Page 3 of The Defiant One
"The marquis reneged because that damn dog of yours bit him!"
"Regardless, Gerald, my feet are tired from walking to altars, and I am not inclined to try it again. To be quite honest, I was not inclined to try it the first — let alone the second — time, but Papa, God rest his soul, thought he knew best for me. I am tired of people who think they know best for me. And now here you go again, trying to pass me off on yet a third one, and what will he succumb to?"
"Dogs, probably," said Gerald, acidly.
"Probably not, as none of my dogs would deign to lick the face of one whose breath smells worse than the inside of a chamber pot."
"For God's sake, would you lower your voice?" He shooed off a merry-eyed little turnspit dog that had taken a sudden interest in his shoe. "It's bad enough that tongues are already wagging about you!"
She smiled sweetly. "Are they?"
"Yes, and you know it! Sometimes I swear you delight in making a spectacle of yourself! In making people talk! Only you would dare throw a ball to benefit homeless animals! Only you would stand up in front of all Society and make a ridiculous speech about the plights of cart horses, stray cats, and kitchen dogs! And to ask people to not only donate time and money towards such nonsense, but to invite them to bring their pets along to this . . . this debacle! Get off my shoe! I swear, Celsie, if I step in one more pile of —"
"I do believe I'm thirsty," she said breezily, only the sudden glitter in her eyes belying her anger with Gerald and his endless diatribes. God in heaven, why was he so intent on trying to marry her off? Why did he feel that her business was his own? And plague take it, her speech imploring her guests to consider the sad plight of turnspit dogs had not been ridiculous, it had been . . . impassioned! Men! Scooping up the little turnspit, she turned her back on Gerald and moved off through the crush, leaving her stepbrother standing there with his cheeks turning a dark, ugly red.
Whispers followed her across the ballroom, and through the chaotic barking, the laughter of dancers, the strains of the music, Celsie thought she heard every one.
"My God, would you look at her. A damned pity she wasn't born a man. She could teach the lords in Parliament a thing or two about putting some fire in their speeches, ha ha ha!"
"I just can't believe that's the same shy little chit we all wrote off when she was presented for her first Season."
"Well, she was ugly, uglier than the arse end of a mule."
"Gawkier than hell, too."
"Remember how you tripped her and made her cry when she was presented at Court, Taunton? My God, that was funny!"
"Well, she had more spots on her face than eyes on a spud."
"And no tits, either."
"And now look at her."
"Still hasn't got any tits."
"No, but she owns half of southern England. To hell with the rest of her!"
Yes, to hell with the rest of me, Celsie thought bitterly, cuddling the little dog and leaning her cheek against its grizzled head as she walked. And to hell with you, too.
Cradling the turnspit to her sadly-deficient bosom, she continued past the group of swains with head held high. Though she was named for a variety of that most romantic of all flowers, Celsiana knew she was no English rose. She was too tall. She was too skinny. Her face was a collection of angles, with a thin blade of a nose, high cheekbones, and frosty, peridot eyes as cool as a leaf of spearmint. People say you look like your dog. Well, she looked like an emaciated greyhound.
But she was rich, wasn't she?
And that, she thought woefully, made her far more desirable than a full bosom, rosy cheeks, and one of those curvy little bodies that men seemed to so adore.
Yes, to hell with all of you. She reached the refreshment tables, put the turnspit down, and coaxed a frightened whippet out from beneath the cloth with a handful of sugared almonds plucked from a nearby dish. Her own dog, Freckles, a large brown and white Spanish pointer who'd been just a pup when Papa had given him to her for her tenth birthday, lay beneath the table. His dark eyes were now cloudy with age as he watched the other canines crowding around his mistress, the whippet nuzzling her hand for more treats. Celsie swallowed hard and hugged the animals to her, trying to forget the hurtful words she's just heard. At least Gerald made no secret of the fact that he despised her. Even her own mama, who hopped from bed to bed like fleas on a foxhound, had openly disdained and neglected her once it had become apparent that her infant daughter hadn't inherited her own famous beauty. Hurt, hurt, hurt. Dogs, at least, were loyal, non-judgmental, and loved you for who you were — not for what you looked like, or how you behaved, or how much money your dear papa left you when he died.
Oh, if only there were such a thing as a man who loved as unconditionally as dogs did!
Straightening up, Celsie brushed the sugar from her hands and gazed out over the sea of powdered heads. Dancers whirled and spun in a maelstrom of color, the women laughing gaily, the men — well, a depressing few of them, anyhow — tall, handsome and elegant in their powdered wigs and rich satins and velvets. She felt detached, excluded, an outcast in her own house. But she would not ruin the evening by thinking about how cruel and shallow people really were. Better that she return her attention to this ball she had given to raise awareness about the plight of the turnspits, those tiny dogs enslaved by cooks to turn the spits that roasted their meats.
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.
