The Devil's Waltz

Annelise didn’t waste time with her hat. She raced out the door, grabbed the first maid she saw and tore down the steep marble stairs and into the street, dragging the poor girl behind her. Fortunately Josiah Chipple was nowhere to be seen. While Annelise was there as a favor to the shipping magnate, she still had a strong sense of responsibility, and letting a young girl run through a park unchaperoned was not going to happen while she was a member of the household.

It was a cool day, and there were doubtless strange looks being cast their way, but Annelise was too determined to catch Hetty before she caused a complete scandal to even notice. She plunged into the bushes where she’d last seen Hetty, dragging the hapless maid with her.

She could see Hetty up ahead, alone, seemingly waiting for someone in the shelter of one of the overgrown bushes. There was no doubt who she was waiting for, and no doubt that Annelise would have to move fast.

She sped up, just as Hetty started to step through a narrow break in the hedge, and caught her by the back of her gown, hauling her backward.

Hetty was too astonished to let out more than a little squeak, but when she saw who’d grabbed her, her bright blue eyes filled with a murderous rage.

“You!” she said, her voice rich with bile. “Leave me alone.”

There was one advantage to being almost a foot taller than Hetty—they were no even match. Annelise turned her around and shoved her at the maid. “Get back to the house, now!” she said. “And perhaps I won’t tell your father that you’re out to ruin all his careful plans.”

Hetty opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. So there was something that still had power over Hetty. “I’ll never forgive you for this!” she hissed, and then flounced off, the maid rushing to keep up with her.

Annelise stood there in the chilly air, watching the pair of them, and she sighed. Challenges were all well and good, but her godmother had failed to tell her what a handful the girl was going to be. She might have to go to Mr. Chipple with her concerns, but not before she tried to talk Hetty out of her infatuation. Chipple might not know of the depth of Montcalm’s depravity—he wouldn’t have traveled in circles where Montcalm’s unsavory reputation was bandied about, but Annelise had heard more than enough tales of the absolute perfidy—

“I take it that’s Miss Chipple being dragged away?” a voice, rich with amusement, sounded in her ear. It was a warm voice, the same voice she’d heard earlier at the Chipples’, but Annelise froze. She considered her options. She could ignore the voice, follow the two women and never look back. Or she could turn and face the cause of all this trouble and put him in his place.

She had never been a coward and she wasn’t about to start now. Even though some small, sneaking part of her felt like someone turning to face a Gorgon, she knew perfectly well she wasn’t going to be turned to stone, or a pillar of salt, or anything at all. But when she turned, she felt herself stiffen like one of Chipple’s marble statues.

She had never been so close to him before. Her previous acquaintance, such as it was, had been across crowded ballroom floors, where she’d heard whispers about the women he danced with, the women he flirted with. She was well out of her league with someone like Christian Montcalm, and he would have been totally unaware of her existence—just another awkward wallflower. She had watched him, fascinated, and told herself “pretty is as pretty does” with a deprecating sniff.

But, oh my heavens, he was pretty! His dark hair was long, tied back simply, but one lock fell forward to caress his high cheekbone. She’d always had a weakness for well-defined cheekbones. His faintly tilted eyes were a deep, fascinating green—she’d never been close enough to see them before, but they held a hint of laughter that was undeniably appealing. And his mouth, his lips…It was no wonder he seduced every woman he met, talking them into doing unspeakable things. His rich, full mouth alone could seduce a nun.

And he was taller than she was. She’d expected he probably would be, since he towered over most of his dance partners, but that his height made her feel suddenly delicate was simply one more unfortunate circumstance. The man was well-nigh irresistible, particularly as he looked at her steadily out of those laughing eyes.

But Annelise was made of sterner stuff than that. She swallowed, then found her voice, grateful that it came out calm and cool. “That was Miss Chipple,” she said. “And she had no business being out here meeting a gentleman without a chaperon. Though no gentleman would have ever agreed to such a meeting in the first place.”

He appeared unruffled. “And what business is that of yours? Hetty didn’t mention she had an ogre spying on her every move. I would have been more discreet.”

“I doubt you know what discretion is,” she said. “—and I’m a friend of the family, keeping her company while she makes her debut.”

“No, you’re not,” he said, tilting his head to survey her more closely. “The Chipples know very few members of society as yet, and you’re clearly not of their world. You’re not a governess—you’re not meek enough. If I guess right, you’re a woman of breeding who’s fallen on hard times. So exactly who are you?”

A number of retorts came to her, most of them originating from the stable. She had learned a very colorful vocabulary of curses from her father’s stable lads, but she tried to keep them to herself. It was a cold spring day, but he was radiating heat, and those exotic eyes of his were very…disturbing.

“I’m someone who is going to make your designs on Miss Chipple impossible to carry out,” she said. “So cast your lures elsewhere.”

He laughed. Like everything about him, his laugh was enticing. “That sounds like a challenge. And a gentleman never resists a challenge.”

“But I thought we’d already ascertained that you’re no gentleman.”

He didn’t even blink after so heinous an insult. “I’d kill a man for saying that,” he said mildly.

“Then it’s fortunate for me that you have some standards, despite all rumors to the contrary. Goodbye, Mr. Montcalm.”

Another figure stumbled through the bushes, this time a shorter, slender man, with his hair askew and a faintly bleary expression on his face that signaled either dim wit or too much wine at such an early hour. Annelise didn’t care to find out.

“Who’s this Long Meg, Christian?” the man demanded. “And where’s the pretty little chit? I was going to keep watch for you but demme, I think I’d prefer to go inside and get something to warm me up.”

“Go right ahead, Crosby,” Montcalm murmured without moving his gaze from Annelise’s. “I still have some business to conduct.”

“Not with her, old man!” Crosby protested. “The woman’s a dragon. And a bit long in the tooth. Not your type at all.”

“I’m open to all possibilities,” Montcalm murmured in a silken voice. “She’s not that old, and if I can get her to remove those spectacles she might be quite entertaining.”

“There’ll be no getting beneath her skirts, old man. I know the type—too starched to even bend at the waist.”

Annelise had had enough. Bravery was all very well and good but standing so close to Christian Montcalm and listening to his friend insult her was more than she cared to endure.

“Good day, gentlemen,” she said, letting a lingering, ironic emphasis on the word gentlemen make her point. It sailed straight past Crosby, but Montcalm simply laughed that dangerously seductive laugh.

“You may be sure we’ll meet again, dragon,” he said, and for some reason the term sounded more affectionate than insulting. No wonder the man was so dangerous—even she was not totally impervious to his wicked charm.

“I doubt it.” She wheeled around and took off, back stiff, shoulders straight, as dignified as she could manage, being outside without a coat or a hat. She wouldn’t look back—they were probably laughing at her—and she wouldn’t run. Though it would take forever, she would walk back up the hill to the street and across to the Chipple mansion; she would not let him see that for the first time in what seemed like years, she was unaccountably close to tears.

“Bastard,” she muttered under her breath, liking the sound of the curse. “Goddamned rutting bastard.” Even better. Now she was feeling better. The tears had vanished, the house was in sight, and the next time they met she’d be better prepared.

But she was going to make every effort to ensure that there was not going to be a next time.

“Who the hell was that?” Crosby demanded. “You told me you were meeting the heiress.”

Christian Montcalm turned to look down at his slightly inebriated friend. Crosby had never been the most reliable of his cronies, but then, Christian didn’t tend to consort with reliable people. “The dragon got in the way. Don’t worry—there’ll be other chances.”

“You’re the one who should be worried. If you don’t come up with some money soon you’ll be in the river tick.”

“Nonsense.” He shoved the loose strand of hair away from his face. “There’ll be cards tonight, and I can make more than enough to tide me over until the engagement can be announced.”

“But you can’t always count on the cards, old man. They don’t always fall your way.”

Christian smiled. He wasn’t about to point out to Crosby that not only was he absurdly lucky when it came to cards, he was also skilled and unscrupulous enough to do something about it if the cards misbehaved. “I don’t expect to have any problem.” He turned his gaze back to the tall figure of the woman marching away from them. She was almost out of sight, which was a pity. She was really quite diverting—more interesting than the tiresome beauty was. His conversation with Miss Chipple, when he wasn’t stopping her mouth with temptingly chaste kisses, consisted of an unending line of compliments. For such a beauty she demanded constant reminders that she was, indeed, unmatchable. It was very tedious.

The dragon was far more interesting. True, she was no young maiden, but he’d had mistresses far older than she and enjoyed them tremendously. She couldn’t be much more than thirty, making her younger than he was, a thought that amused him. She spoke to him like a maiden aunt, scolding a naughty boy.

Ah, but he was a naughty boy. And he had every intention of becoming a great deal naughtier. And the dragon was just the sort of woman he could make mischief with.

He wouldn’t, of course. He was a pragmatic man, and he’d set his sights quite clearly on Miss Hetty Chipple, the underbred, over-rich, delectable morsel who’d just been snatched from him. Marriage to a compliant young heiress was just the thing to smooth his way for the time being, and even if Hetty seemed to have a mind of her own he had little doubt that he could control her. He had enough tricks up his sleeve to keep her docile and well behaved—sex always had the most interesting effect on virgins, and there were any number of ways he could manage to throw her off balance. And it would be most pleasant, given that trim little body of hers.

Then, when she grew tiresome, as they always did, he could further his acquaintance with the dragon, which he suspected would be far more interesting and a much greater challenge.

How would she look without her spectacles? How would she look without her clothes? She would have long legs to wrap around him, and he was connoisseur enough to see that despite her general skinniness she had a decent bosom. Yes, she’d strip quite nicely.

As soon as he could talk her into it.

But first things first. “We’ll go play cards, Crosby,” he said pleasantly. “And then perhaps I’ll decide to attend Lady Bellwhite’s soiree so I can further my suit.”

“With the heiress? Or the dragon?”