The Devil's Waltz

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“Of course. And he’s handsome, not too old, and very witty. I’ve moved on, Will. It’s time you did too. Go back to Kent. You don’t belong here.”

Annelise would have given the fortune she didn’t have to see what Montcalm’s reaction would be to being called “not too old,” but then, life was never fair.

William Dickinson was a very handsome young man, in an honest, rawboned fashion—a far cry from Montcalm’s faintly decadent elegance. His face was tanned by the sun, his strong jaw set with frustration, but the love in his blue eyes didn’t waver. Their children would have the prettiest blue eyes, Annelise mused, before remembering her chaperon’s duties.

“Mr. Dickinson,” Annelise said. “Perhaps it would be best if you come back to the house for tea, so you can continue this discussion.”

“I’m not welcome under Mr. Chipple’s roof,” he said in a stark, dramatic tone that was perfectly suited to Hetty’s dramatic streak. “And I don’t have much else to say. Except that you don’t belong here either, Hetty. Come home with me. We don’t need your father’s money—we don’t need the fancy city people and all this foolishness. Come back home and marry me.”

“I already told you that was out of the question. As did my father, much more forcefully. I assure you, I’m where I belong and very happy about it. Go back home and forget about me, Will.” She didn’t sound nearly as certain about it as her words suggested. Her lovely blue eyes were looking suspiciously moist, her plump lower lip seemed close to trembling. Annelise retrieved a handkerchief from her sleeve and presented it to her.

“I don’t need it,” she said, grabbing it and dabbing at her eyes. “I’m just so angry. Why can’t I make you understand, Will? It was one thing when we were young and foolish, but I’m grown up now, and I understand the way the world works. It wasn’t to be.”

Annelise wished she had a second handkerchief with her because Will Dickinson looked as if he was about to burst into tears himself.

Montcalm or Dickinson? No matter what Mr. Chipple’s grand ambitions were, it was more than clear that happiness lay with this raw young man from the country, at least in Hetty’s martyred eyes. And what was Annelise’s role in all this? To further her host’s ambitions—to ensure that Hetty married neither a scoundrel nor a nobody from the countryside.

And Annelise was a woman who knew her duty. And blithely chose to ignore it. “It’s a beautiful day,” she said in her calm voice. “Why don’t the two of you walk down by the duck pond and sit. The benches there are empty—if I sit here I’ll be able to keep an eye on you and you’ll both be very well chaperoned but yet able to converse without restraint.”

“Could we, miss?” Will said, some of the despair lifting from his eyes for a moment.

“Miss Kempton,” Hetty muttered, finally remembering her manners. But she wasn’t objecting to the notion. She glanced in the direction of the duck pond longingly.

“Of course,” Annelise said, moving to the bench, wishing she still had her handkerchief to brush it off, but sitting anyway, giving them a serene, approving smile. “You need time to talk things out. I’ll be right here.”

Mr. Dickinson held out his arm with all the stateliness of a royal duke, and after a moment Hetty put her tiny gloved hand on his sleeve, looking up at him. And in a brief instance all was clear. Hetty was just as much in love with Will Dickinson as he was with her, and the bucolic life could make her blissfully happy. She was young enough to enjoy the admiration of all those around her, but smart enough to eventually need more in her life. Will Dickinson would be steadfast, loyal, protective and devoted. What more could a woman ask for?

She watched them as they made their way down to the pond, and felt a sentimental dampness in her eyes. She fumbled in her pockets, but the handkerchief was already with Hetty, so she sniffled bravely, only to find a snowy white handkerchief proffered from behind her, the hand holding it strong and gloved and dripping with lace.

Annelise had learned some excellent curses from the grooms in her father’s stable, as well as a few from her father when he was in his cups and indiscreet, and “hells bells” just slipped out before she could silence herself.

Christian Montcalm took the seat beside her, laughing. “Now, that’s hardly the language for a dragon,” he said. “Does Mr. Chipple know that the Honorable Miss Kempton swears like a fishwife?”

“That wasn’t my fishwife language,” she said. “You haven’t annoyed me enough to deserve it. Yet.”

A man shouldn’t be that handsome. The faint lines around his eyes had to be from dissipation, not laughter, but knowing their cause didn’t lessen their appeal. It was no wonder an impressionable young thing like Hetty had succumbed to his charm. What woman wouldn’t?

She wouldn’t, Annelise reminded herself. She looked at him. “So I assume that Hetty’s reluctance to come for a walk was because she’d already planned to slip out and meet you?”

“Not at all. This was pure happenstance. If she was planning to meet me she wouldn’t be off with another young man, totally unchaperoned.”

“She’s not unchaperoned—I can see them very clearly from here, and besides, I’m the one who sent them down there so they could talk.” Unfortunately they were sitting a bit too close, and Will’s arm was around her. She should get up and intervene, but then Montcalm would follow her, and that was the last thing she wanted. It would make matters even more complicated than they already were.

“You sent her? Why am I not surprised? And what does this stalwart young swain have to offer that I do not?”

“He’s a decent, honorable man. You’re a wicked, wretched—”

“Hush now, Miss Kempton. You have better manners than that. I don’t understand why you’ve taken me in such dislike—I’m a perfectly charming gentleman.”

“A bit too charming,” she said tartly.

“Merci du compliment,” he murmured. “However, I must tell you that I don’t like it when people interfere with my plans, even pretty little dragons like you.”

Fury bubbled up inside her. “Let us be perfectly clear on this, Mr. Montcalm. I don’t like being mocked. We both know I’m neither little nor pretty, and I don’t need you reminding me.”

The laughter left his eyes abruptly. “How very interesting,” he said, half to himself. “I’ve found your weak spot. And such a misguided, silly one it is.”

Annelise opened her mouth to deliver an even more effective curse but he simply put his gloved hand against her lips, silencing her. It shouldn’t have been disturbing—the thin leather of his glove kept his skin from touching her mouth, but her stomach still knotted at the sudden memory from last night of another, much more intimate touch.

“Never mind,” he said. “We’ll work on that later. In the meantime, what am I to do about love’s young dream down there?”

William had put his arm around Hetty’s delicate shoulders, and their heads were resting together, and Annelise suspected they weren’t talking at all. “It’s no concern of yours.”

“Ah, but it is. My intentions are honorable matrimony—that’s my future bride down there, behaving in-discreetly. So the question is, should I do nothing and let her tarnish her reputation, thereby making my less-than-stellar self more acceptable to her father? Or do I interfere, saving Miss Chipple from making a cake of herself, and thereby earn her father’s undying gratitude?”

“You should go away and let me deal with it,” Annelise said crossly. “They’re young and in love but not totally lacking in morals. As some people are.”

“By some people you mean me. Ah, Miss Kempton, you are so harsh in your judgments. And the young lovers do touch me. It will sadden me to break them apart, but I need Miss Chipple’s fortune, and I fully intend to marry her, no matter what her young man or you or even her father say.”

“Her father could cut her off without a penny.”

“Unlikely. He seems very indulgent, and who else would he be spending his money on? Unless you’re thinking of marrying him yourself and supplanting his daughter in his affections.”

Annelise shuddered. “Perish the thought.”

“Very good. You’re not as practical as I thought you were, which gives me hope.”

“Hope for what?”

He smiled mysteriously but didn’t answer. “Besides, it would be a terrible waste to see you married to a man like Chipple.”

“All that money out of your reach?” Annelise suggested.

“It isn’t the money that I’d mind.”

“Stop it!” Annelise said, reaching her limit. “You may flirt with everything on two legs, male or female, but I’m not susceptible to your meaningless, flattering lies. You can’t charm me into supporting your pursuit of Miss Chipple. She deserves better.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “but she’ll have me, whether she likes it or not. I will marry her—she’s too choice a prize to let escape. You, however, are another matter entirely.”

“Well, I know it,” Annelise said unflinchingly. If he was about to catalog her deficiencies it would be nothing new to her. And she had already listed his. “But it is no concern of yours. Miss Chipple is a beautiful, wealthy heiress and I’m a very determined, strong-minded spinster who’s not going to let Hetty throw her life away on a rake and a scoundrel and a…a…degenerate.” The last insult came out a little desperately, and she had the sudden feeling she’d gone too far.

Apparently she hadn’t. Mr. Montcalm merely smiled lazily, despite the darkness in his eyes. “And what do you know of degeneracy, Miss Kempton?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Then leave it to me to instruct you. Once I marry Miss Chipple I’ll have more than enough time for your education. You’d be surprised how…stimulating certain experiences can be.”

Before she could gather her wits and reply he was gone, strolling away from her and the duck pond, most likely dismissing all thought of her. And she would have given anything if she had been able to dismiss him and his words as easily.

7

Miss Kempton really was the most delicious creature, Christian thought as he ambled away. He couldn’t remember meeting such a prickly, defensive, yet charmingly vulnerable woman in his life. Most of his female acquaintances were either great beauties or women of a certain…er…moral laxness, and the Honorable Miss Kempton was neither.

He’d touched a raw spot quite accidentally when he’d been flirting with her. She seemed to have no difficulty with him calling her “dragon,” but “pretty” and “little” seemed to bring forth her rage.

Well, in truth, she wasn’t little. At least not in height. But although her dull clothes were fairly shapeless, even the evening dress last night, he’d been able to ascertain that she was slender in the right places, full in the others.

The fact of the matter was, he considered her pretty. Not a great beauty, as was more his usual style. He loved her eyes, even when they flashed lightning at him, and he’d been wanting to taste her mouth since he’d first seen her using it to castigate him. It had been everything he’d wanted, and if her insults hadn’t been so diverting he would have been tempted to kiss her again.

He wanted to see her with her hair loose around her shoulders and out of those wretched clothes. He was tempted to crush the spectacles beneath his boot heel—he suspected she used them more as a defense than a tool to aid her vision. When people were truly shortsighted the glass distorted their eyes. Annelise’s eyeglasses seemed far too thin to be of much use.