Anne Stuart - The Devil's Waltz

“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.

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.