Page 29 of The Defiant One
"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 risking 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."
