The Devil's Waltz (4 page)

There were at least half a dozen women there, no more than ten years older than she was, who would love to provide Josiah a new wife. He might even marry a title himself, though of course he wouldn't benefit financially from it. But he could say, “my wife, Lady Ermintrude,” with great pride.

Clearly she needed to match make for the both of them. His gratitude should be boundless if he managed to secure his own happiness, as well, and perhaps she might end up with that tiny cottage and a genteel income to call her own after all. Anything was possible.

“You haven't seen Christian Montcalm, have you?”

The conversation wasn't addressed to her, and she pretended to ignore it, but the sound of his name had her immediate attention.

“You think he'd dare show his face here?” another
voice replied. “Surely not after that escapade with Lord Morton's wife!”

“Morton has taken her to the continent until the scandal dies down,” the first woman said. “As for Montcalm, he sold his soul to the devil years ago. This latest scandal will make little difference, I expect.”

“No, indeed,” said the second woman, fanning herself vigorously. “We can only be thankful he is unlikely to try to show his face here tonight. If he does I think I might be tempted to give him the cut direct.”

The first woman laughed. “No, you wouldn't, Lavinia. All he'd have to do is smile at you and you'd be at his feet. You should never have gotten involved with him in the first place. It was more than five years ago and you've yet to look at another man.”

Annelise could stand it no longer. She turned to glance at the women. She recognized Lavinia Worthington. She was the same age as Annelise's older sister, but she'd aged far better. She was widowed several years ago, if she remembered correctly, and hadn't yet doffed her widows' weeds. Maybe she had the same financial problems Annelise did. Or maybe she just knew how stunning she was in black. The diamond necklace around her elegant neck was worth a hundred black dresses.

“I'm more than ready to look at another man. I think Mr. Chipple might suit me very well.”

“You wouldn't!” her companion sputtered.

“I would,” said Lavinia. “You're right—Christian has ruined me for anyone else. The things he does in bed
are beyond sinful and so wickedly delicious that you'd want to die with pleasure. I'm not going to get that again, so I might at least settle for a comfortable amount of money.”

“More than comfortable, if what I hear is true,” the first woman said. “But take a glance across the room if you think you can really do it.”

Annelise turned her head, to follow their gaze, only to see Christian Montcalm, a vision in satin, holding Hetty's hand in preparation for the next dance.

A
nnelise could cover a surprising amount of ground in no time at all, even weaving her way through the crowded dance floor. She was tall, but she had a certain grace, and was able to slip to the other side of the room without causing much notice, just in time to physically fling herself between Montcalm and Hetty.

It was perhaps not the best decision, since he'd been holding Hetty's hand in preparation for leading her out to dance, and when Annelise used her body to break them apart his arm brushed against her breasts. With any other man she would have thought it an accident. With this man, who was a known connoisseur of beauty, she wasn't quite sure.

She had to move fast and had always been good at thinking quickly, so at the last minute she'd grabbed young Mr. Reston by the hand, thrusting him forward. “Miss Chipple, may I introduce you to Mr. Reston? He's a great admirer of yours, and begs the favor of this dance.”

“I…er…that is…” Mr. Reston had turned a bright
pink that didn't go well with his spots. “I mean, I would be honored if I could have this dance, Miss Chipple.”

“Lovely,” Annelise said cheerfully, putting Hetty's limp hand in Reston's gloved one and giving them a little shove toward the dance floor. “I'm certain Mr. Montcalm will understand.”

Hetty would have lingered, but Mr. Reston finally understood his duty, and a moment later he was leading her through the paces of a country dance, and within moments Hetty was laughing.

“I'm certain Mr. Montcalm understands very well,” Christian said, his low voice sending shivers down her spine. Too much imagination, she told herself, turning to look at him.
Up
at him. Such a novel experience. Why were all the men so short and she so tall? Except for someone like Montcalm, who was out of reach and unacceptable?

She dashed that thought out of her brain instantly. She'd been around matchmakers too long—why in the world was she thinking such thoughts in terms of herself? She was about to give him a look of smug triumph when she realized the cool green of his eyes did not appear particularly amused.

“Miss Chipple had promised me this dance,” he said. “I don't like having my plans thwarted.”

“I imagine you don't,” she said sharply. “There are any number of women who would be more than happy to dance with you.”

“And only one who'd hate it beyond belief,” he said. And before she realized what he was doing he'd taken her hand and swung her onto the dance floor.

She hadn't danced in years. Certainly not since her father's death. She should have fumbled, tripped, but dancing had always been one of her few gifts and the steps came back to her by instinct. She should have pulled away, and indeed, she felt dozens of curious gazes in their direction, but the hand that held hers was very strong and Christian wasn't about to let her go. He wasn't the sort of man to give in and having a struggle on the dance floor would be undignified and unwinnable.

“Everybody is staring,” she said in a whisper. “Let go of my hand.”

“I wanted to dance. You robbed me of a partner—it's your duty to replace her—”

“Not with me!” she whispered, horrified. It couldn't have been a worse dance. It was one of the newer dances, one where the partners always remained with each other, always touching. If it had been a quadrille she could have easily slipped away, but his fingers gripped her tightly, and he wasn't about to release her.

At least they were on the edge of the dance floor and not in the middle, where Hetty was enjoying herself just a bit too noisily for all to see. She'd have to caution her about laughing too loudly, Annelise thought absently as she turned gracefully. She would do so as soon as she managed to get away from this awful man. At least they were moving back now, beyond the curtains toward the balcony, where no one would see them.

It wasn't until he'd swept her out into the chilly darkness of the terrace when she'd realized this was not a good idea after all. There were no witnesses to her em
barrassment, but no witnesses to stop him, either.
Stop him from what?
Tossing her over the side, two flights down to the street below? They'd whispered of frightful things….

He came to a halt, but he still hadn't released her. “This is the second time you've gotten in my way, dragon,” he said, his voice a drawling caress. “I don't like being frustrated.”

“You'll have to get used to it as long as I'm around. I'm not letting you near Miss Hetty.”

“Why not? Clearly the girl will be married for her money. With that background her pretty face won't be enough to lure much of a title, which must be her father's intention.”

“True—” Annelise said, tugging her hand from his strong hold surreptitiously. His gloved hand was still on her arm and he didn't seem in any mood to let her go. “—but with the money then she can at least find a respectable suitor, and you, sir, do not qualify as such.”

“Ah, but not everyone likes respectable. I'm convinced Miss Chipple is enjoying the consternation she causes when she flirts with me.”

“I'm not enjoying it,” Annelise said crossly. “Will you please let go of me?”

“Not yet,” he drawled. “I came to this insufferably boring party for the sole purpose of furthering my suit with your flighty young heiress and you've botched that entirely. I think you and I have to come to an understanding.”

“I consider that highly unlikely.”

“I intend to marry your silly little charge. I need the
money, and I have little doubt that she'd choose me above all the men she's met so far in London. She has a fascination for danger, and anything you say to discourage her will have the opposite effect.”

“I won't argue with that.” Why wouldn't he release her? Why did the warmth of his hand spread through the thin kid gloves he was wearing so that it almost seared her skin? “You're quite dazzling in a tawdry, ne'er-do-well sort of way,” she continued, “but it's not going to be her choice.”

She'd managed to silence him. He stared at her in astonishment. “Tawdry?” he choked.

“Young girls are always attracted to rakes,” Annelise stated in practical tones she was far from feeling. “Which is why wiser heads rule attachments of this sort. If her father doesn't realize how unsuitable you are I'll make certain he's informed of it. You'll have to look elsewhere for your fortune.”

She didn't like that gleam in his eyes. Beautiful eyes, tinged with green and gold, and sly like a cat's. “I don't know of any other heiresses who've chosen to arrive in London this season,” Montcalm said. “Unless you're possessed of a tidy income, dragon—”

“I haven't a penny.”

“Too bad. I could have enjoyed making you eat your words,” he murmured in a voice far too affectionate. He reached up and flicked the lace cap surrounding her face like a nun's wimple. “And what the devil is this? You weren't wearing it in the park this afternoon.”

“I wasn't wearing anything at all in the park this af
ternoon.” The moment the words were out of her mouth she could have bit them back, but he did no more than raise an eyebrow. “That is, I ran out without a hat or cloak. I am a lady of a certain age and this lace cap denotes my position…”

He ripped it off her head and sent it sailing over the side of the terrace. She watched it drop to the ground with mixed feelings. It was made of very fine lace. It made her feel eighty years old, and she was not yet thirty. “Exactly what color is your hair, dragon?”

Enough was enough. “Gray,” she snapped, yanking her arm from his. He still didn't release her. She took a deep, calming breath, picturing herself as a starched and disapproving governess. “Mr. Montcalm, you have no interest in what color my hair is or whether or not I have a fortune. I am certain you have an innate sense of who is worthy prey for your schemes, and I hardly qualify. I realize I frustrated your plans for the evening, and while I can't apologize, you can surely see that this is getting us nowhere. Please let go of me and I'll return to the party.”

There was an absolute stillness about his face that made her stomach tighten nervously. He was an astonishingly handsome man—there was no doubt of that whatsoever. With his high cheekbones, exotic green eyes and soft, beguiling lips, it was little wonder that he managed to enthrall an impressionable young thing like Hetty Chipple. Indeed, if Annelise were ten years younger and just a little more foolish she might be distracted, at least momentarily, by the laugh lines around
his eyes, by the way he looked at a woman, which doubtless had to be dispensed to all women in his vicinity because he could hardly be looking at her in any particular way, could he? He had nothing to gain.

“Ah, dragon,” he murmured. “You underestimate yourself. You do your best to convince the world that you're a stiff old maid, when I doubt you're much older than me.”

“I beg your pardon! I'm twenty-nine!” she said, goaded. Deliberately, she realized belatedly.

“Not such a great age after all. Then think of me as a wise elder, dispensing advice. Don't enter into battles you can't win. You're outmanned and outgunned when it comes to Hetty Chipple. I will have her. I don't care what lengths I have to go to in order to marry her, but I've never been one to be squeamish. I'm afraid I can be quite ruthless.”

She believed him and her own sense of certainty began to falter. She had never been a coward or a quitter, but this was starting to look like a fight she might lose. And indeed, what business was it of hers? Josiah Chipple wanted his child to marry well, but he wasn't thinking in terms of her happiness, only social success. And while Christian was a rake, he was from a family as old as hers, and would be a viscount before long. All she had to do was persuade Josiah that it would do and she could cease to worry. Cease to have anything to do with this difficult man except to nod politely when he visited his fiancée. Whether she'd be called upon to help guide her through a lavish society wedding was
something she didn't care to consider. Someone else could come in and restrain Mr. Chipple's more exuberant lack of taste.

“Do you love her?” she asked, feeling a small amount of hope.

“Good God, woman, of course not!” he said, clearly appalled. “I don't believe in love. At the best there's affection and a certain carnal compatibility, but that hardly equals love. Do I strike you as some sort of romantic poet? I'm much too hardheaded for that.”

“She needs to be loved,” Annelise said in a small voice.

He stared down at her. “Does she indeed?” he said after a moment. “Maybe she just needs to be kissed.”

She didn't even have time to let the words register. He hadn't released her arm, so it was a simple enough matter for him to sweep her unsuspecting body against his, pushing her farther into the shadows of the terrace, up against the cool stone wall, and kiss her.

Sheer astonishment kept her motionless, but then, he didn't appear to expect much participation from her. He still kept his iron grip on her arm, but his other hand cupped her chin gently as he pressed his lips against hers, the cool kid gloves strangely enticing against her face. But nothing as strange as the unexpected softness of his lips, brushing against hers, kissing with slow delicacy that left her in a trance, unable to move. Her eyes fluttered closed as she floated.

“Lesson one,” he whispered against her lips. “Now time for lesson two.” And he tilted her chin down, so that her mouth opened beneath his, and he kissed her that
way, a deep, intimate kiss that should only be shared by lovers. She could feel her entire body react in shameful, unexpected ways, and she reached up her hands to try to push him away, but she was uncharacteristically weak, and she closed her eyes, letting her head drop back and allowing him to kiss her in the shadows of the moonlit terrace.

He was the one who broke the kiss. He was the one who looked down at her, suddenly breathless, but with the moon behind him she couldn't see his expression—she could only see the bright glitter of his eyes. “You're an eager pupil, dragon,” he said softly.

“What's lesson three?” she asked in a strangled voice.

“You're not ready for that, love. I trust I'll be around when you are. In the meantime, though, we may as well work on lesson two. You're not as adept at kissing as Hetty might be, but with a little trial and error…”

This time when she shoved him he fell back, releasing his hold on her arm, moving out of her way so that her escape was clear. She didn't hesitate, pushing past him, and she would have left without a word if his faint laugh hadn't followed her.

She stopped at the French doors, whirling around to glare at him. “You ought to be gelded,” she said, as harsh and as coarse an insult as she could come up with in the heat of the moment.

His laugh grew. “Oh, no, my dear. You really wouldn't like that at all.”

The heat and noise of the ballroom was an assault on her shaken body as she walked back inside, shutting the
doors behind her. Shutting him away. She had no idea whether people were staring at her—Montcalm had whisked her away from the party so quickly she didn't know whether anyone realized she'd disappeared with London's most notorious rake. At that moment she didn't particularly care.