The Defiant One

by Danelle Harmon

  "I, er . . . see," said the vicar, looking quite helpless.

  The bride, still standing all alone, flushed and turned a tremulous, slightly embarrassed smile on her bridegroom, who didn't seem surprised, or uncomfortable, by her proclamation at all.

  "Is that not right, Andrew? That Freckles will sleep on the bed with us?"

  His reply was equally earnest. "Yes, Celsie. Freckles will sleep on the bed with us."

  Williams drew out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. He was going to need a drink after this one. Maybe even two. He shot a confused look at the duke, but His Grace was his usual enigmatic self. Lord Gareth was grinning, and Lord Charles was trying, and failing, to maintain a suitably militaristic expression in keeping with his splendid scarlet uniform.

  As for Lord Andrew, he had a look in his eye that promised dire harm if Williams or anyone else so much as questioned his lady's wishes. Very well, then, thought Williams. If she wanted the dog to give her away, and if Lord Andrew condoned its sleeping on the bed, that was their life. He was only here to marry them, God help him.

  I will never understand the aristocracy, not if I live to be a hundred.

  "Witnesses, then?" he asked, with a dubious look at the old dog. If it's Freckles, I'm having three drinks. And then I'm retiring and moving back to Cornwall.

  Lord Andrew glanced at his brother Charles. "Major de Montforte will witness our vows," he said tightly.

  "Er . . . you do not wish His Grace to witness them, my lord?"

  "I damned well don't," snapped Lord Andrew, glowering.

  Williams flinched. He glanced nervously at the duke, but His Grace was gazing at the altar, his expression inscrutable, his entire manner unaffected.

  The bride added, "My brother Gerald will also witness them."

  Her ladyship had a brother? Why isn't he, and not the dog, giving her away?

  "And where is this brother?" asked Williams, gazing rather helplessly about him.

  Lord Andrew, looking more dashing than the vicar had ever seen him in an exquisitely cut suit of striped olive silk, russet smallclothes, and snowy white lace at throat and wrists, impatiently jerked his head towards the back of the church. There, in the cool, gloomy shadows, a young man sat, his expression cold, his eyes smoldering with anger. Hmm, well yes, thought Williams. I don't blame you, young fellow, for being in such an ill temper. It's not every day that a dog takes your rightful place at your sister's side . . .

  "Please proceed, Williams," said the duke tightly.

  Clearing his throat, the vicar picked up the Book of Common Prayer and recited the age-old words. "Dearly beloved. We are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony . . ."

  He saw the bride swallowing hard, wrapping and unwrapping the leash around her hand, her head bent as she stared, blinking, down at the elderly dog. He saw the concerned way Lord Andrew was watching her. She happened to look up and catch her bridegroom's gaze upon her; she offered a brave and tremulous smile, and his own flashed, briefly, wanly, in return. Seeing it, Williams let his voice fill the church, trying to drown out the reservations he had about tying these two together, trying to drown out the otherwise charged silence, trying to drown out the tension among the family members that made the very air around them seem to crackle. He was doing the right thing. Wasn't he?

  He thought of all the clergymen over the centuries who'd stood in this very spot and married countless de Montfortes before him, of the dead sleeping in their tombs all around, of the last duke and duchess, their elaborate tomb a stone's toss away. Had any of theirs been . . . hasty marriages? He was aware of the way Lady Gareth and Lady Charles exchanged soft glances with their husbands as he recited the binding words of love, honor and commitment. He was aware of the duke gazing at his parents' tomb, his expression still. He was aware of the excited murmur of some three hundred villagers outside, all looking forward to spending the rest of the day feasting and drinking at the tables His Grace had set up so that all could share in the celebration. Williams must have faltered, for now the duke was turning that inscrutable black stare, which would allow no mistakes, which would tolerate no question of the soon-to-be Lady Andrew's wishes, on him, silently commanding him to continue.

  He had suspected that this was no love match, but when Lord Andrew raised his deep, aristocratically accented voice for everyone — even the now-dozing dog — to hear, Williams began to wonder if maybe there was more here than met the eye . . .

  "I, Andrew Mark de Montforte, take thee Celsiana Blake to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth."

  He noted the way Lord Andrew's gaze held hers, and the silent look — was it friendship? resolution? relief? — she returned. And then she, too, spoke the timeless words, her voice clear, high, and determined.

  So, maybe it was a love match, then. That pleased him.

  "The ring, please."

  Heavy silence filled the church and all eyes were on Lord Andrew as he removed his signet ring and, gently taking his bride's hand, slid it partway over her finger. Lady Nerissa, standing beside the duke, sniffled loudly. Lord Charles and Lord Gareth were silent and still. His Grace the Duke of Blackheath had a look on his face that Williams didn't even try to interpret.

  And at the bride's feet, the old dog began to snore, so loudly that Lord Andrew had to raise his voice to be heard over it:

  "With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

  The bridegroom slid the ring the rest of the way down his lady's finger. And as Williams bade the young couple to kneel, and began reciting the final words of the ceremony that would bind them together forever, he saw what could only be triumph — and weary relief — in the duke's harsh face.

  Ah, yes, now he understood. God hadn't been the one to "join these two together in holy matrimony" . . . it had been Blackheath himself.

  He pronounced them man and wife and watched in satisfaction as Lord Andrew kissed his bride, and Lady Nerissa wiped at her eyes with her handkerchief, and the family — all except the duke, who remained standing where he was, spurned and alone — swarmed around the newlyweds to hug and congratulate them.

  "Well, now that the formalities are over, let's eat, drink, and be merry!" said Lord Andrew, looking relieved that the hard part was over.

  And then, reaching down, he impulsively scooped up the big, sleepy old dog in his arms and carried him from the church, his wife gazing up at him in sudden adoration, the rest of the family following in their wake.

  Four drinks, thought Williams, shaking his head and shutting the Book of Common Prayer as he waited for Lord Charles and the bride's angry brother to come up and sign the register. Four drinks. And I've earned every one.

  ~~~~

  The woman had slipped into the church toward the end of the ceremony and silently taken the seat beside Earl Somerfield.

  She wore the latest fashions from Paris. Her dragon-green gown was made of the most expensive silk that China could produce. A fabulous choker of emeralds encircled the long, slim column of her neck, emphasizing its graceful white beauty, the flawless allure of the shoulders and bosom into which it flowed. The emeralds were a gift from the king of France in gratitude for services its wearer had performed for his country, though she was no courtesan, no royal mistress, but something far more dangerous and cunning indeed. Beneath fashionably powdered hair topped by a saucy-angled hat that threw the upper half of her face into shadow, slanting green eyes — as watchful, as predatory, as a cat's — studied the inventor of the aphrodisiac as he pledged himself to Lady Celsiana Blake.

  "Took you long enough to get here, cousin," muttered Somerfield from out of
the corner of his mouth, reminding her, much to her enduring disgust, of the distant connection she shared with this odious cretin. "The newlyweds are off to Rosebriar Park this evening, taking the contents of his laboratory — and most likely, the aphrodisiac — with them. If you'd arrived any later, we wouldn't have had a prayer of getting our hands on it!"

  The newcomer never took her smiling, watchful gaze off the scene being played out near the altar. "You really shouldn't underestimate my abilities, Gerald."

  Somerfield merely shot her an irate look, irritated all the more by her soft American accent, which had long since picked up the cadences of the English, not to mention French, upper classes amongst which she dwelled.

  She smiled her dazzling, malevolent little smile. "You may or may not be aware of it, Gerald, but we have France within a hair'sbreadth of helping us win this tedious war with Britain." Her voice was a low, husky purr that was right in keeping with her wicked green eyes and silky feline smile. She flipped open her fan and, from above it, proceeded to study each of the people surrounding the altar. "I was most necessarily detained."

  "Let me guess. You're up to your eyeballs in political intrigue, acting as Marie Antoinette's unofficial advisor and dining with that wizened old Franklin fellow. You won't rest until you get France involved in this stupid war, will you?"

  "No." She smiled. "I won't. I can't. It's the only way to win it."

  Somerfield, pulling at his stock, leaned closer and, through the side of his mouth, bit out, "I want that potion, Eva!"

  She rolled her eyes with long-suffering patience. "Now Gerald, we both know that you shall have your potion — or at least, enough of it to procure yourself a worthy heiress. The rest of it, of course, I will retain as payment for the trouble I shall put myself through in obtaining it."

  "What do you need it for? You've been married, widowed, and have condemned all men to hell as it is."

  "So I have. But in the deadly games of politics, intrigue, and war, a woman would be a fool not to make use of any available persuasion that might come to hand. The potion is not for me, of course. I've had my fill of men and their base lusts, cruelties, and weaknesses. Oh, no. I want that potion for America. You see, I am on a very special mission from the queen, and the fate of nations depends on my getting that potion and delivering it into her hands."

  "The fate of America, you mean."

  She smiled. "But of course."

  "And how are you going to obtain it?"

  Her mouth, hard one moment, fatally beautiful the next, curved in an amused smile. She rapped him lightly with her fan. "Really, Gerald. If you think I'm about to tell you, you're as stupid as the rest of your gender."

  Gerald pursed his lips and went back to sulking. His pride smarted. So he was stupid now, was he? It was no consolation to know that Eva disliked and distrusted men in general. And it annoyed him that she wouldn't take him into her confidence. Why, he'd been the one to write to her about the aphrodisiac! It was his discovery, not hers!

  And yet he was just going to have to swallow his pride and let her do what she'd come here to do. She could pick a lock in less time than it might take to open it using a proper key. She could charm the celibacy out of a priest. She had more charisma than the most decorated general, more courage than the fiercest lion — and more wiles than the cleverest fox. As the beautiful young widow of an elderly French diplomat, she consorted with princes, dined with kings and queens, and had connections in the very highest of places.

  Gerald could never hope to steal the aphrodisiac on his own.

  But Eva . . .

  Wicked, wily, wonderful Eva . . . A small vial of potent liquid and a crazy young inventor would be child's play to her.

  Eva, of course, didn't give two figs about Gerald and his silly heroine worship. The ceremony was ending, the family now gathering around the newlyweds to embrace and congratulate them. As Celsie turned around, Eva got her first good look at her face and was struck by how much her stepcousin — once a gangly, pimply-faced young girl who had cried her way through her first Season, now a stunning young woman who would surely be the toast of one — had grown. And she looked happy, bless her, beaming as her handsome husband bent down to gather up a large, doddering old dog in his arms. That pleased Eva somehow. If any woman could find happiness with a man, Eva didn't begrudge them, though experience had taught her not to try and do the same. She watched as Celsie's young lord turned and, the dog in his arms, led the procession back up the aisle, frowning as he spotted Gerald — and his uninvited companion — in the shadows.

  Eva quelled any softness she'd been feeling and countered with her silky smile. Time to get back to the business at hand. Beneath the wide, jaunty brim of her hat, her eyes narrowed to thoughtful green slits as she sized up each of her would-be adversaries.

  The bridegroom was obviously obsessed with his bride, though he was trying his best to hide it. He was likely obsessed even more, Eva suspected, with thoughts of his impending wedding night.

  Her smile remained as she inclined her head in greeting. He would be no trouble.

  And there, walking just behind him with an exotic beauty on his arm, the tall, charismatic army major, fair-haired and resplendent in his regimentals, his white swordbelt glowing in the dimly lit church, his pale blue eyes coolly competent . . . a possible problem, but Eva knew a dyed-in-the-wool gentleman when she saw one. His morals would be too high, his naiveté too great, to recognize the danger that she would soon present.

  She gave a bored little sigh. No, he would be no trouble, either.

  And there, yet a third brother, tawny-haired and laughing, his arm wrapped casually around the waist of his dark-haired wife. Ah yes, he was a Member of Parliament, wasn't he? She thought he looked familiar. Possibly a problem, if he had a serious bone in his body, but he looked more concerned with making merry, and ensuring that everyone else around him did as well, than he did anything else.

  Eva yawned. This was going to be an easy task, after all.

  And finally, his sister on his arm, the last, the oldest, and without doubt, the most formidable of all the de Montforte brothers — His Grace the duke of Blackheath himself. Eva's eyes narrowed and a satisfied, completely feline smile curled her mouth. She recognized a worthy adversary the moment that omniscient black stare met hers.

  The duke paused just before them and regarded the earl with flat dislike. "Really, Somerfield, if you're trying to make a point by skulking back here in the shadows, I daresay you'd have succeeded far better had you simply stayed home." As Somerfield bristled, the duke turned his head and regarded Eva down the length of his nose with arrogant disdain and a certain unmistakable gleam in his eye that she immediately recognized as something more than just curiosity.

  Carnal interest.

  And there was nothing subtle about it, either.

  "And you, I suppose, must be the heiress who is destined to bail our dear Somerfield out of debt?"

  "On the contrary, Your Grace," she purred, offering her small, gloved hand and never letting her cat-like smile waver as he bowed deeply over it. "I am Lady Eva de la Mouriére, a distant cousin of the man you just insulted."

  "Charmed," he drawled.

  "She's also friends with the French-based ambassador of the United States of America," the annoying, all-too-revealing Somerfield crowed.

  The duke raised an unimpressed brow. "Ah, yes. Those infernal colonies."

  Eva's smile became downright poisonous. "Colonies? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that it has taken well over a year for news of the outside world to reach you aristocrats up here in the country." She pointedly withdrew her hand. "I'm sorry to correct you, sir, but those infernal colonies to which you refer are no longer the possessions of Britain, but an emerging young nation in their own right."

  The duke stared at her, his smile going cold, his eyes the hard, dangerous color of black ice.

  Eva, still smiling, dropped in a deep, mocking curtsy. "Now, if you will excuse me, Your G
race? I really must offer my felicitations to the bride and groom."

  And then, head high, she took Gerald's arm and walked past the duke, leaving him staring after her — just like that.

  Eva de la Mouriére was well used to dealing with men. Jacques had been ill from the day she'd married him, a political figurehead behind which she was the brains and cunning for which he took credit. She had handled the most corrupt power players in the civilized world. She'd had kings and emissaries and foreign ambassadors on their knees to do her bidding.

  A wasp alighted on her sleeve, and she smiled as she casually flicked it away.

  Really, now.

  She could handle one arrogant English duke.

  Chapter 21

  By noon most of the villagers were as drunk as lords.

  By one o'clock Andrew was bored, restless, and eager to get on the road to Rosebriar Park.

  And by two he finally deserted the celebration, bade farewell to the departing Gareth and Juliet, and asked Celsie if she might change her clothes and help him finish packing up his laboratory.

  Celsie was all too happy to agree. In the secluded west wing, there was peace, quiet, and solitude. Working together, they wrapped bottles, jars, and vials in cloth and placed them in wooden boxes. They packed up Andrew's hopelessly disorganized notes, and asked three servants who could still walk to bring the crates of books, texts, and tomes downstairs, where everything was to be piled into a wagon that would bring the laboratory's contents to Rosebriar in the morning.

  Andrew was just taking the precious vial of aphrodisiac that he'd kept out for testing from its cabinet when Lucien and Charles walked in. The duke was back in his country clothes: leather breeches, boots, and a dark coat of fine broadcloth. Charles was still in his scarlet regimentals, and looked as restless as Andrew had felt at the villagers' celebration.