Page 32 of The Defiant One
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.
"Fight, fight!" someone began chanting.
"Oi! I didn't get up at the crack of dawn just to see a shoutin' match!"
"Get on with it!"
Sensing defeat, Celsie turned and stormed back to the sidelines, where the duke of Blackheath waited. He was smiling, his arms folded loosely over his chest. The sight of him made Celsie all the angrier. How unlike him to stay out of things. And how like him to find amusement in the plights of others!
"Pity," he murmured, watching as Gerald gave his horse into the care of a villager and the two opponents prepared to fight. "I daresay I would have enjoyed watching you give my brother a run for his money."
"I would have won," she said mutinously, unable to forgive him for the way he had treated both her and Andrew in the library. "I would have won, because he would not have taken me seriously enough to give me a real fight, would he?
"I think he takes you very seriously indeed, madam. He would not be here, if he did not."
Celsie ground her teeth and looked away.
"You do realize, my dear, that if you had only consented to marry him, we all could have stayed abed this morning?"
"I am not marrying him. The subject is closed."
"Hmm. Yes. I suppose it is . . . And now, I must beg your pardon." He bowed and pulled out an elegant silk handkerchief. "It appears the fight is about to get underway. A second has his duties, you know."
"Don't let him hurt him," she ground out, trying not to sound as desperate as she suddenly felt.
"Don't let who hurt whom?"
"Andrew. Don't let him hurt my brother."
He inclined his head and walked away. Celsie's heartbeat began to quicken, and she felt the muscles in her back starting to clench, nausea seizing her stomach.
Of course I'm worried about Gerald. But oh, Lord . . . I could never live with myself if something happened to Andrew. It is my fault that things have come to this. Maybe I'm the one who ought to be fighting Gerald.
Oh, this was getting more and more ridiculous.
And she was feeling more and more sick.
She sat down on the grass and plucked a gone-to-seed dandelion, twirling its stem between thumb and forefinger, taking deep breaths to try and calm herself even as a nervous film of perspiration broke out all down her back. Don't think about the duel, she told herself. Don't think about the fact that someone might get hurt. Instead, think about the animal shelter you plan to open in Windsor next week. Think about the classes you've scheduled for the village children on proper pet care and management. Think about the turnspits, and how you'd buy up every one in England if only it would save them . . .
A charged hush had fallen over the crowd. She heard Lucien's smooth, urbane voice reciting the rules of dueling. She heard him calling for first blood only — thank God. And as she sat there, bravely watching this horrible affair and beginning to shake with unexplained terror, Freckles ambled up beside her and sat down, leaning his body into hers.
She pulled him close, taking comfort from his presence. "Oh, Freck, I can't believe such foolishness has come to this!"
"En garde!"
The fight began.
Celsie wanted to cover her eyes. She wanted to run back to her carriage and drive until she reached the end of nowhere. Around her, the villagers began shouting, cheering, yelling encouragement.
She didn't want to look.
She couldn't not look.
