Page 2 of The Defiant One
"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."
