Page 8 of The Defiant One
"My dear Lady Celsiana, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"
"No, Sir Harold, as I already told you. Now if you'll excuse me, I must get back inside. As the hostess, it's ill mannered of me to be out here when I have guests to entertain."
His face hardened. "You would spurn me, just like that?"
"I would spurn anyone, just like that. I have nearly been down the aisle twice, and that's two times too many. I don't want to get married."
"But your brother said . . ." He trailed off.
"My brother said what?"
Sir Harold closed up like an oyster guarding a pearl. "He said nothing. Nothing at all." And then, his face taut with anger, he grabbed both her wrists in one hand, yanking Celsie off balance and against him.
His mouth snaked towards hers —
And was brought up short by the flat blade of a sword, an inch before he would have lost his lips.
"I say, sir, you are obstructing the door."
Both looked up, only to see the lean form of Lord Andrew de Montforte blocking out the stars above.
"I seem to have forgotten my hat," he said, never lowering the sword nor losing eye contact with Sir Harold as his free hand sought Celsie's and lifted her to her feet. "Will you stand and step aside, sir, so that I may go back inside and retrieve it?"
In a strange, scuttling motion, Sir Harold leaped up and backward, away from the deadly blade that never wavered in Lord Andrew's capable hand. "Wh-why yes, of course, my lord." He grinned and bowed deeply. "Please, be on your way."
"After you, of course."
Sir Harold stopped grinning. "But I —
Andrew smiled that same dangerous smile Celsie had seen back in the ballroom and, with his sword, gestured toward the door. His grip on her hand made her feel as though it were caught in the jaws of a trap.
"I said, sir, after you."
Sir Harold's face went cold. Then, without another word, he turned and strode angrily back through the doors and inside.
Celsie, her face flaming, was finally able to yank her hand from her unexpected savior's. Oh, the embarrassment of having been caught in an embrace with Sir Harold Bonkley, of all people! And the indignation that she'd had to be rescued by the very man who had been so rude to her just minutes before! "Really, Lord Andrew, was that quite necessary?"
He shrugged and slid his sword back into its scabbard. "You looked as though you needed rescuing."
"And you looked as though you were leaving!"
"I was. I forgot my hat."
"Well, let me tell you something, my lord. I am no spineless ninny, no birdbrained puff of feathers who needs some man around to protect her. I can fight my own battles, thank you very much!"
And with that, she turned on her heel and stormed back inside.
Chapter 3
So much for gratitude, thought Andrew, watching her march back toward the ballroom. He noted the stiffness of her back beneath shimmering peach silk, the way her petticoats flirted with her trim ankles, the purposeful manner in which she moved — like a general taking command of his troops. A door slammed and she was gone from sight.
Shrugging, he retrieved his hat, tucked it under his arm, and strode back out into the frosty night.
Prickly witch.
Bloody irritating little bluestocking!
He wished the devil he'd taken his own carriage. Now he was forced to wait out here in the cold for Nerissa and Lucien for God only knew how long. Why the hell had he ever allowed them to talk him into coming to this foolish ball, anyhow?
