The Beloved One

by Danelle Harmon

  "Besides," she added, playfully swatting him with a fan upon which was painted a trio of Russian wolfhounds, "he hasn't yet asked me."

  "And what are you going to say to him when he does?"

  "Why, the same thing I say to every man who asks to marry me."

  "Blazes take it, Celsie, not that —"

  "Yes, that." She grinned, enjoying his discomfort. "Honestly, Gerald, I cannot understand why you're so upset. I know Bonkley's a friend of yours, but I really don't want to get married. You know what happened the last time I tried to become someone's wife."

  "Listen, Celsie, just because Lord Hammond died at your betrothal feast doesn't mean that every prospective bridegroom is going to choke to death on a pea!"

  "Yes, well, you're forgetting the marquis de Plussons."

  "The marquis reneged because that damn dog of yours bit him!"

  "Regardless, Gerald, my feet are tired from walking to altars, and I am not inclined to try it again. To be quite honest, I was not inclined to try it the first — let alone the second — time, but Papa, God rest his soul, thought he knew best for me. I am tired of people who think they know best for me. And now here you go again, trying to pass me off on yet a third one, and what will he succumb to?"

  "Dogs, probably," said Gerald, acidly.

  "Probably not, as none of my dogs would deign to lick the face of one whose breath smells worse than the inside of a chamber pot."

  "For God's sake, would you lower your voice?" He shooed off a merry-eyed little turnspit dog that had taken a sudden interest in his shoe. "It's bad enough that tongues are already wagging about you!"

  She smiled sweetly. "Are they?"

  "Yes, and you know it! Sometimes I swear you delight in making a spectacle of yourself! In making people talk! Only you would dare throw a ball to benefit homeless animals! Only you would stand up in front of all Society and make a ridiculous speech about the plights of cart horses, stray cats, and kitchen dogs! And to ask people to not only donate time and money towards such nonsense, but to invite them to bring their pets along to this . . . this debacle! Get off my shoe! I swear, Celsie, if I step in one more pile of —"

  "I do believe I'm thirsty," she said breezily, only the sudden glitter in her eyes belying her anger with Gerald and his endless diatribes. God in heaven, why was he so intent on trying to marry her off? Why did he feel that her business was his own? And plague take it, her speech imploring her guests to consider the sad plight of turnspit dogs had not been ridiculous, it had been . . . impassioned! Men! Scooping up the little turnspit, she turned her back on Gerald and moved off through the crush, leaving her stepbrother standing there with his cheeks turning a dark, ugly red.

  Whispers followed her across the ballroom, and through the chaotic barking, the laughter of dancers, the strains of the music, Celsie thought she heard every one.

  "My God, would you look at her. A damned pity she wasn't born a man. She could teach the lords in Parliament a thing or two about putting some fire in their speeches, ha ha ha!"

  "I just can't believe that's the same shy little chit we all wrote off when she was presented for her first Season."

  "Well, she was ugly, uglier than the arse end of a mule."

  "Gawkier than hell, too."

  "Remember how you tripped her and made her cry when she was presented at Court, Taunton? My God, that was funny!"

  "Well, she had more spots on her face than eyes on a spud."

  "And no tits, either."

  "And now look at her."

  "Still hasn't got any tits."

  "No, but she owns half of southern England. To hell with the rest of her!"

  Yes, to hell with the rest of me, Celsie thought bitterly, cuddling the little dog and leaning her cheek against its grizzled head as she walked. And to hell with you, too.

  Cradling the turnspit to her sadly-deficient bosom, she continued past the group of swains with head held high. Though she was named for a variety of that most romantic of all flowers, Celsiana knew she was no English rose. She was too tall. She was too skinny. Her face was a collection of angles, with a thin blade of a nose, high cheekbones, and frosty, peridot eyes as cool as a leaf of spearmint. People say you look like your dog. Well, she looked like an emaciated greyhound.

  But she was rich, wasn't she?

  And that, she thought woefully, made her far more desirable than a full bosom, rosy cheeks, and one of those curvy little bodies that men seemed to so adore.

  Yes, to hell with all of you. She reached the refreshment tables, put the turnspit down, and coaxed a frightened whippet out from beneath the cloth with a handful of sugared almonds plucked from a nearby dish. Her own dog, Freckles, a large brown and white Spanish pointer who'd been just a pup when Papa had given him to her for her tenth birthday, lay beneath the table. His dark eyes were now cloudy with age as he watched the other canines crowding around his mistress, the whippet nuzzling her hand for more treats. Celsie swallowed hard and hugged the animals to her, trying to forget the hurtful words she's just heard. At least Gerald made no secret of the fact that he despised her. Even her own mama, who hopped from bed to bed like fleas on a foxhound, had openly disdained and neglected her once it had become apparent that her infant daughter hadn't inherited her own famous beauty. Hurt, hurt, hurt. Dogs, at least, were loyal, non-judgmental, and loved you for who you were — not for what you looked like, or how you behaved, or how much money your dear papa left you when he died.

  Oh, if only there were such a thing as a man who loved as unconditionally as dogs did!

  Straightening up, Celsie brushed the sugar from her hands and gazed out over the sea of powdered heads. Dancers whirled and spun in a maelstrom of color, the women laughing gaily, the men — well, a depressing few of them, anyhow — tall, handsome and elegant in their powdered wigs and rich satins and velvets. She felt detached, excluded, an outcast in her own house. But she would not ruin the evening by thinking about how cruel and shallow people really were. Better that she return her attention to this ball she had given to raise awareness about the plight of the turnspits, those tiny dogs enslaved by cooks to turn the spits that roasted their meats.

  She had just pasted a smile back on her face and accepted a glass of punch when she spotted both Gerald and Taunton pushing their way through the crowd from opposite directions and making their way toward her. Oh, bother!

  "Time for some fresh air," she declared, handing her glass to Gerald, who reached her first. "Here comes Taunton, homing in on me like a beagle on a hare."

  "Really, Celsie, must every analogy you use have to relate to dogs?"

  She was just opening her mouth to deliver a tart reply when the latest arrivals were announced.

  "His Grace the duke of Blackheath . . . Lord Andrew de Montforte . . . Lady Nerissa de Montforte."

  Instantly, all movement in the ballroom seemed to stop, and even the barking dogs quieted as anyone who was Anyone — and anyone who wanted to be an Anyone — converged on the newly arrived trio, bowing, scraping, posturing, smiling. Sycophants, all of them, thought Celsie, who had no patience for opportunists and hangers-on. Nevertheless, she was grateful that the duke and his siblings had come, for the presence of the de Montfortes, a family renowned for its generous contributions to society and famed for its extraordinary good looks, would put the seal of approval on her charity ball. Only the king of England himself might have endorsed it better.

  "I say, Lady Celsiana!" Celsie nearly leaped out of her gown. She had forgotten all about Taunton, who had managed to corner her behind the refreshment table. He was dark-haired, with merry blue eyes and a slightly lopsided smile, saved from classic handsomeness by a nose that was too big for his face and a certain lack of chin.

  Celsie frowned. What was it about these chins tonight?

  He was also drunk.

  Disgustingly so.

  "I say, Lady Celsiana!" he repeated, falling — quite literally — to his knees and clutching her hand for balance. He pressed
it to his lips and immediately frowned; it had just been licked by the turnspit and was still faintly slimy. "Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

  Taunton's earlier words came back to her. No, but she owns half of England. To hell with the rest of her!

  Celsie gazed down at him, arched a brow, and said in a high, clear voice, "And would you, Lord Taunton, allow my dogs to sleep in the marriage bed if I were to accept your offer?"

  Taunton sobered. Shocked gasps nearly drowned out his stunned reply.

  "S-sorry?"

  She smiled sweetly. "I said, would you allow them to sleep in the marriage bed? I would be much obliged if you would, for I'm told that her wedding night is a most frightening event in a woman's life and I would like the comfort of their company."

  The hinges broke in Taunton's jaw. Then he leaped to his feet, his cheeks turning as pink as the inside of a spaniel's ear. He managed a curt bow, then shot off into the crowd, loud guffaws following him all the way.

  Celsie, her dog-painted fan pressed to her smirking lips and her eyes twinkling with mirth, smiled triumphantly after him.

  Yes, to hell with the rest of me. And my fortune too, you grasping cad.

  "I say, madam, that was the most charming rejection I have heard in some time."

  Celsie turned, the smile still dancing on her lips. "Your Grace!" she said, curtseying. "It is good of you to come."

  The duke of Blackheath bowed over her hand. "I am glad I did, otherwise I would have missed the delightful setback you just gave that pup Taunton. Really, my dear. You can do better than him . . . why, the lad has no chin."

  Celsie frowned. Now how on earth could he have known about her feelings about chins?

  "Chins aside," she said, raising her own, "he doesn't like dogs, either. I could never marry a man who doesn't like dogs."

  "Ah, yes. Especially one who won't tolerate them in your marriage bed."

  Celsie stiffened. The duke had eyes like nightshade, black, unfathomable . . . omniscient in an unnerving sort of way. Was he laughing at her? Mocking her? Flustered, she added, "Never mind that, he would never take in a homeless or suffering creature as I would — and do." She gestured toward the open doors on the far side of the room. "Why, I have kennels outside and shelters set up throughout Berkshire just so these poor little animals will have a second chance. I've started a program here in the local village to educate the children. I plan to create more of these programs throughout the county, until every animal is saved."

  He was listening intently, perhaps too intently, his black-ice gaze studying — no, assessing — her in a way that was making Celsie feel vaguely, inexplicably, uneasy. Rattled, she was just about to excuse herself when he gave a slow, spreading, smile that might have put her at ease if the cunning gleam hadn't remained in his compelling black stare. "It seems, my dear, that you have a quite a soft heart for . . . shall we say, the cast-offs of society?"

  "As a castoff myself, I suppose my empathy is quite natural."

  "Surely that is not how you perceive yourself?"

  Her mouth tightened, and, suddenly fanning her hot face, she gazed stonily at a group of young bucks gathered around Lady Nerissa de Montforte. "These are the same people who took a savage delight in taunting me when I made my debut. Then, I was just another young chit on the marriage mart. But now that Papa has died and left me everything, they find me irresistible. Or they pretend to." She turned and regarded him with defiant eyes. "Is it no wonder I prefer the company of animals? The unconditional love of a dog?"

  "My dear girl, you must pay no attention to Taunton and his sort. Why, there are plenty of eligible young men in England, probably right here in this room, who not only could care less about your fortune —" again, that slightly unnerving smile —" but would quite happily let your dogs sleep on the bed."

  She looked down, finding a sudden interest in her fan. "You flatter me, your Grace."

  "Do I? Well, I purposely sought you out in order to do just that. Flatter you, that is. How much more interesting our world would be if every woman had the sort of courage and creativity you have displayed here tonight."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  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?"

  Several women gasped. Lord Andrew, ignoring them, raised a brow. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Oh, don't try to pretend ignorance. I'm fully aware of what you've done to your dogs!"

  "My dear madam, I haven't the faintest idea what you're babbling about."

  "Well then, let me refresh your memory. I've heard all about how you force them to drink chemical solutions so you can note the effect on their poor bodies. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

  He stared at her as though she'd just told him she'd discovered a bridge to the moon. Around them, all conversation had ceased. Celsie's fan beat the air a little faster, and dampness filmed her palms. She was getting a crick in her neck from glaring up at that cool, remote face, but she did not back down. Neither did Lord Andrew. Finally, his mouth, so sullen and angry before, curved into the barest hint of a smile. A very dangerous, unpleasant smile.