The Beloved One

by Danelle Harmon

"Ah. That."

  "Yes, that."

  "And just where did you come by such information, hmm?"

  "Your brother."

  "My brother." The thin smile faded. "Of course."

  Lord Andrew gazed once more over the heads of the crowd, finally locating the informant, and Celsie swore that if looks could kill, the duke of Blackheath would have to be carried out in a coffin.

  Not that the duke appeared to care in the least. He seemed too busy conversing with Pitt and several Members of Parliament to pay any notice to the drama that was dominating Celsie's corner of the ballroom.

  She folded her arms. "So, what do you have to say for yourself, my lord?"

  "Nothing, madam, that must also be said to you."

  "This is a charity ball! The welfare of animals is the whole reason I'm holding it, and if you're abusing them, then I'm going to have to ask you to leave!"

  He shrugged and took a negligent sip of his champagne. "Very well, then. Ask me, and I will be more than happy to go."

  Celsie stamped her foot. "Are you experimenting on animals?"

  "It all depends on what you mean by experimenting."

  "You know what I mean by experimenting, you . . . you mad inventor, you!"

  Something in his demeanor darkened. It was in the barest tightening of his lips, the chill that suddenly seemed to emanate from his tall, powerful body. Though he remained the very image of unruffled calm, of well-bred élan, there was anger glittering in those lazy, down-tilted eyes now — and it was directed fully at Celsie.

  "Very well then, yes, I suppose I have done. Experimented on animals, that is. Do you want the sordid details? Perhaps you wish to hear that I pry open their jaws and pour solutions down their throats so that I can note the effect on their insides. Or that I strap them into flying machines before going up myself. Yes, I suppose that is experimenting, wouldn't you say?"

  His circle of admirers gasped in horror and stepping back, began twittering amongst themselves.

  Lord Andrew smiled and fixed Celsie with a look of malevolent innocence.

  And Celsie was struck speechless.

  He saluted her with his glass, looked once more out over the ballroom, and was just lifting the vessel to his lips when he suddenly went still. Frightfully still. His face lost its color, he looked up at the ceiling, and for the span of several seconds, his gaze seemed to turn vacant, as though the man behind those intent, far-too-intelligent eyes had gone away for a moment or two. With an unsteady hand, he put down his glass, shaking his head as though to clear it, and then, giving Celsie a look of confusion and irritation, he swept her a curt bow.

  "Excuse me. I must go."

  "Go where? I'm talking to you!"

  He didn't bother to answer, instead turning smartly on his heel and walking away, through his slack-jawed admirers, through the crowd, past the gossipy Lady Brookhampton, and towards the door.

  "What's the matter with him?" whispered one fresh-faced girl.

  The others clustered close, staring after him. "I don't know! But did you see the way his eyes got all distant? What a pity that one so handsome is also so very strange . . ."

  "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.

  "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?

  He should have just stayed home.

  He located the ducal coach near the front of the line of vehicles, its paint as black as the sky above. An alert footman ran to let down the steps for him. Andrew vaulted inside and threw himself down on the seat, his breath frosting the cold air. Pulling a blanket around himself, he sat staring into the close darkness.

  His anger did not last long. It couldn't, not with the ever-present fear that lurked just below the surface, keeping him aware of the fact that he was flawed, reminding him all too often, as it had done tonight, that there was something very, very wrong with him. Something that was not getting any better with time. Without the anger to sustain him, and surrounded by the darkness of a quiet night while the faraway strains of music and laughter — making him feel excluded, reminding him of the normalcy and safety of other people's lives, making him feel all the more alone — reached him, he felt the fear clawing for a hold on his heart. His nerves. His composure. He thought about the incident in the ballroom, and wiping a hand over his face, found it damp with nervous sweat.

  God help me . . . I feel so alone.

  He thought about going back inside to try and lose himself in the gaiety of the crowd, but immediately discounted the notion. Someone must surely have noticed his strange behavior.

  He thought about getting out of the coach and walking and walking and walking until he was too tired to be afraid, but the idea was not appealing.

  Finally he pulled out his notebook and tried to lose himself in his work, trying not to think of what the inside of Bedlam must look like.

  He shuddered. Lucien would not commit him, would he?

  Would he?

  Putting the notebook down, Andrew leaned his cheek against the cold glass of the window and, shivering beneath the blanket, stared miserably out into the night.

  ~~~~

  As he crossed the foyer, Gerald saw his stepsister storm upstairs, her old dog Freckles, hampered by equally old joints, trailing in her wake. A moment later he heard a door slam. The noise was so loud that it was clearly audible over the music that had a hundred people out on the dance floor.

  He suspected the worst.

  And sure enough, there was Sir Harold Bonkley, his face equally flushed, but with what looked like humiliation, stalking towards him from out of the ballroom.

  "Well?" said Gerald, impatiently.

  Bonkley snared a drink. "She refused me."

  "Damn it, man, I thought you were going to publicly compromise her so that I could come upon you and demand that you marry her!"

  "Well, things didn't work out as we planned."

  Gerald was furious. "We had an agreement, Bonkley. You marry her, get your hands on her wealth, and bail me out of debt. What the blazes is so difficult about that?"

  "Getting her to say yes, for one thing. And perhaps I might have succeeded in my quest if that deuced de Montforte fellow hadn't interfered just as things were heating up."

  "What do you mean, interfered? The duke has been discussing politics with Pitt for the last fifteen minutes!"

  "I'm not talking about the duke, I'm talking about that damned brother of his, Andrew. He came upon us outside on the stairs just as I was about to ravish her. So much for ruining her reputation! I swear, Somerfield, if I'd been armed, he wouldn't have lived to regret it!"

  "If you'd been armed, I daresay you wouldn't have lived to regret it," muttered Gerald. "He is a master swordsman, Bonkley, and you'd do well to remember it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go find my sister and try to talk some sense into her."

  Sir Harold fumed at the insult as he watched the younger man go. He had been so sure of success where everyone else had failed that he'd told half the people in the room that he was as good as betrothed to the eccentric heiress. Now she'd made both him and her brother a laughingstock.

  His fists clenched with rage.

  Draining his glass, he stalked off through the crowd.

  ~~~~

  Upstairs in her apartments, Celsie waved off her maid, threw herself down on her bed, and still fully clothed, lay on the silken coverlet, trying not to scream with frustration, trying not to hurl something across the room, trying not to think about Bonkley molesting her and how she'd felt when she'd looked up, only to discover that Lord Andrew de Montforte had been her gallant rescuer.

  God help her, why did it have to be him?

  She loathed him! He was surly, arrogant, and ill-mannered! He experimented on animals! Why, he'd said himself that he sent them up in flying machines and poured evil solutions down their throats!

  The tears came, damn them. She felt them wetting the coverlet beneath her hot face, felt them burning inside her nose and making the back of her throat ache. She did not understand them.

  Why am I so upset?

  Because Sir Harold Bonkley has ruined my evening, she wanted to shout at herself. But Herself didn't quite believe it, so her grasping mind tried something else. Because men are constantly trying to order my life to their own wishes, patronizing me, treating me as though I lack a brain and will of my own. No, that wasn't it either. Toenails clicked on the floor and a moment later the bed sagged as Freckles heaved his big body up beside her. She sat up, wrapped her arms around his neck, and hugged him fiercely. Because Freckles's face is now completely grey and he can't walk very well anymore and now I've found a strange lump just below his ear and I am scared to death.

  Yes, that was it. That was why she was crying. It had nothing to do with the fact that, as usual, nobody had taken her impassioned pleas on behalf of animals seriously. And it had nothing to do with the fact that when Lord Andrew had saved her from Bonkley, she'd had a mad inclination to hurl herself into his arms and let him kiss her instead.

  It had nothing to do with Lord Andrew!

  She buried her face in Freckles's neck and sobbed. "Oh, Freck . . . What is wrong with me?"

  He was too old and too dignified to lick her face. H
e merely sat there and stoically let her hug him, leaning his body slightly toward hers.

  "Nobody wants to hear about the poor little turnspits who run their legs off in hot kitchens so that people's meat might be roasted," she told him brokenly. "Nobody cares about the way cart horses are beaten until they drop, or how hundreds of unwanted, unloved dogs and cats are starving in the streets because there aren't enough homes for them. No, nobody cares. All they want to do was drink my expensive wine, eat my expensive food, try to win my expensive — and oh-so-wealthy — hand. Oh, how I wish that I'd been born a man instead so that people would take me seriously. How I wish that Papa had had a brother or a son so that I wouldn't have inherited everything." She buried her face in the side of the old dog's neck and hugged him tightly. "And how I wish that there was such a thing as a man capable of loving me as much as you do, Freckles."

  With a groan of pain, Freckles lowered his big body down beside her, molding his back to the curve of her body. She stroked his long, floppy ears and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Dear old Freckles. That was the thing about dogs, wasn't it? They always understood. They never let you cry all by yourself. They insisted on sleeping with you at night to keep you safe and warm, they were always there whether you wanted them to be or not, and they always knew exactly how you were feeling.

  If only she knew exactly how she was feeling.

  Damn you, Lord Andrew!

  That was it. Tomorrow she was just going to have to leave for Blackheath Castle and there, finish the conversation he'd so abruptly ended. Tomorrow she was just going to have to make the journey to see for herself what he was doing to the de Montforte dogs.

  Tomorrow she was just going to resolve this matter, for better or worse, and life would get back to normal.

  She hugged Freckles, and tried not to think of the lump.

  It was not growing bigger, she told herself.

  But Herself didn't quite believe that, either.

  ~~~~

  Outside in the carriage, Andrew must have long since fallen asleep, for the sound of Lucien's voice just beyond the door jolted him with a start. He sat up, blinking, as the sway of the carriage heralded the duke and Nerissa's entrance.