Читать книгу The Devil's Waltz - Anne Stuart - Страница 9

Annelise 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 embarrassment, 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 afternoon.” 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.

She wanted to run, but at the last minute her back stiffened. She had survived many worse things than a stolen kiss on a terrace, and she would certainly survive this. First of all she must find Hetty amidst the dancers.

When she spotted her she breathed a sigh of relief. The young beauty had gone on to another unexceptional partner and was drinking in the admiration and flattery as any seventeen-year-old would.

For the moment she was safe. Annelise slipped from the ballroom to one of the retiring rooms, sinking down in front of a mirror to fiddle with her hair. The slight breeze on the terrace had loosened its strict knot, probably aided by Montcalm’s random destruction of her lace cap, and as she tried to smooth it back into submission Lavinia Worthington sank down beside her.

“You’re looking very well, Miss Kempton,” she said, eyeing her far too closely. “I’m pleased that you decided to rejoin society.”

Lavinia had always had an acid tongue, quite often used at Annelise’s expense, referring to her as the Giant, and Madame Timbertrees. Annelise tried to summon a cool smile but her mouth felt stiff, strange.

“And obviously you’re pleased, as well,” Lavinia continued without waiting for an answer. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be the kind for clandestine flirtations, but perhaps I was wrong about you.”

“Clandestine flirtations?” Oh, God, had Lavinia seen her dancing off with her former lover? The very thought made her physically ill. “Why should you think that?”

“I have eyes in my head, Annelise. I may call you that, mayn’t I? You’ve just been thoroughly kissed—any fool could see it. The reddened, slightly swollen lips, the dazed expression in your eyes. Have I missed something? Are you engaged?”

Annelise surveyed her reflection with horrified fascination. Yes, she looked well kissed. And she’d been very well kissed indeed. Not that she had a great deal to compare it to—she’d never been kissed before. Not once. Starting with someone who was undoubtedly exceedingly skilled in the art of kissing was going to make her far too difficult to please in the future.

Start and stop, she reminded herself. He only kissed her to shock and fluster her, and he wasn’t about to repeat the mistake. “I’m not engaged, Lavinia. I’m past the age of marriage—I enjoy a life of peaceful pleasures and the occasional delights of society.”

“Then who kissed you?”

It was almost too tempting to tell her, Lavinia who was still pining for Montcalm five years after he ended their relationship. But temptation was something Annelise tended to resist, and she was going to have to stiffen her resolve still further, if Montcalm continued.

“No one at all,” she said. “You’re imagining things. I’m afraid I’m not the sort to attract admirers.”

“Not even your eligible host?”

For a moment Annelise had no idea what she was talking about. And then she realized with astonishment that Lavinia was concerned she’d been kissed by Chipple, not the rakehell. She wanted to laugh in relief, but her wisdom kept her silent.

“Mr. Chipple holds absolutely no interest for me,” she said, trying to ignore the deliciously well-kissed feeling that still lingered. “Feel free to pursue him yourself, Lavinia. It was a great pleasure to see you again.” And she made her exit before Lavinia could summon another word.

After all the unfortunate tricks fate had played on her during this first day in the Chipple household, it must have decided she deserved some relief. Mr. Chipple and the relatively cheerful-looking Hetty were in sight, obviously searching for her.

“There you are, Miss Kempton,” Josiah said in a voice loud enough to be heard in several rooms. “We’ve been looking for you. Time to go home, don’t you think? My little girl needs her beauty sleep.”

Hetty didn’t look any too pleased at the notion, but she’d clearly enjoyed herself dancing so she wasn’t as ill tempered as usual. “Where did you disappear to?” she demanded. “Last I saw, you were trying to get rid of Christian.”

“And I did. I pushed him over the balcony. He should trouble you no more.”

Hetty’s china blue eyes widened in gullible horror, but Josiah simply chuckled. “She’s teasing you, puss. You’re not going to throw yourself away on the first man who offers. Come now, Hetty, get your mind back onto important things. Were there any young gentlemen who caught your fancy?”

“Perhaps this conversation could wait until we’re in the carriage,” Annelise suggested softly, all too aware of the curious stares around them.

“This conversation can wait until the Thames freezes over,” Hetty snapped. “Come along.” She swept out the door, rather like she was the teacher and Annelise the recalcitrant pupil.

In fact, there were areas where Hetty was clearly far more experienced. Areas that Annelise had no interest in exploring any further.

And Miss Hetty Chipple was going to have to learn that kissing dangerous men could lead to nothing but trouble. Any self-respecting female would never let a man take that kind of advantage of her.

Unless that self-respecting female was addled enough to go out onto a darkened terrace with a man, engage in a battle of wits and then do nothing when she was thoroughly, lengthily kissed.

Oh my God, thought Annelise. Which one of us is the real fool?

By the time Christian Montcalm and his coterie of friends found themselves walking down the street past Lady Bellwhite’s house a light mist had fallen. Crosby was complaining, as usual, and one of the others was suggesting a scenario at the Rakehells’ Club that sounded only vaguely entertaining, when Christian halted. He was wearing a short dress sword, seemingly more for show than protection, and he unsheathed it and scooped a sodden piece of fabric from the street. 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.