Page 5 of The Defiant One
Raising a hand framed in expensive lace, he indicated the swell around them, the dogs dashing between people's legs, the general air of gaiety and carefree abandon. "Why, this grand affair, of course, all on behalf of homeless and abused animals. And what a novel idea, inviting everyone to bring along their favorite canine to support your cause . . . though I must confess I had to leave ours at home." He gave a rueful sigh. "Two of them are not, shall I say, fit to bring out in public at the moment, I am afraid."
"Sorry?"
Blackheath, casually straightening his sleeve, was gazing out over the crowd from his superior height. "It is all quite tragic, really . . ."
"What is quite tragic?" demanded Celsie, growing alarmed.
He was still looking out over the room, obviously preoccupied with something else. "Why, what happened to them, of course. They have been most bizarrely affected by a certain solution of chemicals that my brother Andrew forced them to imbibe. They are not . . . themselves."
"A solution of chemicals that your brother forced them to imbibe? What do you mean?"
The duke turned his heavy-lidded stare on her and smiled. "My dear girl. Their particular ailment is not an appropriate topic for a young lady's ears."
"Are you saying that your mad inventor of a brother has been experimenting on animals?!"
"Did I say that? Hmm. Well, yes, I do believe that about sums up the situation. Experimenting on animals . . . Yes. Andrew always did do things that I heartily disapproved of, if only to defy me . . . Ah, there is Mr. Pitt. If you will excuse me, my dear?"
He bowed deeply and, leaving her open-mouthed with indignation, moved off through the crowd.
Celsie stared after him for a moment. Then, as her temper flared to life, she drew herself up to her full height.
Preparing for battle, she went in search of Lord Andrew.
Chapter 2
She saw him from well across the ball room.
The first thing she noticed was that he had a chin.
The second thing she noticed was that a ring of females surrounded him.
And the third thing she noticed was that Lord Andrew de Montforte had changed since the last — the only —- time she'd seen him. That had been back in '72, when she'd come to London for her first Season.
She had been a shy, spot-ridden sixteen-year-old, slouching beneath the awareness of too much height. He had been a tall, rather gangly youth with a sullen, lazy insolence about him that had made him all but unapproachable. Though Lord Andrew was anything but gangly now — with shoulders that filled out his frock of dark olive silk and a height to rival his brother the duke's — time did not seem to have improved his disposition in the slightest. Then, as now, a crowd of blushing beauties had surrounded him like dogs all fighting over the same bone. Then, as now, Lord Andrew paid them only the slightest of attention, present in body, perhaps, but little more. With his weight slung lazily on one hip, arms crossed, a glass of champagne dangling from his fingers and the occasional flicker of a distracted smile — or was it a grimace? — twisting his mouth as he acknowledged each giggling remark, he gazed out and over the heads of his ardent admirers, his sleepy, down-turned de Montforte eyes betraying a look that screamed of boredom.
Not just boredom, but defiance.
It was all too obvious that he did not want to be here.
It was all too obvious that in all ways but one, he wasn't.
Probably thinking of his next way to torture those poor dogs, Celsie thought, recovering her anger.
And for some reason, all those brainless ninnies swarming around him like wasps on a September apple, drawn by his broody autumnal looks, his air of ennui, his classic de Montforte handsomeness — or perhaps a seductive combination of all three — only stoked the flames of her temper higher.
Well, she was immune to his broody autumnal looks! She was immune to his air of ennui! And she was immune to classic de Montforte handsomeness, even if he did have a . . . did have a . . . chin!
Smiling acidly, Celsie slid through the crowd and came right up to him.
"Lord Andrew."
He took forever to turn his head and acknowledge her, and when he did, his gaze moved over her in a slow, assessing way that made her wish that someone made fire shields for the human body. "Good evening, Lady Celsiana," he drawled, finally taking his gaze from her bosom and bowing over her hand. Was he silently considering her lack of tits, too? Something about his negligent, offhand manner made it seem as though he regarded the gentlemanly courtesy as the greatest of efforts. Or sacrifices. "Interesting party, this."
"Really? You look about as interested as an Irish setter over a plate of boiled mushrooms."
"A strange analogy, perhaps, but nevertheless an honest, and accurate observation. No offense, of course. Social events are not my cup of tea."
"Yes, so I gather," she said tartly. "I understand that conducting experiments on helpless animals, is?"
