seen the ache in Nerissa's suddenly sympathetic gaze.

  Instead, all he saw was the tall, pointed, dark tops of the conifers swaying gently against the stars.

  "Ah," said the duke, softly. "Another episode, I take it?"

  Andrew's silence was affirmation enough.

  Nerissa and Lucien exchanged glances. "And here I thought it was Lady Celsiana who might have caused your hasty departure," Lucien mused.

  That got Andrew's attention. He turned angrily on his brother. "Yes, speaking of that belligerent little witch, why did you set her loose on me like that?"

  Lucien raised his brows with feigned innocence. "My dear Andrew, I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

  "The devil you don't. You deliberately told her I was experimenting on animals, and the next thing I knew she was tearing me apart, limb from limb!"

  "Oh. You mean you minded?"

  "Of course I minded! It was damned embarrassing."

  Lucien sighed heavily, affecting an air of long-suffering patience. "And here I thought I was doing you a favor."

  "Doing me a favor?"

  "Really, Andrew, how many times have you told me you have no wish to get married? That you are sick to death of pesky females buzzing around you at every social event you deign to attend? That you want nothing more than to get on with your science? The girl seemed to be quite interested in you, you know. Asking me rather personal . . . questions. I merely said what I did to put her off."

  "What?"

  Lucien crossed his arms and gave a sigh of satisfied boredom. "You ought to be thanking me for my assistance, not condemning it. She did leave you alone afterwards, didn't she?"

  Andrew met Lucien's blankly innocent stare. Why did he have the feeling his brother was up to something? "I suppose she did," he murmured, frowning.

  "So there. I was only acting in your best interest." The duke sighed and closing his eyes, leaned his head back against the seat as the coach left Rosebriar behind. In the darkness of the carriage, nobody could see that he was smiling. "Besides," he added, "I highly doubt that you will see her again."

  Chapter 4

  Which was wishful thinking, of course.

  For Andrew did see Lady Celsiana Blake again — a scant thirty-six hours later.

  He was still abed when he heard a carriage outside on the drive, and the dogs barking, and a small commotion somewhere beneath his window. His first thought was that Lucien had brought in another charlatan to examine him.

  Upon hearing a female voice, he realized it was no charlatan at all, but Lady Celsiana Blake.

  A charlatan, he thought irritably, would have been preferable.

&nbs
p; Andrew pulled the coverlet back over his head and tried to go back to sleep. Bloody hell, what time was it? Eight? Maybe nine o'clock?

  He heard the low murmur of Lucien's voice somewhere downstairs. The duke slept no more than four hours per night. Of course he'd be up.

  Sure enough, the anticipated knock on his door came moments later.

  It was James, his valet. "My lord? His Grace asked me to inform you that you have visitors. Lady Celsiana Blake and her brother, Earl Somerfield, are here. Your presence is requested downstairs."

  Andrew flipped onto his side, pulled the coverlet up over his shoulders, and shutting his eyes, burrowed more deeply beneath the blankets. "My presence be damned. Tell His bloody Grace that he can deal with her ladyship. I'm of no mind to ruin my day by starting it off in an argument with some irritating female."

  "As you wish, my lord."

  Andrew waited until he heard the servant retreating down the hall, then, stretching lazily, went back to sleep.

  Or tried to.

  Moments later, he was jolted rudely awake by a blinding light hitting him in the face. Lucien was at the windows, yanking the heavy drapes back and letting in the ruthless morning sunshine.

  "Really, Andrew. It is frightfully ill mannered to keep guests waiting."

  "It is also frightfully ill mannered to get a fellow out of bed only to throw him to a damned carnivore," retorted Andrew. The harsh light seemed to drive through his eyeballs and straight through his head into the pillow beneath him. He sat up, knuckling his eyes and squinting against the flooding brightness. "What the deuce is she doing here, anyhow?"

  "Why, I invited her, of course."

  "You invited her?"

  "You seemed rather upset that I . . . shall we say, stretched the truth about your experiments, so I took it upon myself to issue her an invitation to Blackheath just to set the record straight."

  "Lucien," gritted Andrew from between clenched teeth, "I am perfectly capable of handling Lady Celsiana Blake without your assistance."

  "Yes, why don't you? Handle her, that is. She and her brother are in the Gold Drawing Room awaiting you."

  "Gerald is in the Gold Drawing Room awaiting him," snapped a tart female voice from the doorway. "I am not."