Читать книгу The Devil's Waltz - Anne Stuart - Страница 10

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.

If only she could sleep.

When she awoke it was well past her usual time of rising, though the house seemed relatively still. The sun had risen, though the shutters were still closed against the light, and she slid out of bed to push them aside. It was a bright, sunny day, early enough that few people were out, and even the park looked empty. Most people waited until a more social hour—eleven or so, to make their grand promenade, to see and be seen. It hadn’t been far off that hour when Annelise had been forced to go chasing after Hetty, and she wondered absently where her charge’s rooms were. And whether they could be equipped with a lock.

She was already dressed when she heard the shriek, and while it sounded far from disastrous she bolted out of her room without her shoes on, wondering whether the nefarious rake had managed to sneak into the house. Or whether it was a more literal snake.

It was neither. It was easy enough to find Hetty’s room—it was at the far end of the hall, the door was open and, while the excited shrieks had calmed, Miss Hetty was still in an obvious state.

Annelise halted in the open doorway, giving her a moment to take in the full splendor of Hetty’s bower.

It looked as if a pink sugarplum had exploded, covering the room with dripping pink icing. The entire place was awash with pink lace and satin—from the bed coverings to the chairs to the discarded clothing that some maid had neglected to take care of. Hetty had probably banned her from the room.

The entire effect was that of a bordello for fairies. And then she caught the scent of roses, and realized what had excited Hetty’s attention: pink roses, masses of them, overblown and gaudy, perfuming the room like a flower shop.

Apparently Miss Hetty was so delighted with the offering that she was inclined to be welcoming. “Aren’t they gorgeous?” she demanded of Annelise. “He must have bought every pink rose in town!”

“There certainly are a lot of them,” she agreed, but Hetty was too pleased to notice the reservation in Annelise’s voice.

“Such a darling, extravagant man!” Hetty cooed, looking as if she wanted to embrace the wall of roses against her young bosom. She’d regret it if she did—that strain of roses had particularly nasty thorns, and while the flower seller would have done his best to remove most of them, it was an impossible task, making that type of rose more expensive than any other.

Annelise knew her roses—she missed the rose garden she’d tended so faithfully almost as much as she’d missed her father—and she wondered why Montcalm would have selected them. It could be no one but he—the rose was showy, just a wee bit gauche, and the sheer abundance of them was almost a mockery of a gesture. One that was totally lost on Hetty.

She was holding the card in her hand. “He says, ‘These roses can’t begin to do justice to your beauty.’” She turned to Annelise with a triumphant smile. “Didn’t I tell you? I’ve managed to capture the most beautiful man in society in a matter of a few short weeks.”

“He needs a wealthy wife,” Annelise said gently, almost sorry to remind Hetty of the sordid realities of life.

But Hetty simply shrugged. “They all seem to. If I have to be married for my money I may as well pick someone beautiful.”

“Beauty is only skin deep,” Annelise said, sounding like her old nurse, sounding like she was a crotchety seventy-year-old.

“And everything he does is pretty,” Hetty said dreamily.

She was thinking of his kisses, Annelise thought with a sudden flare of feeling that she refused to define. Christian Montcalm said Hetty was a far better kisser…the rat bastard! She’d only just remembered that part, having been too distracted by the actual event.

She couldn’t bring herself to say anything else. She suddenly remembered she was standing there in her stocking feet with her hair still loose down her back, not a very ladylike way to appear.

“I’ll see you at breakfast, my dear,” she said, hoping the affectionate term might make her feel more dignified.

Hetty waved her away, barely noticing, and Annelise gritted her teeth as she started back down the hallway.

One of the maids waited outside her door. It was the same one she’d dragged to the park with her—Lizzie. She bobbed a polite little curtsy when Annelise approached her, and she felt an unpleasant sense of foreboding.

“I wondered if I could be of any assistance, miss. I have some experience as a lady’s maid, and Mrs. Buxton said it was all right if I offered my services to such an honored guest.”

It had been so long since she’d had a personal maid attend her that the notion was disconcerting. “That’s very kind of you, Lizzie, but I’m used to looking after myself.”

Lizzie looked disappointed. “As you wish, miss. But you’ve only to let me know if you change your mind.”

“Thank you.” She expected Lizzie to head back down the stairs, but still she lingered. “Did you want something else?”

“Miss Hetty isn’t the only one who got flowers this morning, miss. I just put them in your room.”

Oh, God, Annelise thought. What kind of insult had he come up with now? Weeds? Cattails?

No, it couldn’t be Montcalm—he didn’t even know her name. Oh, horrors, it couldn’t be Chipple himself, could it? If she was going to have to fight off his advances she’d leave Hetty to the not so tender mercies of the rakehell, Montcalm.

But she didn’t betray her agitation. “Thank you, Lizzie,” she said. “That’s all for now.”

The poor girl wasn’t happy with her dismissal, but Annelise was not about to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her reaction. She waited until the maid had vanished down the hallway toward the servants’ stairs and then went into her room. She managed to close the door behind her before she stopped still.

Beautiful spring flowers. Irises, daffodils, delicate tea roses, all in the softest pastel shades. Small, perfect, exquisite.

The card lay on the table beside them, and her name was written quite clearly in dark ink, an impatient, masculine hand. The Hon. Annelise Kempton. And she felt a sudden, wrenching disappointment. They couldn’t be from him. Christian Montcalm didn’t know her name.

And for heaven’s sake, why would he be sending her flowers? She was a thorn in his side, far worse than the ones still adorning Hetty’s pink roses, and he was hardly likely to be rewarding her. It had to be Chipple, except that she lived in his house, had seen his garish taste, and he couldn’t have ordered such a perfect, delicate bouquet.

And then she saw the snapdragons amidst the flowers. She opened up the sealed envelope, gingerly, as if she expected spiders to pop out. The actual note was even worse—“Dragon—let me know when you’re ready for lesson three.”

She could feel color suffuse her body, and she was a woman who had trained herself not to blush. It was the same handwriting—he knew her name after all, even if he preferred to call her that awful term. Dragons were large, fire-breathing, scaly creatures, and besides, they were the ones who endangered the maidens, weren’t they? He was getting his mythology all wrong.

If she had sense at all she’d open the windows and dump the flowers out into the garden below, so that one of Chipple’s army of servants would take care of them. But there were times when beauty overruled her senses, and flowers were one of her weaknesses. She loved the scent of spring flowers, the hint of hope and new life, and especially the soft yellows and lavenders and pinks of their petals.

She was strong enough to ignore where these came from, wasn’t she? She’d simply destroy the note so no one could see it.

Burning would be the only choice—servants tended to be curious about things, and who could blame them? But the coals had died down completely, leaving the fireplace cold.

Her shapeless brown-striped dress had no pockets, and she couldn’t leave the note lying about. She folded it carefully and tucked it between her breasts, the only secure place she could think of. Shoving her hair into a hasty knot at the back of her head, she slipped into her shoes and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Christian Montcalm kept rooms on Upper Kilgrove Street. As a single gentleman he wasn’t expected to have a town house, which was a damned good thing, because he was already six months in arrears on his rent, and only his charming smile kept him from being tossed out on the street. That and the fact that he had a plump, elderly landlady rather than a landlord, who fed him tea and cookies and treated him as an indulgent mother would treat her son.

There were times when he almost couldn’t remember his beautiful mother, a part of a different world, it seemed. All that was long in the past, a time he’d just as soon forget, since there was no returning.

He’d been born in France, which to some people might make him French. Those people would be wrong.

The Montcalms were an old, proud family. His grandfather, the Viscount Montcalm, had been the brother of a duke, and he’d been a cold, heartless old man, more concerned about the family name than the actual members of it. Christian’s own father, Godfrey, had been the younger son, with no title, and he’d made the grave error of falling in love with a Frenchwoman. Madeleine de Chambord was a great beauty, daughter of a marquis, with enough wealth that though Christian’s grandfather railed against the match he couldn’t actually stop it. When Geoffrey had chosen to make his home in France there was nothing the viscount could do about it—there was too little money left in the estate to use blackmail, and Madeleine was far wealthier than the Montcalms. The viscount had written off his younger son, and Geoffrey and Madeleine had made a very happy life in a small château in Normandy.

He was the second of five children—three boys and two girls. His older brother, Laurent, had always been a bit of a prig—he’d taken his role as eldest brother seriously, and tended to preach down to his four siblings. After Christian came Helene, and it was clear from the age of two on that she was going to rival her mother’s great beauty. Then Jacqueline, plump and freckled and so mischievous that their father would toss her in the air and call her the spawn of the devil, to which she’d reply, “Then you must be the devil,” much to the amusement of Geoffrey and Madeleine and the disapproval of Laurent.

And then there was baby Charles-Louis with golden curls, wide blue eyes and the sweetest disposition. While Laurent might have felt responsible for the rest of the children, with Christian it was his baby brother with whom he had the strongest connection. He’d had great plans—he would teach him to ride, fight, how to flirt with girls and not listen to little prigs like Laurent.

A happy family they’d been, the seven of them, with Madeleine’s elderly grandmother joining them, and various cousins coming and going in a vast, casual open house.

He should never have left. No one talked about what was going on, as if such news was distasteful, but he should have known somehow. Laurent had been sent to England to meet his disapproving grandfather when he reached the age of fourteen, and had actually met with the old man’s approval before returning to the family home. It was little wonder—they were both disapproving, self-righteous toads, young Christian had thought mutinously.

And then it had become his turn. He hadn’t wanted to leave—he knew he would hardly meet with the same kind of fellow-feeling. Laurent (or Laurence, as the viscount referred to him) was the good son, obedient, respectful. Christian was the bad one, always getting into trouble, much to his father’s amusement and his mother’s despair. She would cry over him, sometimes. He could remember that. She cried when he got into a fight with three farm boys and they’d beat him to a bloody pulp. They hadn’t looked so good afterward, but he’d refused to give their names. A peasant who laid a hand on the aristocracy was risking his life, even if he was only a child. And Christian had been ten years old and looking for a good dustup.

He did everything he could to keep from getting on the boat to England, including sneaking off one and walking all the way back to St. Matthieu while his mother wept with anxiety. It was the only time he remembered seeing his father angry with him, and the next time when they took him to the boat he stayed on it, mutinously. Not that they’d had any choice—they’d sent him with one of the burly footmen who deposited him at his grandfather’s estate in England, turned around and headed straight back to France before Christian could manage to follow him.

He hated his cold, miserable grandfather almost as much as the old man hated him. Christian was too much like his mother, the old man told him. Pretty and useless and too French. And Christian had shouted back that he was much happier being a Frenchman than a stuffy, pale, stupid Englishman with too much pride and no heart.

The viscount had backhanded him across the face. The altercation had unfortunately taken place at the top of the stairs, and Christian had fallen, breaking both his arm and leg, keeping him from returning to France when it had been originally planned.

He always blamed his grandfather. Not for the slap, not for the broken bones. But for keeping him away from France, just long enough that he couldn’t go back. The Terror was sweeping over the nation, and it even reached the peaceful beauty of the Normandy countryside.

He knew how his family died, though he didn’t like to think about it. He’d often wondered whether the guillotine would have been kinder—it was a swift death, but the long ride in the tumbrel would have filled his sisters with panic, knowing what awaited them.

And how would they manage to put a baby like Charles-Louis in such a contraption? Surely he was too small?

But burning to death in the château must have been worse. All of them, the servants, his family, his grandmother, the strong footman who’d brought him to England, the plump young housemaid who’d let him kiss her. All of them dead, while he was safe in England, doing nothing to save them.

He often wondered if the three boys who’d pummeled him had been in the crowds of blood-hungry animals. Most likely. There were rights and wrongs on both sides, he knew that. But he still hated the French with all his heart and soul, ignoring that half of him.

It was twenty years ago—he seldom thought of it anymore. He had no idea why he was thinking of it this morning. Perhaps because, despite the very Englishness of him, he couldn’t bring himself to face sirloin and ale first thing in the morning. He drank chocolate, nibbled a brioche and stared out the window at the sky that was as blue as his baby brother’s eyes.

By the time Crosby Pennington showed up at his doorstep, lamentably prompt as always despite the copious amounts of wine he imbibed, Christian was already bathed, dressed and ready to face the world, with nothing more on his mind than the far too easy challenge of Miss Hetty Chipple’s substantial portion. And the far more interesting prospect of dealing with the fire-breathing dragon.

She’d probably thrown his flowers out the window, he thought. He knew who she was now—daughter of Sir James Kempton, who’d gone through his inheritance and killed himself with his reckless riding, leaving three daughters behind. Two married, one impoverished, unmarriageable, with only an Honorable to her name.

The dragon. She’d had a season, someone told him, but she hadn’t taken. He’d probably seen her on some occasion or other, but despite her impressive height he hadn’t noticed her. But then, he seldom noticed anything but astonishing beauties, and the dragon, though possessed of a certain charm, was no diamond.

The woman wore spectacles! Astonishing—he’d never met a woman under forty who wore them. They usually squinted at the world ingenuously, preferring to exist in a blur than ruin their looks—when most of them didn’t have looks to ruin.

It wasn’t that Miss Kempton was unattractive. She had lovely gray eyes behind those intrusive spectacles, and a surprisingly delectable mouth. Her beautiful creamy skin made him think of the rest of her body, and if she was a bit too stubborn looking for most men, then they would be missing a most interesting challenge.

Something he ought to skip, as well, he reminded himself. He needed to concentrate on securing Miss Chipple’s hand in marriage and make sure the vows were said before something could put a stop to it…like her chaperon, who could see him far too well out of those soft gray eyes. She looked at him and saw the wretch that he was.

And as usual, it just made him want to behave even more wickedly.

She’d be his reward and his challenge. Once Hetty Chipple was wedded and bedded, though not necessarily in that order, then he could concentrate on the very proper Honorable Miss Annelise Kempton.

And he could find out if dragons really had claws.