Page 29 of The Devil’s Waltz

Chapter Fifteen

Christian Richard Benedict de Crecy Montcalm had never hurt a woman in his life, unless she’d specifically agreed to it, but right now he was on the verge of murdering one.

He could throttle Miss Hetty, he thought absently, and it would silence her whines and sobs and constant prattle.

He could simply gag her, but she’d already managed to connect one of her surprisingly hard fists with his cheekbone and he wasn’t in the mood for a wrestling match.

Particularly since he had no sexual interest in the outcome.

Some things came with too high a price, and Miss Hetty Chippie was most definitely one of those things.

The journey hadn’t started out well. In an elopement, speed was of the essence, and it necessitated hiring a small carriage, devoid of some of the comforts the spoiled Miss Chippie was so accustomed to.

Her initial excitement had disappeared, and she’d complained about each bump in the road, and there were many: the quality of the leather squabs, the meager light, her rushed departure, and worst of all, to his surprise she complained that she hadn’t been able to say goodbye to the dragon.

“Don’t you think she would have tried to stop you?” he’d drawled, thinking of the note he’d sent her. A bit too provocative, but he never could resist his wicked inner promptings, particularly where the Honorable Miss Annelise Kempton was concerned.

“Oh, I wouldn’t have told her the truth. I would have said I was running off with Will.” The mention of his name suddenly seemed to suck the life out of her, and her eyes filled with tears. Thank God, Christian thought wearily. Anything to shut her up.

Then he was fool enough to respond. “I gather Miss Kempton approved of your childhood sweetheart.”

“She said anybody was better than you,” she replied with perfect frankness.

“Probably true,” he said.

The little idiot had lapsed into a blessed silence, most likely mourning her lost love rather than reconsidering her reckless choice. The silence eventually settled into sleep, and they drove through the night-shrouded roads at dangerous speeds.

She’d curled up on the seat, somehow managing to adjust to the jolts of the carriage, and he could see the streaks of tears on her pretty cheeks.

She was annoying and pathetic, but she was very, very pretty.

And he suddenly had the most horrifying realization: She brought out his paternal side.

She made him feel old, and wise, and even slightly protective. And not the slightest bit desirous.

She was fifteen years younger than he was—hardly young enough to be his daughter. She was of marriageable age—most young ladies became attached during their first season, at seventeen, and most men waited until later, to his age, thirty-two, to marry. They would suit very well.

And yet he still wanted to spank her, not kiss her.

Of course, he wanted to spank the Honorable Miss Annelise Kempton, but that was a far different matter and she would likely be shocked at his randy thoughts.

Except that she hadn’t seemed easily shocked. Embarrassed, perhaps, as he’d forced her to examine good old Priapus, one of his favorite Greek gods, but not shocked. Not when he’d kissed her, either, though she’d been startled. He really would have liked the chance to have shocked her.

Hetty slept on, thank God—the sleep of the innocent, he supposed.

And he closed his eyes and slept, as well, the divinely untroubled sleep of the wicked.

He awoke to complaints. By morning light she had begun to rethink her rash decision, and she looked at him accusingly, demanding they stop for a rest.

“We changed horses while you were asleep, darling,” he said. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“We need to stop now.”

“The horses are fresh, and we need to make as fast a time as we can. You certainly don’t want your father to catch up with us, do you?”

She turned pale, something Christian noted with surprise.

She was frightened of the man, which shouldn’t have been that unusual.

Most children were afraid of their parents.

But Hetty was a doted-upon only child, and the fear in her lovely blue eyes wasn’t that of a naughty child caught doing mischief. It was a deep, mindless terror.

Perhaps he wasn’t doing her such a disservice after all, running off with her. If her father caused such a reaction then even a rogue like him was preferable.

Annelise would be left to face that wrath.

Not a happy thought, and not one he’d considered before.

It wouldn’t have changed his mind, of course.

A man in his circumstances couldn’t afford to be sentimental.

And Chippie would never dare touch the Honorable Miss Kempton—he had enough sense for that.

Any verbal abuse she could easily match, as he knew only too well.

“What are you smiling about?” Hetty said in a cranky voice. Oh, God, was he going to hear that whiny little voice every morning for the rest of his life?

“The thought of our happy life together,” he said.

“We won’t have a happy life together if you don’t find me a necessary,” she snapped. “I’m going to explode.”

“I doubt it,” he said. But he turned around and tapped twice on the glass. He’d relieved himself at the first stop, but right now what he needed most was a respite from her annoying voice.

After they had stopped he was afraid he was going to have to lift her up bodily and throw her back into the carriage, but at the last moment she climbed back in, glaring at him as they started forward again. “You need to be shaved,” she said.

“Are you saying I’m not as pretty as you’d like?” he murmured with mock offense.

“No. You’re always pretty, even when you look disreputable. That’s why I picked you.”

He didn’t bother to dispute it. If she thought she’d had any choice in the matter once he knew the size of her fortune, then she was mistaken.

The only blessing to the wretched journey was that they made excellent time.

It was near dusk when they reached the tiny town of Hydesfield, and mercifully dark once they arrived at Wynche End.

She wasn’t going to like the condition of her future home, and until she was thoroughly bedded she could still balk.

The servants were waiting, and he could see that Mrs. Browne did an excellent job at trying to clean up the place.

There was no broken furniture in sight, fires were blazing—no doubt fed by the missing furniture—and the place smelled pleasantly of lemon polish and dried roses.

He stood in the front hallway and felt an uncommon peace slip around him. He hadn’t realized he’d missed it so.

“You didn’t carry me across the threshold,” the tiny harpy said.

His smile was effortless—he’d spent many years charming people he despised. “We aren’t married yet.”

She was so transparent She was regretting her hasty exit more and more, and the large front hall of Wynche End had done little to reassure her. She probably had the foolish notion that until they were married she could always change her mind, return to her comfortable home in London.

But she’d been gone with him for one night, soon to be two, and it didn’t matter whether he’d bedded her or not. She was effectively ruined, and marriage was the only option.

“I’m certain you must be tired, my darling,” he said smoothly. “Let Mrs. Browne take you upstairs to our rooms. She’s an excellent cook and I imagine you must be famished.”

“Our rooms?” Hetty echoed suspiciously.

“Aren’t you planning on sharing rooms with your husband? Perhaps even a bed?” He was mocking her, but she was oblivious, and inwardly he sighed. Her dragon would have fought back, deliciously.

“We’re not married yet.” She turned his own words on him. She gave Mrs. Browne her most regal look, quite ridiculous coming from such a dab of a thing. “You may show me to my room.”

Bessie Browne gave him a questioning look, but Christian simply nodded. Anything to get rid of her. He didn’t even wait to watch her shapely ascent up the ancient oak stairs. He went straight to the library.

As he’d expected, the Brownes had done their best in there, as well. A fire was blazing, a bottle of port was set out, and he sank into the old leather chair with a sigh of relief. A few moments of peace and quiet while he talked himself into going to his virgin bride.

He had no intention of raping her. Rape was distasteful to him, though that was not the case among some of his friends. He preferred his women willing, and he had yet to find a woman he couldn’t eventually convince.

Hetty would eventually be convinced, too, but he’d have to put up with her pouts, her complaints, her incessant whining—and he doubted the sex would be worth it. If he shocked her she might balk at a wedding anyway, and while he wouldn’t force sex, he’d definitely force marriage.

No, he needed to deflower her with utmost care and politeness, plant his seed if possible, which would be a novel experience.

He always made certain to withdraw—he wanted no unknown bastards of his wandering around the countryside.

There was no need for such a protective act with his fertile young wife, whether she was yet a wife or not.

He still wasn’t interested in going to her, though. He’d barely slept during their breakneck pace, he’d barely eaten, and he was in a strange, melancholy mood that he refused to examine too closely. Miss Hetty could wait.

He stretched his long legs out in front of him, kicking off his boots. Most of his friends wore boots that required help in removing, but since he preferred to be self-reliant he wore his looser.