The Defiant One Read online

  "Sleep poorly?" Andrew couldn't resist taunting, accepting his cocked hat from his valet and tucking it under his arm as the two of them headed toward the door.

  "Really, Andrew. And here I was under the hopeful impression that morning would have improved your temper . . ."

  "My temper will not improve until I have ousted all annoyances, interruptions, and interferences from my life, of which this infernal woman is one."

  "Hmm, yes. And what happens if you are not the victor in this morning's affair? Provided you survive, you are still honor-bound to marry her."

  "In which case I hope to God I lose. Anything is preferable over marriage. Even death."

  Lucien only gave him a falsely pitying look as they made their way down the steps and climbed into the carriage waiting just outside. There the duke picked up the morning newspaper that lay neatly folded on the seat, opened it, and began to read as the coachman, with two liveried footmen riding behind, cracked his whip over the horses' heads.

  Across from him, Andrew gazed mutinously out at the neatly clipped lawns as the coach began to move. The moat into which he and Charles had fallen from the sky in his failed flying machine sparkled in the first weak shafts of sunlight. Then they were through the gatehouse and the coach was picking up speed as it left the crenellated walls of Blackheath Castle behind.

  Lucien remained buried in his newspaper.

  The duke's nonchalance only irritated Andrew all the more. Leave it to his brother to calmly lose himself in a paper whilst he, Andrew, might soon be lying disemboweled in the field behind Ravenscombe's only public house.

  "You have nothing to worry about," Lucien remarked from behind his newspaper. He turned a page. "It is my understanding that Somerfield can handle a sword no better than he can handle a coach and four, so do cheer up, my dear boy."

  "Somerfield is the furthest thing from my mind," Andrew bit out.

  "Then shall I presume that Lady Celsiana Blake is the closest thing to it?"

  Andrew flushed and looked away. There was no way in hell he was going to be drawn into a conversation about her. Nor was he about to give his far-too-omniscient brother the satisfaction of knowing his remark was a damn sight too close to the bone. He stared sulkily out the window, not meeting Lucien's eyes, letting his body rock and sway against the velvet squabs with the movements of the coach. "My annoyance has nothing to do with Lady Celsiana Blake," he snapped.

  "Oh?"

  Andrew's angry gaze flashed to Lucien's and met only the back of the newspaper. "It's because I cannot remember what the devil I put into that damned potion," he muttered, which was, at least in part, the truth. "I spent the entire night trying to find answers, trying to discern why the solution behaved as it did. And what did I learn? Nothing. Nil. I should have just given you the whole deuced lot of it for safekeeping instead of holding some out for further testing. Had I done so, I wouldn't be in this damned predicament." He gazed moodily out the window. "Between the fire and now this, I swear, accidental mixes of chemicals are going to be the ruination of my life."

  "Perhaps, then, you should stop messing about with them."

  "Like hell. I'm a man of science. I can no sooner stop messing about with chemical solutions than I can stop breathing."

  Lucien said nothing, but Andrew sensed he was smiling behind his newspaper.

  Down through the blunt, noble chalk hills, the coach traveled. Looking out the window as they entered the tiny village of Ravenscombe, Andrew was relieved to see that no one was about. Good. The last thing he needed this morning was a damned audience.

  But his relief was short-lived.

  As the coach slowed through Ravenscombe's muddy High Street, he saw people moving from behind cottage windows, running out the doors, waving . . . and all hurrying in the same direction in which they themselves were headed.

  "Bloody hell," he muttered, sitting up.

  Lucien lowered his paper. "Is there something amiss?"

  "Yes, there's something wrong. Look outside. This was supposed to be a private affair, not a deuced sporting event."

  Lucien followed his gaze. "Hmmm, yes." He went back to his paper and turned a page. "I daresay you'll have to give them a good show, then. You are a de Montforte. They would hate to be disappointed."

  "How the hell did they find out about any of this?"

  "My dear boy. Servants talk. How do you think they found out about it?"

  Angry amber-green eyes glared into coolly unruffled black ones. Then, with a curse, Andrew sat back in the seat, quietly seething, quietly sulking. All too soon, the coach pulled up at the place of rendezvous. Sighing, Lucien lowered and folded his paper, consulted his watch, and waited while the footmen opened the door and lowered the steps.

  As the two brothers descended from the coach, a rousing cheer went up from the villagers, most of whom were dressed in their finest clothes, children on their shoulders, dogs barking around their heels. An air of festivity prevailed, and there were even a few vendors selling pastries and pies. The villagers surrounded the rapidly angering Andrew, bowing and scraping and wishing him God's own luck, and it was all the Defiant One could do not to turn on his heel, climb back into the coach, and return to the Castle, where he longed to lock himself away in his laboratory until the Second Coming of Christ.

  He would, too. Just as soon as this infernal nonsense was over.

  Glaring straight ahead, he walked beside Lucien to the field, glistening with dew, just behind the Speckled Hen Inn. The crowds followed, yelling encouragement and good wishes. There were more people gathered in the field. Too many. They milled about, several rows deep, all of them shouting, cheering, toasting Andrew's impending success.

  "This is bloody preposterous!" Andrew snarled, over the noise. He glared at his brother. "Were you behind this as well?"

  "My, my, you have been so full of accusations, my dear Andrew, that if Somerfield had not challenged you, I might feel compelled to do so myself. Ah. There is the earl's carriage. And I see that Dr. Highworth's gig is here as well. Shall we get on with things, then?"

  "Might as well," grumbled Andrew, wishing he were back in his laboratory or putting the finishing touches on his double-compartmented coach. "I have work to do back home."

  He glanced toward Somerfield's coach. His opponent was nowhere to be seen, though an old brown and white dog, its noble head bleached with hoarfrost and lying on its paws, reposed beside one of the rear wheels, blinking sleepily in the thin morning sun.

  A rather effeminate young man, his eyes growing round with nervousness as he glanced up and saw not only Andrew, but the infamous duke of Blackheath approaching, stood by the door. Must be Somerfield's second, Andrew thought grumpily. No wonder the fellow looked petrified. He would be no match for Lucien, if it came down to it.

  And then the door opened and Somerfield descended.

  Except it wasn't Somerfield. It was Lady Celsiana Blake, and she was wearing a loose-fitting blouse, tight breeches molded to her long, shapely legs, and what looked like a very confident smile.

  Andrew stopped as if hit by a flying wall. He had thought he was over his lung ailment. He had thought he was quite recovered. But now, as his gaze glued itself to those shockingly clad legs, the slim hips and slightly rounded bottom, he found he couldn't breathe.

  "I say, this is a surprise," murmured Lucien, lifting his brows and speaking for Andrew, who found, suddenly, that he could not.

  "Is it?" challenged Celsie, but she was returning Andrew's stunned gaze with haughty contempt. "My brother is indisposed, and so I am fighting in his place."

  "What?" cried Andrew, recovering.

  She had her long, tawny, golden-brown hair in a queue much like his ownl, and this she tossed saucily over one shoulder. Hands on her hips, she met Andrew's stare. "You heard me. He is indisposed. Or, to put it more concisely, locked in his room at the Lambourn Arms with a guard stationed outside his door. On my orders, of course." She smiled sweetly. "There is no need for anyone to be r
isking his life on my account. After all, Gerald was not the one who was dishonored. I was."

  "You can't be serious! I will not, I cannot, fight a woman!"

  "Why not? I will, and certainly can fight, a man."

  "Bugger this, I'm leaving!"

  Lucien calmly reached out and caught his arm as Andrew, his temper flaring like a bonfire doused with gunpowder, spun on his heel and tried to storm back to the coach.

  "Really, Andrew. It is not like you to back away from a challenge, and one delivered so prettily, as well."

  "She's a goddamned female!"

  "Hmm, yes. I can see that."

  "I refuse to take part in something so completely and utterly ridiculous. I have more important things to do back in my laboratory!"

  Celsie stood nearby, head held high, though she was starting to feel the same hurt, the same sinking embarrassment, she'd felt at the ball when everything had turned into a disaster. She would not let Andrew see her faltering. She would not let him see how much his rejection hurt. And it did hurt to be passed off so lightly. It did hurt, not to be taken seriously — yet again. She had thought — hoped — that he would give her all due respect by agreeing to fight her, but he was turning out to be no different than any other man. Condescending. Arrogant. Bloody-minded. She swallowed hard and raised her chin.

  "So," she called loudly, making sure everyone around them could hear her brazen challenge. "You would leave, then, and humiliate not only me, but yourself, in front of all these people who have turned out to watch what otherwise promises to be quite the novel sporting match?" She gave a mocking laugh. "My oh my, how their respect for you and your family will suffer, not to mention their liking. Imagine! A de Montforte, running away from a woman!"

  Andrew rounded on her, fists clenched, eyes blazing. "So, inviting three hundred people to watch this debacle was your idea?"

  "But of course. I wanted added insurance that you would not back out."

  Nearby, the duke of Blackheath was idly rubbing his mouth, trying without success to contain a helpless smirk as he regarded Andrew's rapidly escalating plight.

  "Of course, she did have the smallest bit of help," he allowed.

  "I am not doing this," Andrew snarled. "I am not."

  Again he turned and, bristling with fury, stormed back toward the coach. Celsie's heart fell. Murmurs of disappointment echoed all around.

  She would not let him humiliate her a second time.

  She waited until he was nearly back to the carriage. And then:

  "For all the brains you supposedly possess, you, my Lord Andrew, are naught but a coward!"

  That stopped him dead in his tracks. For a moment he just stood there, seething, refusing to turn around.

  "Had it been a man you found here today, you would not be so quick to retreat," she accused, her voice ringing out for all to hear. "But no. Because I am a woman, you deny me the respect you would have given my brother had he been here instead. Because I am a woman, you think I cannot match you over two silly strips of steel. Because I am a woman, you think I am incapable of defending my own honor. Well then, go ahead and take yourself back to your laboratory, my Lord Andrew." She tossed her head, letting her contempt, her bitter disappointment, show in her eyes. "Maybe all the rumors about you are correct, after all."

  Slowly, he turned around. "What rumors?"

  She smiled. "Rumors that you don't particularly like women," she challenged, her eyes hard with anger. "If you know what I mean."

  Andrew felt every blood vessel in his head starting to throb. He felt every artery in his body constricting dangerously. And he felt what control he had left on his temper getting ready to explode.

  "I should think," he ground out in a voice that had gone deadly soft with menace, "that my behavior toward you yesterday would dispute any such codswallop you might feel compelled to believe."

  "Your behavior towards me yesterday is the sole reason we are both standing here —" she bowed mockingly — "my lord." She turned slightly, flashed a wide, white smile to the grumbling crowd — and came sauntering toward him. Andrew tensed. She had drawn her sword. She was not backing down. She came right up in front of him, stopping so close that he could look down and see the way her breasts pushed against her shirt, taut and firm and high, and the little valley between them. And then she lightly touched the point of her sword to his chin, forcing his gaze away from her bosom, forcing him to slowly raise his head until he looked down at her, his eyes glittering from beneath lowered lashes. "Prove to everyone here that the rumors are not true —" she smiled — "and that you care more for a lady's respect than you do for a lifeless jumble of chemicals, compounds, and solutions."

  Andrew, the point of her sword still held firmly to his jaw, clenched his fists and shut his eyes, trying to contain his rising fury. Yes, the explosion was coming. He could feel it. God help him, he could.

  And then, over by the coach, Lucien cleared his throat.

  "I say," he called, black eyes gleaming. "The most marvelous idea has just occurred to me."

  Celsie and Andrew were still locked eye to eye in glaring combat. Neither one moved.

  "And what is this marvelous idea, Your Grace?" Celsie bit out, never taking her gaze from Andrew's, or the point of her sword from his chin.

  "I do believe my brother just might be afraid of killing you. Or of being killed by you. Therefore, I propose that the two of you go ahead and fight until first blood only, for benefit of both the crowd and your ladyship's own wounded pride."

  "The idea has merit," Celsie ground out.

  "And furthermore, I suggest that you lend a certain gravity to what might otherwise be considered a rather frivolous matter by playing for stakes. If you win, Lady Celsie, you will never have to hear another word about marriage to this brother of mine you find so odious, ever again."

  "And if I win?" Andrew bit out.

  "Why, if you win, then you earn the right to go back to your laboratory and never be bothered by the outside world, ever again."

  "Ever again."

  "Ever again."

  Andrew's lips curved in a slow, satisfied smile and he was seized by the absurd temptation to throw back his head and laugh like a madman. Oh, this was easy, too easy. These were the best stakes he had ever played for. All he had to do was nick her skin and no one would ever bother him, ever again? One tiny drop of blood and he would be forever left in peace?

  Oh, yes. He would be a damned fool to resist such an overwhelmingly tempting offer.

  Still holding her challenging stare, he calmly reached up, pushed the sword to one side, and gazed triumphantly down into those sparkling, silver-frost eyes. "Very well then. I will fight you."

  "Good." She backed off, eyes flashing. "And when I beat you, I don't want to hear any more nonsense about marriage. Is that clear?"

  "Very clear. And when I beat you, I want you out of my life for good."

  Chapter 10

  Gerald, mounted on a fleet chestnut mare, galloped onto the duelling field just as his stepsister, damn her eyes, was preparing to fight.

  Incensed, he sent the horse charging through the spectators, not caring who he hurt or nearly trampled, not caring about anything but a blind need to reach the field in time to redeem himself. Not only had Celsie humiliated him by locking him up, she was stealing his only chance to permanently dispose of Lord Andrew de Montforte and remove the threat he presented to Gerald's financial well-being. Gerald just couldn't let that happen. Thank God he had been found by his valet, who had released him.

  If he could only kill Andrew in the duel, he could keep Sir Harold Bonkley in the picture as a prospective bridegroom. And if Celsie continued to refuse the baron, well, Gerald could think of a score of other desperate suitors who wouldn't mind being married off to an heiress . . . at his price, of course.

  He burst through the last of the crowd.

  "What are you doing here?" cried Celsie, glaring at him as he yanked the mare to an abrupt halt. "This is my aff
air and I don't need your interference!"

  "You are my sister and therefore it is my duty to defend your honor. So put the sword down, Celsie. Put it down now."

  "Get off my dueling field, Gerald. Get off it, and get off it now."

  He flung himself off his horse, the indignity of having this ridiculous argument in front of not only the de Montfortes, but the entire village of Ravenscombe, sending his temper beyond control. He stormed up to his stepsister, fists clenched, teeth bared. He wanted to throttle her. "I was the one who challenged de Montforte. He was the one who accepted. This is not your fight, damn it!"

  "If it concerns me, it is my fight!"

  "It concerns you only insofar as you were the cause of it!"

  "And I will be the finish of it!"

  "The devil you will!"

  Celsie stamped her foot and, with a snarl of fury, turned away, trying to rein in her temper. She might have given in. She might not. She was never to know, for at that moment, Andrew, who was watching her with a mixture of sympathy, disbelief, and — could it actually be an admiring smile, of all things? — stepped forward.

  The two men bowed stiffly to each other.

  "Somerfield," said Andrew coolly. "No offense, but I daresay your sister is concerned about your welfare. She has just agreed to fight for certain stakes. I propose that you and I take up the duel, but allow these stakes to remain."

  "And they are?"

  "First blood only," Celsie cut in. "First blood only, and then we each win the right to be left alone."

  Gerald frowned, and looked at her. "Is that all your maidenhood, your innocence, was worth, Celsie? A mere drop of blood?"

  She felt herself blush. "I don't want anyone dying over me."

  "And what would happen if you were to fight de Montforte here, slipped, and managed to seriously injure if not kill him?"

  "Come now, Gerald. Eva herself taught me all I know about swordplay. That is highly unlikely."

  Gerald's frown deepened. Around them, the villagers were starting to grow impatient.