The Devil's Waltz. Anne Stuart

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СКАЧАТЬ He glanced up. The doors to the terrace were open now, and the music filtered down, and a faint smile curved his lips.

      “What’s that disgusting thing?” Crosby demanded. “Since when do you pick filthy rags up from the sidewalk?”

      “When they’re a souvenir, Crosby.” He didn’t care to explain himself, but Crosby was at the point in his nightly imbibing when he was most persistent and annoying. Christian concentrated instead on the scrap of lace in his hand. He’d thrown it farther than he thought—he would have expected it would end up stuck in the trees that surrounded the Bellwhites’ house.

      But instead it had shown up at his very feet, and even in its sodden condition he’d known exactly what it was. It was a sign. Of what, he had no idea, but he expected the future to prove interesting.

      Anything to alleviate the tedium of his life.

      The lace was very fine, delicate, and he stretched it out in his hand for a moment. A net to catch a dragon, he thought. And he tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat, eliciting shrieks of protest from Crosby.

      “You’ll ruin your clothes, demme!” he said.

      “If we spend the rest of the evening doing as Godfrey suggests I expect they’ll be in far worse shape,” he murmured. “And if the coat is ruined I can always buy another.”

      “Not on your credit.”

      “Crosby, you are being astonishingly ill bred tonight. Behave yourself or go find other, less discerning people to annoy.”

      Crosby’s face darkened with embarrassment or anger, Montcalm didn’t know. Or care. And then Crosby laughed. “It’s hers, isn’t it? You dog.”

      He was startled enough to jerk his head around. “I beg your pardon, Crosby.”

      “Miss Chipple. She must be quite besotted with you, to be so indiscreet.”

      Montcalm smiled, unaccountably relieved. “What can I say? Miss Chipple was as obliging as always.”

      “Wonder if she’ll be as obliging with the rest of us, once you’re married,” Godfrey said wistfully.

      “Better to wonder how obliging I’m likely to be.” The silken threat in Christian’s voice was unmistakable.

      “You’ve always shared in the past,” Godfrey said, aggrieved.

      Christian closed his eyes for a moment, summoning up the image of impish Hetty Chipple, with her sweet, rosebud mouth and her insatiable appetite for chaste kisses. But it wasn’t Hetty who appeared in his mind—it was the still-nameless dragon, staring at him in shock after he’d kissed her. A shock he hadn’t been entirely immune to.

      “Things change,” he said out loud. “It’s one thing to share a willing whore—”

      “Or unwilling,” Crosby added with a snicker.

      “—But another thing when it comes to my wife. Once she’s given me a couple of healthy sons she can do whatever she pleases, as long as she’s discreet and careful.”

      “And if she’s not?” Godfrey demanded.

      “Then I’ll simply have to make sure she understands the rules,” Christian replied gently, striding down the rain-damp streets of London, his coterie following behind him.

      5

      There was no reason for Annelise to be quite so exhausted. She’d only danced once, and despite the stimulating encounter on the terrace had arrived home not far past midnight. She retired immediately, making it clear that Hetty should do the same, and she was undressed and in bed within half an hour.

      It was a very nice bed, already warmed, with a fire blazing in the fireplace. Mr. Chipple’s love of bright colors hadn’t penetrated this far, and the room was a soft, soothing shade of rose. She should have fallen asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

      Should have. Even a steady-tempered, practical woman of twenty-nine would be understandably rattled by her first kiss. More so because it wasn’t offered by an eager young man or an importunate suitor. She’d been kissed, quite thoroughly, by a man she despised, a man who called her “dragon” and mocked her and had wicked, nefarious plans for the innocent, though admittedly annoying, Miss Hetty Chipple.

      Thank heavens those wicked plans had nothing to do with her, other than it being her duty to thwart them. As far as she knew she’d managed to keep her wits about her when he kissed her—she hadn’t kissed him back, or put her arms around him. She’d simply held still, like a virgin martyr at the stake, while the flames licked deliciously around her…

      She rolled over in the bed, punching the pillow. It was shameful, yet, but in the end probably entirely normal. After all, it was human instinct to mate, and natural to enjoy kisses and caresses, wasn’t it? Not that he’d caressed her. Or touched her inappropriately. Except with his mouth. No man should have that lovely a mouth—it was unfair to susceptible women everywhere. Not that she susceptible, of course. And even if she were, she was far too practical to imagine that she was anything but an annoyance and hindrance to Christian Montcalm. Like a cat with a helpless little mouse, he enjoyed playing with her, batting at her, while he waited for more important prey.

      She threw back the covers, far too hot on a chilly spring night. She should read something. Something boring and familiar to put her to sleep, and that had nothing to do with kisses. She could go for Caesar in the original Latin, but that might be a little too punitive. Maybe some nice treatise on land management.

      Actually that might be more interesting than she might expect. As she watched her father’s last remaining property fall into rack and ruin she could only think of small things that could be done to salvage its value. The proper rotation of crops. Improvements to the surrounding tenant homes. Proper breeding of livestock for the maximum results when it—

      No, she wasn’t going to think about breeding. Or about the ramshackle old house and estate that were gone forever, sold off to repay some of her father’s huge debts. It was gone, and her only hope was to eventually find a small cottage in the country where she could live out her days in peace. With spaniels and cats, since she wasn’t going to have children.

      A chill swept over her, and she dived back under the covers. It was a cold, dismal night, she thought, huddling deeper into the warm blanket. She was thinking like a woman of fifty, not one who hadn’t even reached thirty. Not that she expected romance or marriage, or even had any interest in them. She’d learned to be self-sufficient. The only offers she’d be likely to attract would be widowers needing someone to keep rein on their children. She’d rather be a paid governess than be rewarded for her efforts by sharing a bed with some portly, ill-tempered man…

      And why was she thinking of sharing a bed with any man at all? The Chipples were generous with their allotment of pillows, and she pulled one over her head, to shut out the light, shut out the thoughts that were plaguing her. Too much wine, she told herself, though she’d barely had a glass. Too much imagination—her besetting sin.

      By tomorrow things would be in proper perspective. Montcalm’s evil machinations would be clear, she would warn Mr. Chipple just how unsuitable he was, and with any luck he would no longer be allowed anywhere near Hetty. Then Annelise could hold her head high and forget all about the Unfortunate Incident on Lady Bellwhite’s Terrace.

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