feel compelled to do so myself. Ah. There is the earl's carriage. And I see that Dr. Highworth's gig is here as well. Shall we get on with things, then?"
"Might as well," grumbled Andrew, wishing he were back in his laboratory or putting the finishing touches on his double-compartmented coach. "I have work to do back home."
He glanced toward Somerfield's coach. His opponent was nowhere to be seen, though an old brown and white dog, its noble head bleached with hoarfrost and lying on its paws, reposed beside one of the rear wheels, blinking sleepily in the thin morning sun.
A rather effeminate young man, his eyes growing round with nervousness as he glanced up and saw not only Andrew, but the infamous duke of Blackheath approaching, stood by the door. Must be Somerfield's second , Andrew thought grumpily. No wonder the fellow looked petrified. He would be no match for Lucien, if it came down to it.
And then the door opened and Somerfield descended.
Except it wasn't Somerfield. It was Lady Celsiana Blake, and she was wearing a loose-fitting blouse, tight breeches molded to her long, shapely legs, and what looked like a very confident smile.
Andrew stopped as if hit by a flying wall. He had thought he was over his lung ailment. He had thought he was quite recovered. But now, as his gaze glued itself to those shockingly clad legs, the slim hips and slightly rounded bottom, he found he couldn't breathe.
"I say, this is a surprise," murmured Lucien, lifting his brows and speaking for Andrew, who found, suddenly, that he could not.
"Is it?" challenged Celsie, but she was returning Andrew's stunned gaze with haughty contempt. "My brother is indisposed, and so I am fighting in his place."
" What? " cried Andrew, recovering.
She had her long, tawny, golden-brown hair in a queue much like his ownl, and this she tossed saucily over one shoulder. Hands on her hips, she met Andrew's stare. "You heard me. He is indisposed. Or, to put it more concisely, locked in his room at the Lambourn Arms with a guard stationed outside his door. On my orders, of course." She smiled sweetly. "There is no need for anyone to be risking his life on my account. After all, Gerald was not the one who was dishonored. I was."
"You can't be serious! I will not, I cannot, fight a woman !"
"Why not? I will, and certainly can fight, a man."
"Bugger this, I'm leaving!"
Lucien calmly reached out and caught his arm as Andrew, his temper flaring like a bonfire doused with gunpowder, spun on his heel and tried to storm back to the coach.
"Really, Andrew. It is not like you to back away from a challenge, and one delivered so prettily, as well."
"She's a goddamned female !"
"Hmm, yes. I can see that."
"I refuse to take part in something so completely and utterly ridiculous. I have more important things to do back in my laboratory!"
Celsie stood nearby, head held high, though she was starting to feel the same hurt, the same sinking embarrassment, she'd felt at the ball when everything had turned into a disaster. She would not let Andrew see her faltering. She would not let him see how much his rejection hurt. And it did hurt to be passed off so lightly. It did hurt, not to be taken seriously — yet again. She had thought — hoped — that he would give her all due respect by agreeing to fight her, but he was turning out to be no different than any other man. Condescending. Arrogant. Bloody-minded. She swallowed hard and raised her chin.
"So," she called loudly, making sure everyone around them could hear her brazen challenge. "You would leave, then, and humiliate not only me, but yourself, in front of all these people who have turned out to watch what otherwise promises to be quite the novel sporting match?" She gave a mocking laugh. "My oh my, how their respect for you and your family will suffer, not to mention their liking. Imagine! A de Montforte, running away from a
"Might as well," grumbled Andrew, wishing he were back in his laboratory or putting the finishing touches on his double-compartmented coach. "I have work to do back home."
He glanced toward Somerfield's coach. His opponent was nowhere to be seen, though an old brown and white dog, its noble head bleached with hoarfrost and lying on its paws, reposed beside one of the rear wheels, blinking sleepily in the thin morning sun.
A rather effeminate young man, his eyes growing round with nervousness as he glanced up and saw not only Andrew, but the infamous duke of Blackheath approaching, stood by the door. Must be Somerfield's second , Andrew thought grumpily. No wonder the fellow looked petrified. He would be no match for Lucien, if it came down to it.
And then the door opened and Somerfield descended.
Except it wasn't Somerfield. It was Lady Celsiana Blake, and she was wearing a loose-fitting blouse, tight breeches molded to her long, shapely legs, and what looked like a very confident smile.
Andrew stopped as if hit by a flying wall. He had thought he was over his lung ailment. He had thought he was quite recovered. But now, as his gaze glued itself to those shockingly clad legs, the slim hips and slightly rounded bottom, he found he couldn't breathe.
"I say, this is a surprise," murmured Lucien, lifting his brows and speaking for Andrew, who found, suddenly, that he could not.
"Is it?" challenged Celsie, but she was returning Andrew's stunned gaze with haughty contempt. "My brother is indisposed, and so I am fighting in his place."
" What? " cried Andrew, recovering.
She had her long, tawny, golden-brown hair in a queue much like his ownl, and this she tossed saucily over one shoulder. Hands on her hips, she met Andrew's stare. "You heard me. He is indisposed. Or, to put it more concisely, locked in his room at the Lambourn Arms with a guard stationed outside his door. On my orders, of course." She smiled sweetly. "There is no need for anyone to be risking his life on my account. After all, Gerald was not the one who was dishonored. I was."
"You can't be serious! I will not, I cannot, fight a woman !"
"Why not? I will, and certainly can fight, a man."
"Bugger this, I'm leaving!"
Lucien calmly reached out and caught his arm as Andrew, his temper flaring like a bonfire doused with gunpowder, spun on his heel and tried to storm back to the coach.
"Really, Andrew. It is not like you to back away from a challenge, and one delivered so prettily, as well."
"She's a goddamned female !"
"Hmm, yes. I can see that."
"I refuse to take part in something so completely and utterly ridiculous. I have more important things to do back in my laboratory!"
Celsie stood nearby, head held high, though she was starting to feel the same hurt, the same sinking embarrassment, she'd felt at the ball when everything had turned into a disaster. She would not let Andrew see her faltering. She would not let him see how much his rejection hurt. And it did hurt to be passed off so lightly. It did hurt, not to be taken seriously — yet again. She had thought — hoped — that he would give her all due respect by agreeing to fight her, but he was turning out to be no different than any other man. Condescending. Arrogant. Bloody-minded. She swallowed hard and raised her chin.
"So," she called loudly, making sure everyone around them could hear her brazen challenge. "You would leave, then, and humiliate not only me, but yourself, in front of all these people who have turned out to watch what otherwise promises to be quite the novel sporting match?" She gave a mocking laugh. "My oh my, how their respect for you and your family will suffer, not to mention their liking. Imagine! A de Montforte, running away from a
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