Praise for USA TODAY
bestselling author
ANNE STUART

“This taut romantic suspense novel from RITA® Award winner Stuart [The Widow] delivers deliciously evil baddies and the type of disturbing male protagonist that only she can transform into a convincing love interest…. Brilliant characterizations and a suitably moody ambience drive this dark tale of unlikely love.”

—Publishers Weekly on Black Ice (starred review)

“[A] sexy, edgy, exceptionally well-plotted tale.”

—Library Journal on Into the Fire

“Before I read…[a] Stuart book I make sure my day is free…once I start, she has me hooked.”

—New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber

“A master at creating chilling atmosphere with a modern touch.”

—Library Journal

ANNE STUART
THEDevil’s WALTZ

For Gackt—the most delicious

450-year-old Norwegian vampire/Japanese

rock star/Georgian rake alive today.

Exquisitely beautiful, he’s the

best inspiration around.

Arigato, Gackt-san.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

EPILOGUE

1

The Honorable Miss Annelise Kempton did not suffer fools gladly. Unfortunately it was her lot in life to suffer them far too often, and to maintain a relatively polite mien in the face of idiocy. It came from being penniless, almost thirty years old, unmarried, not a beauty and far too bright for a woman.

She’d accepted that lot long ago, with her usual lack of self-pity. Her profligate father hadn’t been able to arrange any chance of marriage, but her godmother, Lady Prentice, had managed to provide her with a season when she was seventeen. Which, as her astringent older sister, Eugenia, had pointed out, was a total waste of money, since Annelise was hardly the type to attract many suitors. Eugenia herself had refused the offer of a season, knowing her own limitations, and married a vicar in Devon, where she happily ran her household, her husband, the church and the village.

But no offers had appeared for Annelise, who was taller than most of the indolent young men of society and unfortunately blunt, and her godmother chose to sponsor her younger sister, Diana, the next time around. Diana at last had succeeded, marrying a plump, pompous widower with three children and then promptly presenting him with four more.

And Annelise stayed at home, watching her father lose everything, including, eventually, his life in a drunken riding accident.

Lady Prentice stepped in once more, but there hadn’t been much she could do. Diana would have welcomed her into her home, but Diana’s husband was a toad, the children were spoiled, and she would do nothing more than take care of the litter as it yearly increased.

Eugenia would have taken her—she was a woman who knew her duty, but two strong-minded women could hardly share the same household, and besides, Joseph’s vicarage was barely large enough for their two children and three servants. There was no room for a spinster aunt.

And the Honorable Miss Kempton could hardly work for a living in any of the posts suitable to one of a slightly lesser station. She might have been a companion or a governess, but her bloodlines went back to the Magna Carta, and no Kempton could accept money for services rendered.

They could, however, accept hospitality. And in the five years since her father’s death, Annelise had lived with the Duke and Duchess of Warwick, proving a good friend to the dying duchess and keeping news of her husband’s infidelities away from her fading eyes. Once the duchess passed away there was no place for her, and she moved to the Merediths in Yorkshire, where she spent her time entertaining a half-senile old lady, speaking French with the passably well-behaved grandchildren and growing older.

But the old lady died, as old ladies tend to do, and the children grew and had no interest in French since their countries were, as usual, at war, and once more Annelise moved on, this time to the London home of one Mr. Josiah Chipple and his exquisitely beautiful daughter, Hetty. Lady Prentice, the architect behind these living arrangements, had manufactured a lifelong friendship between Annelise’s mother and Hetty Chipple’s grandmother, ignoring the fact that one of Hetty Chipple’s grandmothers was a barmaid and the other a farm girl. Not that it mattered. No one was going to bother to check the gentle fiction, and Hetty Chipple was about to make her debut in a society that would fall upon her like a pack of wolves. She was young, she was beautiful and what she lacked in breeding and background she more than made up for in fortune. There were dozens of young men willing to overlook the smell of the shop for the needed influx of money, and that sort of thing bred itself out in a generation or two, while the sort of money Miss Chipple had could last much, much longer if carefully tended.

The first sight of the town house was not reassuring to the Honorable Miss Annelise Kempton. Chipple House had been carved into the marble plaque beside the commanding front door, and the front hallway was so littered with marble statues that one had to move very carefully to avoid knocking into one. The effect, clearly meant to be tasteful and pleasing, was instead overblown and chaotic.

She was shown into a drawing room decorated in just the wrong shade of blue, and the furniture was all very new, very shiny and very uncomfortable. She sat on the cerulean sofa, her back ramrod straight, her long, gloved hands folded in her lap, and considered taking off her glasses so as to dull the effect of the rococo trim on the walls. She glanced upward, as if seeking heavenly guidance, only to find a painted ceiling that was a far cry from the Italian masters who had perfected the art. She lowered her eyes to her lap again, looked at the gray kid gloves that lay against her gray wool skirt and sighed.

She hadn’t a vain bone in her body, but surely a new dress now and then shouldn’t be too much to ask. Except, of course, that her visitations were that of a guest, not an employee, and one could not accept anything so personal as a gift. Lady Prentice had paid for her wardrobe when her father died, mourning and demi-mourning, all of the best cloth that lasted forever and would never wear out, so Annelise went through her drab life in drab colors, and probably would until she died.

She’d considered eating huge amounts of food so that the clothes would no longer fit her, but unfortunately her constitution was such that she could never put any extra weight on her spare body. When she did, it went straight to her already full breasts, and that was not a part of her anatomy that she cared to have straining at the dull gray cloth.

She reached up and moved her spectacles up a bit. She needed them more for reading than anything else, but felt they gave her a distinguished air that went well with her narrow, plain face and severe hair. She looked like what she was: a well-bred virgin of no attraction and therefore worthy of no untoward attention.

She dropped her glasses back down on her straight nose and sighed again. A lesser woman would have relaxed her backbone, at least while no one was there, but the Honorable Miss Annelise Kempton was no such laggard. She sat, and she waited, until she heard the sound of voices and laughter from the hall beyond the closed doors.

It was late morning—prime visiting time, but she had been told—no, requested—to arrive then, and so she had. Her clothes had already been taken to a guest bedroom, and all that was needed was to meet her host and his young daughter so she could decide just how much work lay ahead of her.

It was always difficult for people to assess her position in their households. Sometimes she was put in one of the better guest rooms, other times she was put in a place little better than a maid’s room. Having had a good look at the decor in Chipple House, she was rather hoping for the latter this time around. Mr. Chipple’s propensity for bright colors would be hard to live with, and few people bothered to do more than was absolutely necessary with the rooms the servants inhabited. As long as she had her own room she would be content. She had an aversion to sharing a bed with a stranger, particularly since most people she knew didn’t share her affection for frequent bathing. It was the one thing she insisted on, and she usually got her way.

She heard the sounds of a man’s voice—low, beguiling and too quiet for her to make out the words, but the timbre of it was doubtless irresistible. Not her host. It could only be her young charge who shrieked with unseemly laughter, and there was no missing the booming jocularity of another man, one who must be her host. Josiah Chipple was a self-made man, and his origins showed in his speech. She wondered if she’d be required to work on that, as well.

She was up to any task they asked of her, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. She would smile, nod and behave herself unless pushed too far, and then Miss Chipple would marry gloriously and the Honorable Miss Annelise Kempton would move on to her next station on the road of life.

She was getting disgustingly maudlin, Annelise thought to herself, dismissing the morbid thought. She was in London, the most fascinating city in the world; she would doubtless be warm, comfortable and well fed. There would be books aplenty in this house to keep her occupied when she wasn’t making certain Miss Hetty was behaving herself. And this way she was dependent on no one’s charity, always a boon.

She could hear the heavy thud of the front door, the sounds of footsteps as they moved back toward the reception room she sat in, and she waited, half expecting to hear the crash of one of those huge statues. Instead she heard voices. Miss Hetty Chipple was not happy to have her here.

“Why do I have to do this, Father?” she asked in a plaintive tone. Even muffled through the thick doors it was not an unattractive voice, despite the faint whine. She had the proper, classless diction of a well-brought-up young lady—at least Annelise wouldn’t be charged with a sow’s ear.

The rumbling voice of her father was far less genteel. “Because I say you do, pet,” he said. “You’ll be moving into a new life, far grander than any one you’ve ever known, and there are all sorts of tricks and rules an old sea dog like me would never know. I want the best for you, Hetty, and I intend to pay for it. Besides, the Honorable Miss Kempton is doing this out of the kindness of her heart.”

“Ha!” said Miss Hetty.

“Ha!” thought Miss Kempton, grimacing. And then rose gracefully as the door opened and she caught her first glimpse of the young lady.

To call Hetty Chipple a pretty young lady would be an understatement of the grossest order. She was breathtaking, from the top of her golden curls to the slippers on her tiny feet. Her waist was tiny, her breasts were pleasing, her eyes a bright, cerulean blue (obviously her doting father had been trying to match their hue when he’d had this room painted), her mouth a Cupid’s bow. She moved into the room with a consummate grace that made the usually elegant Annelise feel awkward, and when she smiled politely she exposed perfect white teeth.

Josiah Chipple was just as she’d imagined him, a plain, no-nonsense sort of man in a plain coat of brown superfine. He had big, hamlike hands, a nose that had been broken at least once, beetling brows and a stubborn jaw. “My dear Miss Kempton!” he said with his thick, Lancashire accent. “You do honor to our poor household. We are both so sorry we kept you waiting, when you’ve been so kind as to accept our invitation. We had an unexpected visitor—”

“My future husband,” Hetty interrupted.

Her father cast her a reproving look. “Now, now, Hetty, we’re not rushing into anything. You can have your pick of almost anyone on the marriage mart—no sense jumping at the first stallion who wanders into the pasture.”

“He’s not the first—but he’s the prettiest,” Hetty said defiantly.

“We’ll see. The season has just begun. Why don’t you show Miss Kempton to her rooms? She must be exhausted from her travels.”

Annelise hadn’t had a chance to say a word yet, an unusual occurrence in her voluble life. “I came from my godmother’s,” she said, “in Kensington. It wasn’t far at all. I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Chipple.” If he wasn’t going to do the honors then she’d have to gently coax him in the right direction. “I’m so happy you’ve invited me to stay. And this must be Miss Hetty.”

“Who else would I be?” Hetty responded.

Annelise kept her smile firmly planted on her face, disguising her clenched teeth. “Indeed, and quite charming you are,” she said in dulcet tones. “But you’ll find that proper introductions tend to take up a fair amount of time in polite society. A bore, but necessary.”

Josiah Chipple beamed, unabashed at his own error. “You see, Hetty. She’ll show you just how to get on. Should have done introductions first, of course. Why don’t you two girls go on up and get Miss Kempton settled in? I’m sure you’ll have a lot in common.”

Thirteen years separated the two girls, Annelise thought, and probably the only thing they had in common was their nationality and their gender. And most young men would probably take issue with the latter. “That would be most agreeable,” she said. “I’d like to freshen up a bit.”

“I was going to go for a ride in the park,” Hetty protested.

“You can do that later. I expected Miss Kempton would enjoy a ride, as well.”

“I don’t ride,” Annelise said. It was both true and untrue. She hadn’t been on the back of a horse since her father had been thrown to his death, and she had no intention of ever doing so again.

Josiah frowned. “You don’t ride?” he echoed. “You’ll have to learn. We’ll see to it, won’t we, Hetty?”

“I don’t see why we should bother. She’s not going to be here that long and I can go riding with one of the stable hands.”

Rude, as well, Annelise thought. “I appreciate the kindness,” she said, gently directing that sentiment toward Josiah, “but I have a fear of horses and I’ve never been able to overcome it.” That was an out-and-out lie. She still loved them, even the black stallion who’d thrown her father. It hadn’t been his fault—he’d carried her father a hundred times when he was that drunk. But in the end his luck had run out.

“Miss Hetty and I can go for a walk in the park later,” she added. “In the meantime I would love the chance to improve our acquaintance.”

It was going to need some improving. Miss Hetty was about to open that perfect mouth of hers to argue some more, when her father spoke.

“Go upstairs with Miss Kempton, Hetty,” he said, and there was a note of steel beneath the rough voice. One that his daughter was wise enough not to disobey.

She flounced out of the room, not even bothering to glance over her pretty little shoulder to see if Annelise was following her.

“She’s a high-spirited filly,” Mr. Chipple said fondly, “but she’s a good lass. I’m sure the two of you will be best friends in no time.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Annelise said faintly, and started after the obstreperous young creature.

Indeed, it was a shame she was too well bred to earn a living, Annelise thought as she slowly climbed the wide marble stairs. Hetty was waiting at the top of the flight, tapping her tiny foot impatiently, and Annelise had the fleeting notion that the little brat might try to shove her back down those stairs.

If she tried, she’d be going with her, she thought grimly. She reached the landing and gave the girl her coolest smile. The chit came only to her shoulders—making Annelise feel like a hulking giant.

Hetty looked up at her with her wide blue eyes. “My, you are a big one, aren’t you?”

Hetty’s comment had the opposite effect from what she’d intended. At least the girl was smart enough to know where to twist the knife. Very few people knew she was self-conscious about her height, but Hetty had homed in on it immediately. She was going to be a worthy challenge.

“Quite large, in fact,” Annelise said briefly. “But I trust you have enough sense not to make personal remarks to strangers. I’m more than aware that you are none too happy with my arrival, and plan to demonstrate just that in any way you can. However, in polite society one does not comment on another’s physical attributes. A general compliment usually suffices.”

Hetty stared at her. “I don’t have to be polite to you. You’re a mere hireling.”

“In fact, I am not. People of my station do not work for a living. I am merely helping out as a favor to my godmother. I consider you my charity work.”

Hetty blinked, and Annelise wisely moved farther from the treacherous marble staircase. “You dare…” Hetty sputtered.

“My dear child, I am the Honorable Miss Annelise Kempton, daughter of a baronet, granddaughter of an earl, with my family’s name emblazoned in the Domes-day Book long before anyone in your family learned to read. I would suggest you consider carefully what youdare. I don’t expect your father would be pleased to hear that you insulted your guest. He went to a great deal of trouble to arrange this visit.”

Hetty’s lower lip trembled, and Annelise remembered that for all her arrogance, Hetty was just seventeen, and far less sure of herself than she appeared.

“Pax,” she said gently. “I only want to be of assistance, and I promise you I’m neither a governess nor an ogre. My task is to help you attract the right sort of attention, secure the marriage you deserve. Your fortune is astonishing, particularly considering you are your father’s only heir, and of course it’s unentailed. Beyond that, you know perfectly well that you are very pretty.”

Hetty was rousing herself to fight back. “I’m not pretty, I’m beautiful! One of the greatest beauties of all time, better than the Gunning sisters, better than—”

“You don’t need to be more beautiful than the Gunning sisters—they had no money to lure a well-bred husband. With your face and your circumstances you should do very well indeed, once I’ve given you a little polish.”

“I don’t need—”

“Even a rare diamond needs a bit of polish,” Annelise said firmly. “Now show me to my room and you can tell me about the young men you’ve met, who might be a good prospect. I don’t need to ask who has fallen at your feet—I’m certain they all have. But you can afford to be very picky when it comes to a mate. He needn’t have money, but your father would prefer a title, and he must be of good character.”

“I’ve already chosen,” Miss Hetty said firmly. “And no one is going to tell me I can’t have him!”

That was what she’d heard them arguing about earlier, she thought. “Has the gentleman made known his intentions?”

“He doesn’t need to. You said it yourself, every man in London is at my feet. I can choose whomever I please, and I choose him.”

“And who, exactly, is this paragon who has captured your heart?” she inquired, following her charge down the wide, unfortunately-papered hallway until they came to a bedroom door. Hetty flung it open with a dramatic gesture that was entirely wasted, since there was nothing dramatic about the large room she was being offered.

“He’s a viscount,” Hetty said. “Or at least he will be once his uncle dies. And he doesn’t have a penny, but he does very well at cards. Besides, I’ll have enough money for the both of us.”

“True enough.”

“And he’s absolutely beautiful. I deserve a beautiful husband, do I not?”

“There is no reason why you shouldn’t have one,” Annelise replied, wondering how she was going to broach the possibility that extremely beautiful men were often not particularly interested in women.

“So I’ll have him.”

“Who?”

“Christian Montcalm.”

And if Annelise had been the type to swoon, she would be flat on the garish carpet at that very moment, dead to the world.

Fortunately Annelise had never swooned in her life, so she simply shut the door, leaned back against it to look at the defiant Miss Hetty and said, “No.”

2

“I beg your pardon?” Miss Hetty said in a frosty voice that would have done Annelise justice.

“Christian Montcalm is out of the question. His reputation is notorious, and he is no sort of match for an innocent young girl like yourself,” she said. “I know he’s a very handsome man—I’ve seen him. He’s also a shallow, degenerate wastrel, a gambler, a seducer, a charlatan, and if even half the stories that are spread about him are true then you’d be better off dead than married to such a depraved monster.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—he’s not a monster at all. He’s absolutely charming.”

“That’s what’s so dangerous about him,” Annelise said grimly. “His face and his charm lure people into trusting him. Much to their misfortune.”

“What in the world did he ever do to you?” Hetty demanded.

“Not a thing,” Annelise replied truthfully. “We have never been formally introduced, and I hope never to be. He’s a man who doesn’t belong in the kind of circles your father aspires to. I’m astonished he would even countenance such a match…”

“Oh, he says I can’t have him,” Hetty said airily, tossing herself onto the damask-covered bed with a total lack of decorum. “But I know my father. I’m his only child—of course he’ll want me to be happy, as long as I manage to secure someone with a title. If I want to marry Christian Montcalm then I shall. After all, I’d be a viscountess—not quite as nice as a duchess but all the dukes I’ve met have been old and ugly. Besides, I expect all Christian needs is the love of a good woman.”

Annelise laughed. “I’m afraid Mr. Montcalm has availed himself of the love of a great many good women, leaving them the worse for it. You’ll find someone else just as charming and far less dangerous.”

The moment the word was out of her mouth she could have bit her tongue. Dangerous. What impressionable, romantic, headstrong young girl wouldn’t be fascinated by a dangerous man? Annelise had never been that young or that stupid, but Hetty Chipple was ripe for trouble, and clearly she was not going to be listening to common sense for the time being.

She would just have to make certain Hetty wasn’t in Montcalm’s company until she came up with a suitable alternative to distract her. Girls Hetty’s age fell in and out of love quite easily. London society was certain to be able to produce at least one attractive contender to distract her from Montcalm’s dubious charms.

A demure expression crossed Hetty’s lovely face. “I suppose you’re right,” she said with a soulful sigh that Annelise didn’t believe for a moment. “I’ll just leave you to get settled in, shall I? I need a bit of a rest myself—have to be beautiful for tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“We’re going to Lady Bellwhite’s. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

“I’ve always enjoyed her gardens,” said Annelise, remembering the opportunities for mischief that ran rampant in the place. “I’m certain I’ll appreciate it even more with your company.”

Hetty almost made a face but she stopped herself in time, clearly remembering that she was trying another tack with her unwanted friend. “I shall, as well,” she said sweetly.

Annelise waited until the door closed behind her to sit down on the now-rumpled bed. It was a good, solid mattress—at least there were some advantages that money could buy. She pulled off her bonnet and set it down beside her, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror.

Having spent the better part of an hour staring at the perfection of Hetty Chipple, the vision was even more disheartening.

She glanced down at her feet. It was really unfair that she be cursed with big feet, particularly when compared to Hetty’s tiny ones. Of course, her feet were in proportion to her ridiculously long legs, but even so, fate could have been kind enough to make at least something out of proportion.

But fate had been busy elsewhere. She had long legs, long arms, a long neck and a long face. She knew her physical attributes far too well—she had fine gray eyes, but they were usually covered by her spectacles. Her hair was an indeterminate shade—a mixture of brown, blond and red hues, and the only thing she could do was pin it tightly to the base of her neck and hope no one would notice its odd color. At one point she’d tried to wear lace caps to further disguise it, which also had the benefit of proclaiming her old-maid status, but the caps tended to flap in her face and itch, or catch on the rims of her spectacles, and she’d given them up regretfully.

The cut of the dress was suitably shapeless, disguising her small waist as well as her large chest. Indeed, she wouldn’t attract attention from anyone, which was just as she wanted it…Unlike Hetty Chipple, who would draw trouble to her like a magnet.

On impulse Annelise stood up and went to the window, looking across at the rambling downs of Green Park. In time to see Miss Chipple, totally without chaperon, disappear into the shrubbery.

Annelise didn’t waste time with her hat. She raced out the door, grabbed the first maid she saw and tore down the steep marble stairs and into the street, dragging the poor girl behind her. Fortunately Josiah Chipple was nowhere to be seen. While Annelise was there as a favor to the shipping magnate, she still had a strong sense of responsibility, and letting a young girl run through a park unchaperoned was not going to happen while she was a member of the household.

It was a cool day, and there were doubtless strange looks being cast their way, but Annelise was too determined to catch Hetty before she caused a complete scandal to even notice. She plunged into the bushes where she’d last seen Hetty, dragging the hapless maid with her.

She could see Hetty up ahead, alone, seemingly waiting for someone in the shelter of one of the overgrown bushes. There was no doubt who she was waiting for, and no doubt that Annelise would have to move fast.

She sped up, just as Hetty started to step through a narrow break in the hedge, and caught her by the back of her gown, hauling her backward.

Hetty was too astonished to let out more than a little squeak, but when she saw who’d grabbed her, her bright blue eyes filled with a murderous rage.

“You!” she said, her voice rich with bile. “Leave me alone.”

There was one advantage to being almost a foot taller than Hetty—they were no even match. Annelise turned her around and shoved her at the maid. “Get back to the house, now!” she said. “And perhaps I won’t tell your father that you’re out to ruin all his careful plans.”

Hetty opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. So there was something that still had power over Hetty. “I’ll never forgive you for this!” she hissed, and then flounced off, the maid rushing to keep up with her.

Annelise stood there in the chilly air, watching the pair of them, and she sighed. Challenges were all well and good, but her godmother had failed to tell her what a handful the girl was going to be. She might have to go to Mr. Chipple with her concerns, but not before she tried to talk Hetty out of her infatuation. Chipple might not know of the depth of Montcalm’s depravity—he wouldn’t have traveled in circles where Montcalm’s unsavory reputation was bandied about, but Annelise had heard more than enough tales of the absolute perfidy—

“I take it that’s Miss Chipple being dragged away?” a voice, rich with amusement, sounded in her ear. It was a warm voice, the same voice she’d heard earlier at the Chipples’, but Annelise froze. She considered her options. She could ignore the voice, follow the two women and never look back. Or she could turn and face the cause of all this trouble and put him in his place.

She had never been a coward and she wasn’t about to start now. Even though some small, sneaking part of her felt like someone turning to face a Gorgon, she knew perfectly well she wasn’t going to be turned to stone, or a pillar of salt, or anything at all. But when she turned, she felt herself stiffen like one of Chipple’s marble statues.

She had never been so close to him before. Her previous acquaintance, such as it was, had been across crowded ballroom floors, where she’d heard whispers about the women he danced with, the women he flirted with. She was well out of her league with someone like Christian Montcalm, and he would have been totally unaware of her existence—just another awkward wallflower. She had watched him, fascinated, and told herself “pretty is as pretty does” with a deprecating sniff.

But, oh my heavens, he was pretty! His dark hair was long, tied back simply, but one lock fell forward to caress his high cheekbone. She’d always had a weakness for well-defined cheekbones. His faintly tilted eyes were a deep, fascinating green—she’d never been close enough to see them before, but they held a hint of laughter that was undeniably appealing. And his mouth, his lips…It was no wonder he seduced every woman he met, talking them into doing unspeakable things. His rich, full mouth alone could seduce a nun.

And he was taller than she was. She’d expected he probably would be, since he towered over most of his dance partners, but that his height made her feel suddenly delicate was simply one more unfortunate circumstance. The man was well-nigh irresistible, particularly as he looked at her steadily out of those laughing eyes.

But Annelise was made of sterner stuff than that. She swallowed, then found her voice, grateful that it came out calm and cool. “That was Miss Chipple,” she said. “And she had no business being out here meeting a gentleman without a chaperon. Though no gentleman would have ever agreed to such a meeting in the first place.”

He appeared unruffled. “And what business is that of yours? Hetty didn’t mention she had an ogre spying on her every move. I would have been more discreet.”

“I doubt you know what discretion is,” she said. “—and I’m a friend of the family, keeping her company while she makes her debut.”

“No, you’re not,” he said, tilting his head to survey her more closely. “The Chipples know very few members of society as yet, and you’re clearly not of their world. You’re not a governess—you’re not meek enough. If I guess right, you’re a woman of breeding who’s fallen on hard times. So exactly who are you?”

A number of retorts came to her, most of them originating from the stable. She had learned a very colorful vocabulary of curses from her father’s stable lads, but she tried to keep them to herself. It was a cold spring day, but he was radiating heat, and those exotic eyes of his were very…disturbing.

“I’m someone who is going to make your designs on Miss Chipple impossible to carry out,” she said. “So cast your lures elsewhere.”

He laughed. Like everything about him, his laugh was enticing. “That sounds like a challenge. And a gentleman never resists a challenge.”

“But I thought we’d already ascertained that you’re no gentleman.”

He didn’t even blink after so heinous an insult. “I’d kill a man for saying that,” he said mildly.

“Then it’s fortunate for me that you have some standards, despite all rumors to the contrary. Goodbye, Mr. Montcalm.”

Another figure stumbled through the bushes, this time a shorter, slender man, with his hair askew and a faintly bleary expression on his face that signaled either dim wit or too much wine at such an early hour. Annelise didn’t care to find out.

“Who’s this Long Meg, Christian?” the man demanded. “And where’s the pretty little chit? I was going to keep watch for you but demme, I think I’d prefer to go inside and get something to warm me up.”

“Go right ahead, Crosby,” Montcalm murmured without moving his gaze from Annelise’s. “I still have some business to conduct.”

“Not with her, old man!” Crosby protested. “The woman’s a dragon. And a bit long in the tooth. Not your type at all.”

“I’m open to all possibilities,” Montcalm murmured in a silken voice. “She’s not that old, and if I can get her to remove those spectacles she might be quite entertaining.”

“There’ll be no getting beneath her skirts, old man. I know the type—too starched to even bend at the waist.”

Annelise had had enough. Bravery was all very well and good but standing so close to Christian Montcalm and listening to his friend insult her was more than she cared to endure.

“Good day, gentlemen,” she said, letting a lingering, ironic emphasis on the word gentlemen make her point. It sailed straight past Crosby, but Montcalm simply laughed that dangerously seductive laugh.

“You may be sure we’ll meet again, dragon,” he said, and for some reason the term sounded more affectionate than insulting. No wonder the man was so dangerous—even she was not totally impervious to his wicked charm.

“I doubt it.” She wheeled around and took off, back stiff, shoulders straight, as dignified as she could manage, being outside without a coat or a hat. She wouldn’t look back—they were probably laughing at her—and she wouldn’t run. Though it would take forever, she would walk back up the hill to the street and across to the Chipple mansion; she would not let him see that for the first time in what seemed like years, she was unaccountably close to tears.

“Bastard,” she muttered under her breath, liking the sound of the curse. “Goddamned rutting bastard.” Even better. Now she was feeling better. The tears had vanished, the house was in sight, and the next time they met she’d be better prepared.

But she was going to make every effort to ensure that there was not going to be a next time.

“Who the hell was that?” Crosby demanded. “You told me you were meeting the heiress.”

Christian Montcalm turned to look down at his slightly inebriated friend. Crosby had never been the most reliable of his cronies, but then, Christian didn’t tend to consort with reliable people. “The dragon got in the way. Don’t worry—there’ll be other chances.”

“You’re the one who should be worried. If you don’t come up with some money soon you’ll be in the river tick.”

“Nonsense.” He shoved the loose strand of hair away from his face. “There’ll be cards tonight, and I can make more than enough to tide me over until the engagement can be announced.”

“But you can’t always count on the cards, old man. They don’t always fall your way.”

Christian smiled. He wasn’t about to point out to Crosby that not only was he absurdly lucky when it came to cards, he was also skilled and unscrupulous enough to do something about it if the cards misbehaved. “I don’t expect to have any problem.” He turned his gaze back to the tall figure of the woman marching away from them. She was almost out of sight, which was a pity. She was really quite diverting—more interesting than the tiresome beauty was. His conversation with Miss Chipple, when he wasn’t stopping her mouth with temptingly chaste kisses, consisted of an unending line of compliments. For such a beauty she demanded constant reminders that she was, indeed, unmatchable. It was very tedious.

The dragon was far more interesting. True, she was no young maiden, but he’d had mistresses far older than she and enjoyed them tremendously. She couldn’t be much more than thirty, making her younger than he was, a thought that amused him. She spoke to him like a maiden aunt, scolding a naughty boy.

Ah, but he was a naughty boy. And he had every intention of becoming a great deal naughtier. And the dragon was just the sort of woman he could make mischief with.

He wouldn’t, of course. He was a pragmatic man, and he’d set his sights quite clearly on Miss Hetty Chipple, the underbred, over-rich, delectable morsel who’d just been snatched from him. Marriage to a compliant young heiress was just the thing to smooth his way for the time being, and even if Hetty seemed to have a mind of her own he had little doubt that he could control her. He had enough tricks up his sleeve to keep her docile and well behaved—sex always had the most interesting effect on virgins, and there were any number of ways he could manage to throw her off balance. And it would be most pleasant, given that trim little body of hers.

Then, when she grew tiresome, as they always did, he could further his acquaintance with the dragon, which he suspected would be far more interesting and a much greater challenge.

How would she look without her spectacles? How would she look without her clothes? She would have long legs to wrap around him, and he was connoisseur enough to see that despite her general skinniness she had a decent bosom. Yes, she’d strip quite nicely.

As soon as he could talk her into it.

But first things first. “We’ll go play cards, Crosby,” he said pleasantly. “And then perhaps I’ll decide to attend Lady Bellwhite’s soiree so I can further my suit.”

“With the heiress? Or the dragon?”

Christian glanced down at him. Crosby was never the brightest of men, but every now and then he was surprisingly astute. Or perhaps Christian had been too transparent. No, that was impossible. He’d spent years perfecting his charming, impassive facade.

“How well do you know me, Crosby?”

“Well enough.”

“Then you know I am, in all things, a practical man. Miss Chipple will become the future Viscountess Montcalm, and if the dragon gets tumbled somewhere along the way, then so much the better.”

“You’re an inspiration,” Crosby said fervently.

“Indeed,” Montcalm murmured as the dragon disappeared from sight. “I know.”

3

The last thing Annelise was in the mood for was a formal soiree at Lady Bellwhite’s, particularly after her unpleasant encounter in the park. Hetty was nowhere to be seen when Annelise returned to the house, and even the maid had disappeared. At that point she didn’t know which room belonged to her young charge, and she had no intention of asking. She’d been busy enough for one morning. Presumably Hetty had locked herself in her room, sulking. If she’d managed to slip out the back way and go off chasing after Montcalm again, so be it. For the time being she was on her own.

Lady Prentice had been less enthusiastic about this little visit than she had the previous ones. “I don’t like sending you to someone who smells of the shop,” she’d said archly, “but Mr. Chipple has so much money it could sweeten even the rankest odor. He seems a pleasant enough man, and while his daughter is undoubtedly pert and ill mannered, I have every confidence that you can help marry her off to someone suitable, thereby putting yourself in Mr. Chipple’s debt. He’s known to be a generous man when someone does him a boon, and if you’re able to turn his daughter into a titled young lady he might be persuaded to secure a small income for you. It would mean nothing to a man like him, and while living in London would be ruinously expensive, you’ve always said you prefer the countryside, and his generosity might even run to a small cottage on one of his holdings.” She shook her head briskly. “Heaven knows, I’d love to have you here with me, but I can barely scrape by with the little portion I have left. These men of ours, dear Annelise. Gambling ruinously, leaving their women bereft of both a man’s protection and the security of a comfortable income. Your father should have been horsewhipped.”

“I imagine he was, on occasion,” Annelise had replied, not bothering to rise to her father’s defense. She had loved him dearly, but there was nothing she could say that would make his misbehavior acceptable. Particularly when it ended in his death. “And I won’t count on anything until it happens. I may not be able to assist Mr. Chipple in his paternal endeavors.”

“Oh, I am certain you can. I have no idea what happened to the girl’s mother, but apparently there’s been no sensible female presence in her life for many years. You can fill that gap, explain to her the little details of society that are so terribly important, and who knows, you might end up getting Chipple to marry you. I could wish better for you, but the money covers a lot of drawbacks.”

“I have no intention of marrying, Lady Prentice,” she’d replied, scarcely hiding her shudder. “I don’t care how much money he has.”

“He’ll doubtless be knighted before long. Maybe even a higher rank. Money like that can buy a lot of favor from the crown.”

“No, thank you.”

“Just a thought, my dear,” Lady Prentice had said, signaling for the maid to remove the tea tray. “Keep it in the back of your mind.”

The memory of that conversation was almost enough to make Annelise pack her bags and walk straight out of the house. She could take shelter with her sisters for at least a short period of time, and the day had gone from bad to worse. All the money in the world wouldn’t make Josiah Chipple an appealing husband, Hetty was a brat, and as for her unsettling encounter with Christian Montcalm…

She could hope that was the only time she’d have to deal with him, but she was far too practical to entertain such a thought. He had his avaricious eyes set on Hetty, and he wasn’t going to give up without a fight. One she was entirely ready to offer him.

No, if she left this garish house and its spoiled mistress it would be tantamount to handing her over to the man. A dedicated wastrel could go through even the most extraordinary sum of money, and all reports concluded that Montcalm was dedicated indeed. When he’d used up Miss Chipple’s money and her beauty he’d have no choice but to move on to another conquest. He’d have the hindrance of a wife, tucked away in some country estate to interfere with his fortune hunting. But there were things that could be done about that, accidents that could be arranged, and she wouldn’t put anything past the man with the cool, laughing eyes.

“Enough, Annelise!” she said out loud. She was a practical woman, full of common sense, accepting of her lot in life and embracing it without complaint. Her one failing was an excess of imagination. Few people knew she read lurid novels whenever she was alone or that she could embroider the most fantastic tales about total strangers in a matter of moments simply for her own amusement. At least she had the sense to know it was only a fantasy. Christian Montcalm might be a fortune hunter and a scoundrel, but that didn’t make him a murderer.

She was blowing things out of proportion again, she reminded herself. There would be more than enough handsome young men at Lady Bellwhite’s this evening, and with any luck at all Hetty would turn her sights elsewhere.

Or at least one could hope.

Annelise dressed for dinner in one of her two best gowns. It was black, of course, and very simple. The advantage to that was she could make it appear as if she had a veritable wardrobe, simply by the addition of lace and shawls and other gewgaws. The neckline was un-fashionably high, and she could only be grateful for the extra coverage, the skirt narrow, and the waist loose enough that she could dress herself without needing a maid to lace her. Lady Prentice had been very practical when she had seen to Annelise’s wardrobe. If only the clothes weren’t so drab. But it had already been decided by the world in general that Annelise would never marry, and why waste money on flattering clothes when they still wouldn’t be enough to attract a mate?

She joined Josiah and the rebellious Hetty in the library before dinner. Hetty was sitting by the fire, dressed in a perfect concoction of pink lace, and she tried to ignore Annelise’s arrival, staring into the flames with fierce concentration.

“You look lovely tonight, Miss Kempton,” Josiah said in his booming voice, and Annelise was uncomfortably aware of her godmother’s matchmaking maneuvers. “Where are your manners, girl?” he demanded of Hetty. “Say good evening to Miss Kempton!”

“Good evening,” Hetty muttered, still staring at the fire.

“And has my daughter been behaving herself? She’s a bit headstrong, you know, and she thinks she knows what’s best for her. I’m counting on you to keep an eye on her for me, make sure she meets the right kind of young gentlemen. I don’t much care whether they’ve a fortune or not—I’ve more than enough money to keep my Hetty in style for the rest of her life, including whoever she chooses to marry. But she’ll be wanting a title, don’t you know, and I expect she’ll insist on someone young and handsome. She’s too flighty to recognize the worth of an older, more established gentleman. I’m sure you’re not so unwise,” he said with a knowing look that was far too familiar.

Oh, God, he was flirting with her, Annelise thought. She managed her best smile. “Oh, a girl with Miss Hetty’s qualities can certainly expect to find someone of a compatible age and nature. In truth, I think she’d be best off with someone closer to her own age, perhaps in his early twenties.” A good ten years younger than Christian Montcalm.

Neither of the Chipples looked pleased with that statement, though oddly enough Hetty seemed less disturbed than her father.

“She’s marrying a title, and that’s all there is to it,” Josiah said flatly, and there was an ugly expression around his mouth that Annelise didn’t quite like. “She’s had enough of country living and local squires. She needs some town bronze, and then she can have her pick of anyone I deem suitable. She’s moved way past childhood friends.”

Who’d said anything about childhood friends? Hetty’s pretty little mouth turned downward, but still she said nothing. So there was yet another unsuitable suitor in her life. Clearly someone young and rural had once caught her eye, and she hadn’t yet dismissed him entirely.

Anyone would be better than a life with Montcalm and his cronies. She needed to find out more about this childhood suitor to see whether he might be a perfectly reasonable choice.

At least it showed that Hetty could be easily distracted. If she’d set her eyes on the exotic Christian Montcalm so quickly, then she could be gently urged in another direction without too much difficulty.

“If you’re talking about William I assure you I’ve completely forgotten him,” Hetty grumbled. “I’m much more interested in Christian Montcalm.”

“I’m not certain I like you seeing him, missy,” Josiah said. “I’ve heard rumors that he’s not quite the gentleman he should be, and I expect you can do better. Perhaps we don’t have to aim as high as a viscountcy…”

“Titles are overvalued anyway,” Hetty said with a suddenly hopeful look in her blue eyes that Annelise found interesting.

“Not to me,” Josiah said flatly. “And if we don’t go to dinner soon we’ll be late for Lady Bellwhite’s. I had to go to a great deal of trouble to get us an invitation, and it wouldn’t do to arrive late.”

“Actually,” Annelise said gently, “it would be even worse form to arrive early. About an hour after the event is scheduled to begin is usually the optimum time to arrive. That way a great many people are already there to appreciate the lovely entrance your daughter makes, and yet it won’t seem careless or rude.”

“Not everyone follows your silly rules. Christian Montcalm often shows up at the very end of the evening,” Hetty said.

Annelise smiled faintly. “My point exactly.”

“Then we’ll arrive precisely at ten o’clock,” Mr. Chipple announced.

“And leave before the very end of the evening,” Annelise added, only to catch Hetty’s glare.

“And I’ll be a lucky man, squiring two such pretty ladies,” Josiah said gallantly.

The sound Hetty made was almost a snort, but her father had already started toward the door. He paused to confer with the butler, and Hetty sidled up to Annelise. “You didn’t tell him about the park, did you?”

“No.”

“Are you planning to?”

“Not at this moment. I’m certain you saw the error of your ways. A young lady’s reputation is of paramount importance.”

“You are such an old maid!” Hetty said. “Do you spend your entire life lecturing? Don’t you get tired of it?”

Indeed, she did. There was nothing more tedious than pointing out social lapses to a spoiled little girl, and lecturing always suggested an air of superiority, which Annelise never felt she could quite carry off. “I’m here to help,” she said stiffly.

“And besides, my reputation doesn’t matter. It’ll be gone to the devil when I marry Christian Montcalm anyway,” she said cheerfully.

“Your language, missy!” Josiah Chipple rumbled, with sharper ears than Annelise would have thought.

“Yes, Father.” And she stuck out her tongue at Annelise as she sailed by, making her feel very old and tiresome indeed.

Josiah was a man of his word—they arrived at Lady Bellwhite’s town house at precisely ten o’clock in the evening. The street was already crowded with carriages, the noise and the music from the elegant little mansion spilled out into the streets, and Annelise groaned at the thought of another crowd. At least there’d be suitors, she told herself, already less than enamored of this particular visit.

And she was right. By the time they reached the ballroom they’d passed by three rather weedy young men, four elderly widowers, an earl with a weak heart and a bad reputation, and a bevy of other possible contenders for Hetty’s delicate hand. And no Christian Montcalm, to Annelise’s relief.

At the last minute Annelise had donned one of her discarded lace caps. It flapped down around her face, and while it was irritating, at least it gave her a dubious sense of protection. A woman in a lace cap was proclaiming that she was beyond the age of marriage and that the only gentleman importunate enough to ask her to dance was Mr. Chipple.

He was easy enough to dissuade and Annelise settled back in her corner amidst the chaperons and widows, gossiping pleasantly as she sipped the glass of punch Mr. Chipple had thoughtfully provided before disappearing in the direction of the card tables.

She wasn’t quite sure what to make of the man. Chipple looked relieved when she refused his offer of a dance, but the delivery of the punch was a courtesy that was a bit too marked. If he started getting romantic notions she would have to abandon Hetty to her fate after all.

But then, half the women there seemed to have a great interest in the bluff Josiah. As Lady Prentice had said, money would perfume the stink of the shop quite effectively, and there were any number of widowed ladies casting curious eyes in Chipple’s direction. He seemed unaware of it, but once the ladies knew that Annelise was a part of his household, at least for the time being, she was besieged with questions.

Annelise nodded and murmured agreement and passed on whatever encouraging information she could think of. Yes, she’d answered numerous times, he was a most devoted father. Yes, his house by Green Park was quite large. No, he’d been widowed for a great many years, she believed, and had yet to choose a new wife. Yes, perhaps London was just the place for both Chipples to form new attachments. Shipping, was it? Not as bad as it could be. Really, shipping was quite a respectable trade, if one must have a trade, and he did carry himself quite well, didn’t he?

There were at least half a dozen women there, no more than ten years older than she was, who would love to provide Josiah a new wife. He might even marry a title himself, though of course he wouldn’t benefit financially from it. But he could say, “my wife, Lady Ermintrude,” with great pride.

Clearly she needed to match make for the both of them. His gratitude should be boundless if he managed to secure his own happiness, as well, and perhaps she might end up with that tiny cottage and a genteel income to call her own after all. Anything was possible.

“You haven’t seen Christian Montcalm, have you?”

The conversation wasn’t addressed to her, and she pretended to ignore it, but the sound of his name had her immediate attention.

“You think he’d dare show his face here?” another voice replied. “Surely not after that escapade with Lord Morton’s wife!”

“Morton has taken her to the continent until the scandal dies down,” the first woman said. “As for Montcalm, he sold his soul to the devil years ago. This latest scandal will make little difference, I expect.”

“No, indeed,” said the second woman, fanning herself vigorously. “We can only be thankful he is unlikely to try to show his face here tonight. If he does I think I might be tempted to give him the cut direct.”

The first woman laughed. “No, you wouldn’t, Lavinia. All he’d have to do is smile at you and you’d be at his feet. You should never have gotten involved with him in the first place. It was more than five years ago and you’ve yet to look at another man.”

Annelise could stand it no longer. She turned to glance at the women. She recognized Lavinia Worthington. She was the same age as Annelise’s older sister, but she’d aged far better. She was widowed several years ago, if she remembered correctly, and hadn’t yet doffed her widows’ weeds. Maybe she had the same financial problems Annelise did. Or maybe she just knew how stunning she was in black. The diamond necklace around her elegant neck was worth a hundred black dresses.

“I’m more than ready to look at another man. I think Mr. Chipple might suit me very well.”

“You wouldn’t!” her companion sputtered.

“I would,” said Lavinia. “You’re right—Christian has ruined me for anyone else. The things he does in bed are beyond sinful and so wickedly delicious that you’d want to die with pleasure. I’m not going to get that again, so I might at least settle for a comfortable amount of money.”

“More than comfortable, if what I hear is true,” the first woman said. “But take a glance across the room if you think you can really do it.”

Annelise turned her head, to follow their gaze, only to see Christian Montcalm, a vision in satin, holding Hetty’s hand in preparation for the next dance.

4

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.

5

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.

6

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.”

There was the trace of something in Hetty’s voice that made Annelise listen a little closer. She kept underestimating the girl’s intelligence—there was a note of cynicism in her voice that she wouldn’t have wanted anyone to recognize. For some reason Annelise wanted to reassure her, but she resisted the impulse. Hetty might know her main allure was her dowry, but she had little doubt as to her own beauty, and that kept her very happy indeed.

It was a lovely day, just a bit cool, but the sky was bright blue and the park was crowded with strollers and riders. Annelise kept a wary eye out for a certain exceedingly tall gentleman, but he was mercifully absent. Besides, what was the likelihood of him appearing in the park at just the moment she brought her reluctant charge outside? He was hardly the type to lie in wait without a good idea that his efforts would be rewarded, and Hetty had had no interest in walking in the park.

They walked along the path in a surprisingly companionable silence. She should have spent the time with an improving lesson on sedate behavior when dancing, but then, given her own behavior last night, she was hardly the one to talk. Except that the trouble had begun when they’d stopped dancing.

Thank God Hetty hadn’t seen her, she thought once more.

Annelise was so lost in her disturbing thoughts that she wasn’t even aware of the voice. Only that Hetty had frozen in place with an unreadable reaction on her usually expressive face.

“Hetty! Miss Chipple!” A young man was calling her name, ignoring the neat pathways and moving toward them across the carefully manicured lawns. Annelise couldn’t remember that voice from the night before, nor could she see him clearly. She pushed her spectacles up to her forehead and was able to focus on him as he hurried toward them. A perfect stranger wearing country clothes, his hair too long, his face too unguarded for anyone who’d spent time in town.

“Miss Chipple!” he called again, but the two of them had stopped, waiting for his approach, and he sped up, until he reached them, breathless.

To Annelise’s astonishment the boy had manners. “I beg pardon, miss,” he addressed her first. “I’m an old friend of Miss Chipple’s, and my enthusiasm got the better of me. If you’d allow me to introduce myself I’d be most grateful.”

Hetty was standing painfully still, her expression still unreadable, and Annelise nodded her permission, more curious than anything else. Who or what would turn Hetty into a white-faced, stone statue?

“I’m William Dickinson,” the young man said. “An old friend of the Chipples. We grew up together, Hetty and I.”

It was more than that, as any fool could see. Hetty finally broke her frozen pose. “What are you doing here, Will?” she asked unhappily. “You know we weren’t supposed to see each other.”

Hetty wasn’t supposed to see Christian Montcalm, as Annelise was tempted to point out, but she was much too fascinated with the drama going on in front of her.

“Can’t an old friend check to see how another old friend is doing? I just happened to come up to London…”

“Just happened? You hate London. You hate cities, you told me. You want nothing more than to spend your entire life in Kent as the perfect country squire.”

“I thought I could change,” Will said in a quiet voice.

More and more interesting, Annelise thought. She should put a stop to this, invite the young man back to the house. If he were really persona non grata he’d come up with an excuse. But right now this was far too fascinating to interfere.

“It wouldn’t matter,” Hetty said. “You can’t change your family, and their estate is not nearly old or illustrious enough to suit my father. And you can’t suddenly come up with a title when your future clearly lies in being Squire Dickinson of Applewood. I’m destined for better things in this life than living a dreary existence in the country with nothing to do but have babies and grow fat. I’m very happy here. I have more than a dozen suitors, I go out every night and dance until I’m exhausted, I hear music and go to the theater and have stimulating discussions about books and such…”

William Dickinson snatched his hat off his head in frustration, crushing it between his big hands. “You haven’t changed that much, Hetty,” he said. “You never cared much for music, you don’t like plays unless there’s a murder in them, and your taste in literature isn’t the sort of thing people sit around and discuss. Most people despise novels. Your father has put too many grand ideas in your head, when you know you’d be happiest back home with a man who loves you.”

“A man?” Hetty’s laugh was derisive—she must have been practicing, Annelise thought cynically. “A boy, I think. A childhood playmate, and perhaps my first sweetheart, but I can look much higher when it comes to marriage. I’ll be a viscountess at least.”

“And who’s this viscount? Does he love you?”

“Of course. And he’s handsome, not too old, and very witty. I’ve moved on, Will. It’s time you did too. Go back to Kent. You don’t belong here.”

Annelise would have given the fortune she didn’t have to see what Montcalm’s reaction would be to being called “not too old,” but then, life was never fair.

William Dickinson was a very handsome young man, in an honest, rawboned fashion—a far cry from Montcalm’s faintly decadent elegance. His face was tanned by the sun, his strong jaw set with frustration, but the love in his blue eyes didn’t waver. Their children would have the prettiest blue eyes, Annelise mused, before remembering her chaperon’s duties.

“Mr. Dickinson,” Annelise said. “Perhaps it would be best if you come back to the house for tea, so you can continue this discussion.”

“I’m not welcome under Mr. Chipple’s roof,” he said in a stark, dramatic tone that was perfectly suited to Hetty’s dramatic streak. “And I don’t have much else to say. Except that you don’t belong here either, Hetty. Come home with me. We don’t need your father’s money—we don’t need the fancy city people and all this foolishness. Come back home and marry me.”

“I already told you that was out of the question. As did my father, much more forcefully. I assure you, I’m where I belong and very happy about it. Go back home and forget about me, Will.” She didn’t sound nearly as certain about it as her words suggested. Her lovely blue eyes were looking suspiciously moist, her plump lower lip seemed close to trembling. Annelise retrieved a handkerchief from her sleeve and presented it to her.

“I don’t need it,” she said, grabbing it and dabbing at her eyes. “I’m just so angry. Why can’t I make you understand, Will? It was one thing when we were young and foolish, but I’m grown up now, and I understand the way the world works. It wasn’t to be.”

Annelise wished she had a second handkerchief with her because Will Dickinson looked as if he was about to burst into tears himself.

Montcalm or Dickinson? No matter what Mr. Chipple’s grand ambitions were, it was more than clear that happiness lay with this raw young man from the country, at least in Hetty’s martyred eyes. And what was Annelise’s role in all this? To further her host’s ambitions—to ensure that Hetty married neither a scoundrel nor a nobody from the countryside.

And Annelise was a woman who knew her duty. And blithely chose to ignore it. “It’s a beautiful day,” she said in her calm voice. “Why don’t the two of you walk down by the duck pond and sit. The benches there are empty—if I sit here I’ll be able to keep an eye on you and you’ll both be very well chaperoned but yet able to converse without restraint.”

“Could we, miss?” Will said, some of the despair lifting from his eyes for a moment.

“Miss Kempton,” Hetty muttered, finally remembering her manners. But she wasn’t objecting to the notion. She glanced in the direction of the duck pond longingly.

“Of course,” Annelise said, moving to the bench, wishing she still had her handkerchief to brush it off, but sitting anyway, giving them a serene, approving smile. “You need time to talk things out. I’ll be right here.”

Mr. Dickinson held out his arm with all the stateliness of a royal duke, and after a moment Hetty put her tiny gloved hand on his sleeve, looking up at him. And in a brief instance all was clear. Hetty was just as much in love with Will Dickinson as he was with her, and the bucolic life could make her blissfully happy. She was young enough to enjoy the admiration of all those around her, but smart enough to eventually need more in her life. Will Dickinson would be steadfast, loyal, protective and devoted. What more could a woman ask for?

She watched them as they made their way down to the pond, and felt a sentimental dampness in her eyes. She fumbled in her pockets, but the handkerchief was already with Hetty, so she sniffled bravely, only to find a snowy white handkerchief proffered from behind her, the hand holding it strong and gloved and dripping with lace.

Annelise had learned some excellent curses from the grooms in her father’s stable, as well as a few from her father when he was in his cups and indiscreet, and “hells bells” just slipped out before she could silence herself.

Christian Montcalm took the seat beside her, laughing. “Now, that’s hardly the language for a dragon,” he said. “Does Mr. Chipple know that the Honorable Miss Kempton swears like a fishwife?”

“That wasn’t my fishwife language,” she said. “You haven’t annoyed me enough to deserve it. Yet.”

A man shouldn’t be that handsome. The faint lines around his eyes had to be from dissipation, not laughter, but knowing their cause didn’t lessen their appeal. It was no wonder an impressionable young thing like Hetty had succumbed to his charm. What woman wouldn’t?

She wouldn’t, Annelise reminded herself. She looked at him. “So I assume that Hetty’s reluctance to come for a walk was because she’d already planned to slip out and meet you?”

“Not at all. This was pure happenstance. If she was planning to meet me she wouldn’t be off with another young man, totally unchaperoned.”

“She’s not unchaperoned—I can see them very clearly from here, and besides, I’m the one who sent them down there so they could talk.” Unfortunately they were sitting a bit too close, and Will’s arm was around her. She should get up and intervene, but then Montcalm would follow her, and that was the last thing she wanted. It would make matters even more complicated than they already were.

“You sent her? Why am I not surprised? And what does this stalwart young swain have to offer that I do not?”

“He’s a decent, honorable man. You’re a wicked, wretched—”

“Hush now, Miss Kempton. You have better manners than that. I don’t understand why you’ve taken me in such dislike—I’m a perfectly charming gentleman.”

“A bit too charming,” she said tartly.

“Merci du compliment,” he murmured. “However, I must tell you that I don’t like it when people interfere with my plans, even pretty little dragons like you.”

Fury bubbled up inside her. “Let us be perfectly clear on this, Mr. Montcalm. I don’t like being mocked. We both know I’m neither little nor pretty, and I don’t need you reminding me.”

The laughter left his eyes abruptly. “How very interesting,” 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.

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