The Devil's Waltz (21 page)

“Mistress? Oh, for heaven's sake!” she snapped. “All they would have to do is see me to know how ridiculous that is.”

“I think you underestimate the world's capacity for gossip and salacious thoughts,” he murmured. “And I think you underestimate your…” A sudden noise from the far room stopped him, before he could finish his sentence.

It was a horse, making a huge racket, whinnying with great urgency and kicking at the sides of the stall. “What the hell?” Christian said, turning.

The young stable boy, Jeremy, rushed through the door. “Something's wrong with the chestnut mare, sir. She's having some kind of fit.”

“Don't be ridiculous—she's the sweetest tempered horse we have. Did she get into something? Eat something that's upset her stomach?”

“No, sir, I've been very careful. Once the two of you started talking she began kicking up a storm.”

The horse let out a distant bugle of sound, and Annelise felt prickles rush over her body. It couldn't be. It was too unlikely, too wrong, too incomprehensible. One horse sounded much like another from that distance, through thick walls, and how could something like that happen, in all of England, that Gertie could…

“Excuse me,” Christian said with ill grace, turning toward the door.

But Annelise was already ahead of him, practically pushing him out of the way, picking up her skirts and racing into the inner stable.

Jeremy tried to bar her way. “Miss, she might be dangerous,” he said nervously, but she ignored him, staring straight at the horse making such a racket.

She was a rich chestnut color, with a blaze on her forehead that reached one eye, and two front stockings that were in evidence as she kicked at the door of the stall, trying to free herself.

“I don't believe it,” Annelise breathed in a hushed tone. “My sweet girl.”

Christian had come up behind her, and he laid a restraining hand on her shoulder, but for once his touch was barely noticeable. She shook it off and ran for the stall, opening the gate, ignoring the horrified protests of Jeremy and his master.

And then all was silent as Gertie lowered her head to rest against Annelise, at peace. She was crying, and she didn't care who saw her, as she stroked her mare's
long neck, whispering love and reassurances that no one else could hear. Gertie pushed her nose against Annelise's shoulder, seeking comfort and memory and probably long-remembered treats.

She didn't know how long they stayed like that, in the stall, with Christian and Jeremy a safe distance away. Nothing mattered but that the one creature left on this earth who loved her unconditionally was suddenly there once more.

Gertie lifted her head, looking over at the two men. “Now that's more like Gertrude,” Jeremy said. “I don't know what got into the creature. You shouldn't have ought to run in there, miss. Horses can be dangerous creatures when they're upset, and something must have upset her real bad…”

“Miss Kempton is just fine,” Christian said. “It's her horse. Isn't it?”

Annelise stepped back, wiping the tears from her face surreptitiously. Where were her spectacles when she most needed them? “Long ago. When my father died they were all sold.”

“Your father…he must have been Lord McArthur,” Christian said.

“Yes.”

“Wild man McArthur. You're a far cry from him.”

She turned on Christian, suddenly furious, and left the stall, leaving Jeremy to finish calming the horse. “I am not,” she said in a low, dangerous voice. “I don't care what nasty gossip you heard, but my father was a good man, a decent man.”

“Who had a bit of trouble with gambling and drink. Who died and left his daughter homeless and penniless.”

“Damn you,” she said, forgetting where she was, forgetting everything but the pain his words brought back. She went for him, wanting to hit him, but he was prepared, and he caught her wrists before she could connect, and pulled her against his warm wool jacket so that she could cry while he held her. She didn't want to, she didn't want his comfort, but there didn't seem to be any choice in the matter. And as unlikely as it was, he did provide solace. The strength and warmth of his body reaching into hers, the arms that held her, the hands that stroked her hair and her back, the voice that murmured soft, comforting things. She stopped fighting it, at least for the moment, and simply cried.

And then Mrs. Browne was there, taking her from Christian into her warm, motherly embrace. It seemed for a moment as if Christian didn't want to let her go, but a moment later he released her, and Mrs. Browne guided her back into the main house, soft and comforting, smelling like cookies and lemon oil and all the safe things in life.

She took her to the kitchen, sat her down and gave her a cup of hot tea with honey and a plateful of ginger biscuits, and she clucked over her like a mother hen and patted her every now and then in a reassuring manner. Finally Annelise's tears stopped and she drank her tea, managing a watery smile.

“Are you feeling better now, dearie?”

“I've made a fool of myself,” she said dismally.

“Now, now, sometimes we just have to cry. It's all very good to be strong all the time, but every now and then things just get to the point where there's nothing to do but weep. And then you dry your eyes, straighten your shoulders and get on with life. Don't you?”

“Yes,” Annelise said wryly. Her shoulders were already straight, no longer slumped in defeat, and she wanted more ginger biscuits.

“I'm going to have a talk with Master Christian. His little games are all well and good, but he needs to have a care for other people. I don't know what he did to upset you, but I'm going to give him a piece of my mind….”

“It wasn't him. It was Gertie. My horse.”

“I thought you didn't ride?” Mrs. Browne said blankly.

Annelise was so tired of explaining. She should have kept her mouth shut in the first place. “I used to ride,” she said. “Before my father died.”

“Ah, I see,” the housekeeper said. “I think you need to go home.”

“I do.” Annelise wasn't going to cry again—there weren't any tears left. “But I don't have a home any more.” She swallowed a hiccup. “Do you have any more biscuits?”

“All the ginger biscuits in the world for you, sweeting,” Mrs. Browne said. “It will all work out in the end. It always does.”

Annelise managed a smile. “If you say so,” she said. Not believing it for a moment.

 

Annelise stared out at the rain as it lashed against the leaded glass windows. They needed fixing, like everything else in this old, decaying house, and the wind rattled against the casement like a hungry ghost. But there were no ghosts in Annelise's life—those whom she loved stayed dead once they died. She would have liked the chance to see her father again. Liked the chance to tell him she loved him. To tell him…

She was back in her serviceable brown dress and her plain cotton underthings. She still had only one of her shoes, though Mrs. Browne had cleaned it as best she could. Still Cinderella, except that she was already on her way back into the shadows.

A good thing too, she told herself with a sniff that was nowhere near the tears that had overwhelmed her earlier. She was a level-headed woman, and she knew better than to have airs above her station.

In fact, her station in life was far too tenuous. Her name, her pedigree, the Honorable Miss Annelise Kempton, guaranteed her a certain standing and privilege. Her impoverished state tore most of that away, leaving only her impeccable reputation to sustain her. And by now it was sorely tarnished.

She should have known the moment she set eyes on the beautiful Christian Montcalm that he would be her undoing. And the wretched, damnable part of it was that he hadn't undone anything about her. Except, perhaps, her resolve. And that wasn't enough to make it worthwhile.

Her elder sister Eugenia would lecture her, telling her she'd always thought too highly of herself. It wasn't true, though. She just thought she'd known who and what she was, who and what she wanted after almost thirty years of living in this body. All it had taken was the touch of Christian Montcalm's mouth to realize she knew nothing at all about herself.

She rose from the window seat to fetch the velvet bag carrying the false pearls, as false as her belief in her own power. In defiance she put them on, letting them rest against her chastely covered bosom. She moved back to the window seat to stare into the darkness. She had to leave, had to make some kind of plan, but her mind was blank. The thought of abandoning Gertie once more was unbearably painful. The thought of never seeing Christian Montcalm again was far, far worse. And the only thing she could sanely hope for.

She didn't hear him coming—his step was stealthy, like a cat or a sneak thief. And he didn't bother to knock on her door—he simply opened it and walked into her room as if he owned it. As he did, she supposed. But he didn't own her.

“Mrs. Browne said you didn't touch your dinner,” he said abruptly. There were only a few candles lit in the room, and she couldn't see his face clearly. A small blessing, she reminded herself.

“I wasn't hungry,” she said in a tight voice.

“And you're back to wearing your nun's robes. I must say I like you better in my great aunt's dishabille. Though the riding habit wasn't bad.”

She ignored his jibe. “I need to leave here.”

He hadn't closed the door behind him, a small reassurance, and the hall was better lit than her bedroom, silhouetting him. He seemed restless, uneasy, as he prowled around her room. “They haven't sent a carriage back for you yet,” he said, pausing by the rumpled bed. Staring down at it.

“But we both know that if you wanted to you could find a carriage. It was a lie, wasn't it? I could have always left?”

“You needn't be so harsh. It was never impossible—nothing is, if you have the money and right now I'm quite awash with it. It was just very difficult, and would have necessitated having that wretched brat in my house for hours, perhaps even a day, longer. When it was a choice between my sanity and your reputation my sanity won. I'm a very selfish man.”

In better times she could have raised an eyebrow, but right then she was too weary and defeated to bother.

“I need to leave here,” she said again, her voice listless.

He frowned—she could see him by the light of her bedside candle. “There's a horse you know well, and I could send Harry with you for protection. You wouldn't even have to be in any rush to return her—she's livelier today than I've ever known her to be.”

“Don't be ridiculous. I haven't the means nor the place to keep her. Besides, I've told you, I don't ride.”

“But you did. When did you stop? On the day your father died?”

Even that couldn't goad her into anything more
than a numb response. Of course he'd know that. He was a devil—he knew everything he wanted to know about her. Knew just how vulnerable she was to him, despite her protests. Knew that more than anything she just wanted him to touch her, kiss her, take her. It didn't matter how much it hurt or how unpleasant it was; it didn't matter that it would leave her totally ruined and bereft with no future whatsoever. She still wanted it.

“Since the day my father died,” she echoed.

He was still edgy. In another man she might have thought he was nervous, but Christian Montcalm wasn't prey to such petty emotions. Particularly around her.

“I've decided to be noble,” he said abruptly.

His words were enough to startle Annelise out of her malaise. If he was thinking of being noble then he had every reason to be nervous—it would be a novel experience for him.

“Indeed?” she said, turning to face him.

But he wasn't looking at her—he was still prowling. “I'm going to let you go.”

“Was there ever any doubt of it?”

“No,” he said. “The only question was what shape you were going to be in when you left, and I've changed my mind. You get to leave here just as virginal as the day you arrived. Two or three more stolen kisses shouldn't make much difference, and you're such an upstanding, starchy dragon that no one would dare believe you capable of licentious romping.”

“Licentious romping? I think not. But you already
swore to Will Dickinson that I was perfectly safe. Swore to me, as well, I believe.”

He didn't even blink. “I lied,” he said simply. “I do that, you know, when it suits me. I would have thought you'd realized that by now.”

It was enough to rouse her. She swiveled around on the window seat, putting her stockinged feet on the floor. “What are you talking about?”

Somehow during his edgy perambulations he'd come dangerously close. She'd seen the wild animals at Astley's Circus, had been mesmerized by the beauty and inherent danger. She should have realized the resemblance sooner.

“I was going to ruin you, dragon,” he said softly. “Quite thoroughly, quite deliciously. I had every intention of going well beyond lesson three until you were a bona fide expert. I was going to teach you everything I know and could think of, until there wasn't the tiniest bit of starch left in you.” His voice was soft, regretful and still utterly beguiling.