Page 7 of The Defiant One
"Perhaps he is ill?"
Celsie, alarmed, thrust past them. "Lord Andrew! I want to talk to you!"
He never slowed, impatiently waving aside the servant who ran forward with his hat, desperate to reach the great doors that led out into the frosty night.
"Lord Andrew!"
He ignored her and pushed through them, so anxious to get outside that he didn't even wait for a footman to open them for him.
Celsie picked up her skirts and ran down the hall after him. She burst outside — and stopped short in dismay, her breath frosting the night air. Over one hundred carriages were lined up out there on the drive, torch light gleaming from their polished paintwork, from the bits and buckles of the horses' bridles, from iron wheels and windows that reflected the clear black night. Somewhere, a horse whinnied. A few giggles came from a nearby coach, where a footman was no doubt dallying with one of her housemaids. From inside, she could hear the now-distant sounds of the musicians, the laughter of the guests.
Lord Andrew was nowhere to be seen.
Celsie took a deep breath, let it out, and shivering, sat down on the top step of the stairs, her hoops belling out around her. Her frustrated gaze swept the darkened lawn, the distant copse of trees, the low, black horizon filled with stars.
He didn't really strap animals into flying machines . . . did he?
She put her head in her hands, blinking, trying to make sense of his strange behavior and wondering what had caused him to suddenly flee the ball. Oh, what a night this was turning out to be, what a —
"Why, Lady Celsie. There you are. I've been looking for you all evening!"
— bloody, awful night.
"Good evening, Sir Harold," she murmured, with all the enthusiasm of a hound with heatstroke.
"Celsie, sweetheart, you shouldn't be out here without a cloak," the baronet chided, sitting down beside her and taking her hand. You'll catch your death of a cold!"
"I'll catch my death anyhow, because that breath of yours is enough to fell a horse," she grumbled.
"I'm sorry, my dear. What was that?"
"I said, I'll catch my breath now, because air is a wonderful resource."
He laughed. "What a silly thing to say. Come, my dear. Why don't we go back inside?"
"Because I don't want to go inside. I want some fresh air."
"Shall we walk, then?"
"I prefer to be alone, Sir Harold."
"Yes, but being the gentleman that I am, I am obligated to protect you. To look after you. Especially since I have a very important question that I must ask you, Celsie."
"I'm not answering questions tonight."
"This is a very easy one, my dear. It only requires a simple yes-or-no answer."
"No, then. That is my answer."
He laughed, indulgently. "My dear Celsie. I haven't asked you the question, yet."
"No matter, sir, I've still answered it. No." She got up.
He reached up, caught her hand, and quite roughly yanked her back down.
She fixed him with a frosty glare, her anger mounting. "Sir Harold, I insist that you release me, now. I have neither the time nor inclination to play games with you."
"I can assure you, Celsie, this is no game. I am in earnest." Still clutching her hand, he went down on one knee, which cracked with the sound of a pistol going off as he bent it.
