Page 22 of The Devil’s Waltz

It was just past eight o’clock in the morning—no time for visits. He was up to something nefarious, as always, and she could simply ignore his mysterious presence and go back to her room, or she could confront him.

Confronting him would lead to nothing but trouble, she knew. But she opened the door and stepped out into the tiny garden.

“I wondered if you were going to join me, dragon,” he murmured, still staring up at the house. “I saw you watching me for quite a while, and I couldn’t believe you’d slink away without doing battle once more.”

“What are you doing here? It’s barely eight o’clock in the morning—I’m surprised you’re already up.”

He looked at her then, and smiled. “I didn’t go to bed.”

“Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“Because you’re becoming far too familiar with my little ways, my pet. Which room belongs to your charge?”

“As if I would tell you! What were you going to do, serenade her with a French love ballad?”

“No!” There was a surprising harshness to his voice, one he immediately banished. “I have lamentably little musical talent—if I were to sing to her she’d run screaming from the house.”

“Then feel perfectly free to do so. I can even have the servants drag a piano near the window so that I might accompany you.”

“So helpful,” he said. “But I will decline your kind offer. I merely came to bid a distant farewell to my lost love.”

“Your lost love?”

“Yes—Miss Hetty. I have relinquished any claim I might have on her hand.”

“You had no claim on her hand,” Annelise snapped. “And I had no idea you possessed such good sense. What made you decide to be reasonable?”

“Oh, a number of very persuasive reasons,” he said. “For one thing, I have an absolute terror that she might have inherited her father’s decorating tastes, and I couldn’t let her clutter up Wynche End with naked statues.”

Indeed, the statue in this garden was entirely nude, and though she could only see it from the back, presumably male, due to the musculature and the arrangement of the hair. If Annelise never saw a marble statue again it would make her a very happy woman.

She felt a faint splotch of color rise to her cheeks, both at the sight of the marble buttocks and the memory of her fascinated survey of the male statue in Chippie’s study. Would this one be the same in front, or was there a variation in men’s...

“Why are you blushing, dragon? Surely you’ve been subjected to all these second-rate sculptures already.”

“Most of them. I try not to look,” she said firmly. “What is Wynche End?”

“Alas, the place I call home when I’m not in London.

Which, admittedly, is seldom. My esteemed grandfather managed to make certain I inherited nothing from his estate but the eventual title, but Wynche End belonged to my mother’s family, and since they’re all dead it now belongs to me.

It’s in a state of total ruination—the roof leaks, the wood is rotting, the surrounding village and farmland lying fallow, but it’s mine, and Miss Hetty’s money would have enabled me to put it in good heart once more.

However, I can’t trust her taste in decoration, and Greek statues were too high a price to pay. ”

“Indeed. And where is this monumental ruin?”

“Were you thinking of taking her place, dragon? I’m certain your preferences would be an improvement, but I somehow doubt you’d be as enthusiastic about the other duties of connubial bliss.

It’s in Devon, near a tiny village called Hydesfield.

The coast around there is none too welcoming—a stretch of land once peopled by wreckers, but in the last century they’ve resorted to simple smuggling.

I could always join in if I have to resort to earning a living. ”

“Surely things couldn’t be that bad.” She let the irony hang heavy in her voice.

“I could always take you as a shining example. I could go on a series of well-disguised visits, teach young men the ways of society.”

“God help them and society in general. One of you is more than enough.”

“You wound me to the heart, Miss Kempton,” he said with mock sorrow. There was a glint of devilry in his eyes. “You seem so wise—you always have the answer for everything. Perhaps you might help with a question that’s been plaguing me.”

“If you go away I’ll help you with anything.”

“I wouldn’t be so rash in my promises if I were you, dragon. I have a habit of holding people to things.”

“I’ll be more than happy to answer whatever question you might have if you’ll just leave.”

His wicked smile widened. “It’s this statue. How are you on your Greek mythology? I’m certain you’re well versed in all manner of intellectual studies—what do you remember about this one?”

She was going to have to move around to the front and join him.

That, or admit defeat and run, and she wasn’t about to admit defeat to a man like Montcalm.

At least she’d spent far too many moments examining the unmentionable parts of the male statue in the library.

Marble-engraved...parts...wouldn’t have to shock her.

“Which God is he?” she asked in a deliberately calm voice, moving around to the front of the statue and then freezing.

“Priapus. The very fertile son of Aphrodite and Dionysus. I’ve always wondered what the explanation for his condition was.”

She couldn’t move. She’d recognized all the other ancient Greek statues—she should have realized that Chippie wouldn’t have the taste to keep this one out of sight.

There was most definitely a difference in the depiction of his marble genitals. The god Priapus was in an eternal state of excitement and his marble phallus jutted out almost at eye level.

She could do nothing to control the wash of color that swept over her. “I have no idea,” she said in a hoarse voice, unable to move.

“Apart from exposure to you, I mean,” he whispered. “Perhaps if you go back in the house he’ll change to a more sedate fellow.”

She couldn’t keep her eyes off him, and she swallowed nervously. She managed to rally. “I believe you were in his presence first, Mr. Montcalm. If anyone has excited him it must be you ”

She surprised a laugh out of him. “Still fighting, dragon? Perhaps you’re right—those Greeks were odd fellows. I was just judging by the effect you tend to have on me.”

She couldn’t help it—her eyes dropped to a part of his body she never should have acknowledged, then darted away from him.

She struggled for her vanished composure.

“Unfortunately the sculptor was prone to exaggeration in this one’s case.

Such proportions are highly unlikely,” she said.

She was very proud of her cool, distant tone.

She could have been discussing the artistic merits of a landscape.

Except that Christian Montcalm’s beautiful mouth curved into a broader smile. “Ah, my precious, what an innocent you really are, even at such an advanced age. I should have realized you were simply an aging virgin. If anything, his cock is on the small side.”

She jerked her head around, shocked. No one had ever used that word in her presence, though she’d overheard the stable boys bandy it about, and she knew perfectly well what it meant. But that a gentleman should use such a word in her presence was beyond belief.

“Don’t faint, dragon,” he murmured. “It’s just a word. Words have only the power you give them.”

“I want you to leave.”

“And I will, my pet. I told you, this was just a farewell visit to the object of my twisted desires.”

“She doesn’t need you to say farewell. I’ll convey your regrets.”

“I wasn’t talking about Hetty.”

Annelise was a strong woman, but this was one assault too many. “Go away!” she cried, unaccountably near tears. “Stop mocking me and leave, or I’ll have Jameson toss you out.”

“Oh, my precious!” He pulled her into his arms, and she could only put up a token fight. The tears she’d been fighting for hours, seemingly for days, had broken through, and even though the last thing in the world she wanted to do was cry in front of him, it was already past her control.

He held her in his arms, against his body, and the strength and warmth were oddly soothing, considering he was the bane of her existence. She was afraid he was going to kiss her again, and afraid he wouldn’t, but he simply held her, stroking her hair, murmuring soothing noises in her ear.

“You don’t belong here, Annelise,” he said, and she could hardly object to him using her name. He’d already used a number of offensive words, and in comparison her name seemed harmless enough. “Go back to Lady Prentice and stay there. This isn’t a safe place for you.”

She didn’t bother to argue—the only danger to her was the man holding her. And he would soon be gone. “I can always sell my pearls,” she said with a hiccup.

He put his hands on her arms and drew her away, looking into her eyes. Her tears and his body heat had steamed up her spectacles, and she couldn’t see him clearly, which was just as well. “Annelise, the pearls are fake,” he said gently.

“They’re not. They can’t be! They’ve been in our family for hundreds of years and no one would ever....” She let her voice trail off.

He already knew the answer. “It must have been someone at the very end of their rope. When someone is that lost in rage and grief they do foolish things, forgetting when there are still people who love them.”

She pulled herself out of his arms, letting denial and fury sweep over her. “What would you know about that?”

“About being lost in grief and rage? I know far too well. As for people who still love them—well, I’m afraid that’s a mystery to me. Anyone who loved me died twenty years ago.”

There was something in his voice that sounded harsh. Something she was afraid to question.

And then it was too late. He kissed her, hard and quick, as if he was afraid to linger. And then he was gone, with the side gate clanging shut behind him, leaving her standing there, alone, hopeless, and totally confused.

She looked up at the satyr-like statue. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she told him in a weak voice.

The statue said nothing, merely looking down at her impassively, as if to say, what should I be ashamed of? But by then Annelise was gone.