The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

The dimples quivered and his indignation grew. She turned to him and said, calm as a nun at her prayers, “When you have recovered from your very slight embarrassment and obvious mortification, dear sir, you will realize that it was not we who interrupted you. This is Brandon land, and how my brother and I wish to spend our time is certainly no concern of yours, whoever you may be.”

“Now, Kate,” the young man said, “Don’t get yourself into an argument, else you just might find yourself fighting a real duel. The gentleman was understandably worried. I did fire at you straight on. It would scare the devil out of any man.” He planted himself neatly in front of the girl.

To Julien he said, “I do beg your pardon, sir. Kate here must needs know all the masculine sports. I must say she did overdo it a bit, died much too lavishly this time, with much too much drama and flourish. Come on, Kate, don’t bounce around and pretend you’re angry. Stand up here and pretend rather that you’re a lady, if you can even begin to manage it in those wretched breeches.”

The girl, who had jumped to her feet with more speed than grace, now turned on her brother. “Dammit, Harry, there’s no reason for you to apologize or explain anything. The gentleman was trespassing, clear as the wart on Aunt Mildred’s face. I believe he should explain his presence here. And I wasn’t too dramatic this time. I thought flailing the arms a bit was a nice touch.”

“I do beg your pardon, ma’am,” Julien said easily now. “Who the devil are you two?”

Harry cast a quelling glance at his sister and quickly extended his hand to Julien. “Harry Brandon, sir. And this is my sister, Katharine.”

Julien grinned down at the young man and extended his own hand. “I’m St. Clair, you know. My lands lie not far distant from yours.”

“Goodness, what an honor for us. So you’re the absent landlord, the most noble earl of March.”

He instinctively disliked her snide tone. His hackles rose a bit, but he drew on the sangfroid for which he was renowned. He raised his brows and gave her a mocking bow. “Why, yes, I do have that honor.”

It was a well-delivered snub, but Julien quickly realized that Katharine Brandon didn’t recognize that she’d just been slighted, or should have been, by a renowned gentleman. Her head remained cocked pertly to one side as she said, “Yes, I suppose it could be regarded as an honor to some. Perhaps to a few who wouldn’t know any better.”

A silver glint came to his gray eyes. So she wanted to cross verbal swords with him, did she. He said swiftly, enjoying himself suddenly, “It is a particular honor to ladies of breeding.”

He maliciously eyed those very tight-fitting breeches of hers. He expected her to blush to the roots of her hair at the very least, perhaps even to stammer incoherently until he would graciously excuse her, for he had many times achieved this result with but the mildest of set-downs.

He didn’t receive even the very least, for she said in a revoltingly cheerful voice, all the while brushing leaves from her breeches, “I suppose it is difficult to evince breeding when one is engaged in a duel.” She raised those green eyes to Julien’s face and added as brazenly as a hussy in Soho, “But you must admit, dear sir, that breeches are much more the thing when one must fall down and play dead. Imagine what a gown would do. Why, petticoats would be spilling all over the place. You would be quite horrified, being so very proper and so dreadfully well bred.”

Before Julien could come up with words, rather than just boxing her ears as his hands itched to do, she added, seeming to ponder the problem, “Perhaps it is a sad trial to gentlemen of your breeding and, er, advanced age, and nobleness, to accept with any degree of composure such trifles as ladies dueling.”

For the first time in his life, Julien Edward Mowbray St. Clair, earl of March, found himself with a tongue dead in his mouth.