Anne Stuart - The Devil's Waltz

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.

Despite the folded note that seemed determined to burn its imprint onto her breasts, Annelise faced the day with equanimity. It was a lovely day, and she had no intention of spending it indoors, any more than she was going to allow Hetty out on her own. A refreshing walk in the park along public paths would be just the thing to put roses back in the cheeks of her young charge…er…friend…

Annelise scowled. She had always been most unfortunately outspoken—her elder sister had chided her for it, her father had laughed at it. She believed in facing things head-on, in calling things what they were and not prettying things up. Which, unfortunately, was not the way things were done in society. At the advanced age of twenty-nine she’d reluctantly learned to hold her tongue, but it still chafed.

She was Hetty’s unpaid chaperon but Annelise had a job to do nevertheless, even though the details were unspoken. In return for a roof over her head, decent meals and the vague possibility of some help toward her future, she was little more than a governess shepherding her charge through the rough seas of society.

Except one didn’t shepherd anything through seas, did they? The poor sheep would drown. She laughed at the notion. There was her imagination and her tendency to dramatize going awry again, tossing her into mixed metaphors that would have done her silly younger sister proud. She was spending far too much time thinking, and not enough time acting. Fresh air would clear her addled brain and sweep away any lingering thoughts about last night.

She found Hetty in her overripe bower, reading something. She quickly shoved it out of sight, but not before Annelise could recognize the look of it. It was a French novel, of the type Annelise favored. She hid them, too, knowing the kind of contempt they garnered from the rest of the world. She wondered if Hetty’s was one she hadn’t yet read.

She wasn’t about to ask and lose her dignity completely. “I thought a walk in the park would do us both good,” she said abruptly. “We both could benefit from the exercise.”

Hetty glared at her. “I had plenty of exercise last night—I danced every dance while you sat in the corner. Take a walk by yourself.”

Annelise was torn between relief that Hetty apparently didn’t know she’d danced with Christian Montcalm and annoyance with her rudeness. Her temper won out.

“I had a very pleasant dance with a very handsome man,” she said. At least half of that wasn’t a lie. “And you need fresh air as much as I do.”

“I’ll open a window.”

“You’ll put your shoes, your hat and your cloak on and come with me, young lady,” Annelise said sternly. “Or I’ll inform your father who sent these gaudy flowers.” Blackmail had always been an effective tool.

“He probably knows,” Hetty said in a sour voice, but she moved off the chaise and reached for her discarded shoes. “And I told you, I can talk him into anything.”

“Including marrying a murderer?”

She’d said it for shock value, but to her dismay Hetty simply shrugged. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t believe he killed anyone.”

“He’s killed at least three people in a duel.”

“That’s different. Though I’m going to have to change his ways…the crown frowns on dueling and I don’t fancy having to go abroad until some scandal dies down.”

“You’re going to change him?” Annelise repeated, skeptical.

“Of course. Once he settles down I suspect he’ll be just as tame and boring as all the husbands I’ve met. Domestic life tends to have that effect.”

“So once he weds you he’ll have no more interest in gaming, dueling and mistresses?”

“Why should he?” Hetty’s blue eyes were guileless. “He’d have me.”

Annelise couldn’t argue with such dedicated self-approval, so she didn’t bother. “How pleasant,” she murmured, feeling the piece of paper burn against her skin. “But I have less faith in the redemptive powers of love.”

“That’s because you’re a spinster,” Hetty said with no real malice. “No one wanted you, so you think that true love doesn’t exist.”

“And you think Christian Montcalm loves you?”

“Of course. How could he not? I’m beautiful, lively, graceful and very rich. I’m irresistible.”