The Devil's Waltz. Anne Stuart

he said, half to himself. “I’ve found your weak spot. And such a misguided, silly one it is.”

      Annelise opened her mouth to deliver an even more effective curse but he simply put his gloved hand against her lips, silencing her. It shouldn’t have been disturbing—the thin leather of his glove kept his skin from touching her mouth, but her stomach still knotted at the sudden memory from last night of another, much more intimate touch.

      “Never mind,” he said. “We’ll work on that later. In the meantime, what am I to do about love’s young dream down there?”

      William had put his arm around Hetty’s delicate shoulders, and their heads were resting together, and Annelise suspected they weren’t talking at all. “It’s no concern of yours.”

      “Ah, but it is. My intentions are honorable matrimony—that’s my future bride down there, behaving in-discreetly. So the question is, should I do nothing and let her tarnish her reputation, thereby making my less-than-stellar self more acceptable to her father? Or do I interfere, saving Miss Chipple from making a cake of herself, and thereby earn her father’s undying gratitude?”

      “You should go away and let me deal with it,” Annelise said crossly. “They’re young and in love but not totally lacking in morals. As some people are.”

      “By some people you mean me. Ah, Miss Kempton, you are so harsh in your judgments. And the young lovers do touch me. It will sadden me to break them apart, but I need Miss Chipple’s fortune, and I fully intend to marry her, no matter what her young man or you or even her father say.”

      “Her father could cut her off without a penny.”

      “Unlikely. He seems very indulgent, and who else would he be spending his money on? Unless you’re thinking of marrying him yourself and supplanting his daughter in his affections.”

      Annelise shuddered. “Perish the thought.”

      “Very good. You’re not as practical as I thought you were, which gives me hope.”

      “Hope for what?”

      He smiled mysteriously but didn’t answer. “Besides, it would be a terrible waste to see you married to a man like Chipple.”

      “All that money out of your reach?” Annelise suggested.

      “It isn’t the money that I’d mind.”

      “Stop it!” Annelise said, reaching her limit. “You may flirt with everything on two legs, male or female, but I’m not susceptible to your meaningless, flattering lies. You can’t charm me into supporting your pursuit of Miss Chipple. She deserves better.”

      “Perhaps,” he said, “but she’ll have me, whether she likes it or not. I will marry her—she’s too choice a prize to let escape. You, however, are another matter entirely.”

      “Well, I know it,” Annelise said unflinchingly. If he was about to catalog her deficiencies it would be nothing new to her. And she had already listed his. “But it is no concern of yours. Miss Chipple is a beautiful, wealthy heiress and I’m a very determined, strong-minded spinster who’s not going to let Hetty throw her life away on a rake and a scoundrel and a…a…degenerate.” The last insult came out a little desperately, and she had the sudden feeling she’d gone too far.

      Apparently she hadn’t. Mr. Montcalm merely smiled lazily, despite the darkness in his eyes. “And what do you know of degeneracy, Miss Kempton?”

      “Nothing at all.”

      “Then leave it to me to instruct you. Once I marry Miss Chipple I’ll have more than enough time for your education. You’d be surprised how…stimulating certain experiences can be.”

      Before she could gather her wits and reply he was gone, strolling away from her and the duck pond, most likely dismissing all thought of her. And she would have given anything if she had been able to dismiss him and his words as easily.

      7

      Miss Kempton really was the most delicious creature, Christian thought as he ambled away. He couldn’t remember meeting such a prickly, defensive, yet charmingly vulnerable woman in his life. Most of his female acquaintances were either great beauties or women of a certain…er…moral laxness, and the Honorable Miss Kempton was neither.

      He’d touched a raw spot quite accidentally when he’d been flirting with her. She seemed to have no difficulty with him calling her “dragon,” but “pretty” and “little” seemed to bring forth her rage.

      Well, in truth, she wasn’t little. At least not in height. But although her dull clothes were fairly shapeless, even the evening dress last night, he’d been able to ascertain that she was slender in the right places, full in the others.

      The fact of the matter was, he considered her pretty. Not a great beauty, as was more his usual style. He loved her eyes, even when they flashed lightning at him, and he’d been wanting to taste her mouth since he’d first seen her using it to castigate him. It had been everything he’d wanted, and if her insults hadn’t been so diverting he would have been tempted to kiss her again.

      He wanted to see her with her hair loose around her shoulders and out of those wretched clothes. He was tempted to crush the spectacles beneath his boot heel—he suspected she used them more as a defense than a tool to aid her vision. When people were truly shortsighted the glass distorted their eyes. Annelise’s eyeglasses seemed far too thin to be of much use.