Page 35 of The Devil’s Waltz

Chapter Eighteen

Christian wasn’t lying when he said he had work to do. Not that he wouldn’t lie when it suited him, but with no money he’d had no choice but to ignore the rapidly deteriorating state of Wynche End, and now that he was back, at least for a while, he realized how much he loved the old place.

His fondness for the house was ridiculous—it was full of dark wood and gothic trim and spiderwebs.

It wasn’t as if he’d ever lived here with his family—he’d spent the first twelve years of his life with them in France, and estates left behind in England held little interest for them.

They’d lived well in France—in an old chateau with many servants and everything they needed, and they’d been a large, happy family.

His mother had been a great beauty at the French court, but by then she’d lost interest in anything but her husband and growing family.

His grandfather had told him with great contempt that he looked like her, but it had been a strange sort of comfort.

He could look in the mirror and see his mother’s beautiful eyes, her high cheekbones and her full, mobile mouth.

Most people thought he was uncommonly vain, and deservedly so.

But in fact, there was no vanity in him at all.

His devotion to mirrors was simply a chance to see his mother once more.

Wynche End was all he had left of her and his family. He’d never understood why his father had left England for good to live with his wife in shabby luxury on the Normandy coast. Once he met his grandfather all was made clear.

He hadn’t understood politics at that point.

All he knew was that he was being sent away to England for schooling, and that the rest of the family would soon follow to settle into Wynche End.

It was astonishing to him—they had never traveled farther than Paris, but he went without argument, knowing they would soon follow.

But they didn’t. Couldn’t. They’d been slaughtered during the early uprising of the Terror, the chateau burned, every one of them murdered, and he’d been left in the merciless care of his grandfather, who hated everything about him, including the father who’d married against his will and left England for France.

The only thing he’d shared with his grandfather, apart from the bloodline, was a hatred of everything French.

He couldn’t change his name, but he could avoid anything that reminded him of that benighted country.

His grandfather had unwittingly assisted—having his French clothes destroyed and replaced by good English cloth.

Every bit of cruelty had been a blessing—when he’d beaten the French accent out of him it had only made him stronger and more English.

Until no one knew he had any French blood in him.

The French had spilled it all.

He was being pathetic, he mocked himself.

He was about to have a most enjoyable interlude, once he got rid of the annoying young lovers.

He wondered how long it would take him. Annelise would put up an impressive defense, he was counting on it.

But he knew women far too well not to recognize her vulnerabilities.

Not that she was like any other woman he’d known so far, which was part of her appeal.

Or rather, all of her appeal, he told himself.

It was the sheer novelty of an overtall, overdignified old maid that fascinated him.

Too bad Crosby wasn’t around to place a wager on it.

He could always place a bet with himself.

If he set his mind to it he had little doubt he could have her in his bed by nightfall.

But he didn’t want to rush it. The hunt was half the pleasure.

The feint and attack, the thrust and retreat.

And he was becoming aroused just thinking about it.

He doubted he would be able to lull her into a false security—she had too much good sense for that. But she was also ridiculously innocent for a woman almost thirty, and when he feigned disinterest her low opinion of her attractions surely tempted her to believe it.

Foolish dragon. He hoped he wouldn’t hurt her. He didn’t particularly want to break her heart. Not that he believed in broken hearts, except in those too weak and too sentimental to face the practicalities of life. His dragon was made of sterner stuff than that.

No, she wouldn’t fancy herself in love, despite his teasing, and she wouldn’t pine after him like a schoolgirl.

She was much too practical. But he had little doubt he could make her experience a pleasure she had never even imagined, and he was anticipating it with great delight.

When he left her she would have learned a great deal, and he suspected the Honorable Miss Kempton could become a dedicated student.

In the meantime he was going to have to see about the classroom.

There were no more beds in the house and he didn’t fancy deflowering her where Hetty and William had been.

Harry Browne and his wife could be counted on to come up with something.

He’d put her in his great-aunt’s room—it was still in reasonable condition despite the sun-shredded curtains.

He could never understand how the sun could do that much damage in such a dark, rainy country.

But then, it had taken decades to rot through the silk.

He strolled down the long hallways to the kitchen.

The bellpulls no longer worked, and the Brownes had more than enough to do without having to run to him for orders.

They were friends as well as employees, and he would often end up in Bessie’s kitchen, stealing trifles and teasing her until she turned bright pink.

The drawback to that was that Bessie Browne knew him far too well, and she would disapprove of the plans he had for Miss Kempton.

And she wouldn’t hesitate to tell him so.

He didn’t particularly mind. He knew he was a consummate bastard and hearing someone who loved him like a mother tell him so was oddly comforting. She knew what he was and she still cared about his worthless soul.

Miss Kempton’s lectures were just as entertaining. He’d give her full rein—she could feel free to scourge him for the heartless, selfish, dishonorable rogue that he was. She could do it as she lay beneath him, between gasps of pleasure.

He did a swift turnaround. He had to stop thinking about Annelise, or he was going to be in no condition to be facing anyone. He was as randy as a schoolboy with his first taste of sex. And he found himself smiling, really smiling, for the first time in what seemed like years.

Hetty responded surprisingly well to Annelise’s lecture on proper behavior.

She was still a bit dazzled by her experience, and Annelise couldn’t help but feel an unbecoming jealousy.

Not that she had any interest in the young Mr. Dickinson.

But Hetty had clearly moved well beyond Annelise in experience, and there was no doubt it had been absolutely splendid.

Which was a surprise. Neither of her sisters had expressed much enthusiasm for the marriage bed, and her acquaintance did not generally include the sort of women who did.

She understood the mechanics, at least to some extent, having been raised around stock animals, but as far as she could tell, when it came to humans the act was for the male’s pleasure and the female’s fertility.

Hetty seemed more like a newly mounted she-cat than a proper young woman—she was practically purring.

But Annelise helped her wash and dress with brisk efficiency, ignoring the bloody smear on the sheets that had once been Hetty’s virginity.

She would have killed for a basin of hot water herself, but by now the mud was caked and dry, and Hetty needed the water more than she did.

Once Hetty left, perhaps she could talk someone into bringing her at least an ewer of lukewarm water.

There was no sign of Christian as they made their way downstairs.

The rain had stopped, though by now it was midday, late to start out on a long journey.

William looked exhausted, as well he should, the wicked boy, and far too pleased with himself, and Hetty was stifling a yawn.

Annelise could content herself with the assurance that they were both much too exhausted to get into trouble in the confining carriage that would take them to her brother-in-law’s vicarage up north.

She had a lingering hope that the carriage might prove larger than Christian had said, in which case she would have forced herself between the two of them and endured another endless trip. But he hadn’t exaggerated—there was barely enough room for the two of them and the driver.

Not to mention the hamper of food, the hot bricks and the blankets. By the time she had the two of them bundled into the small interior of the carriage there was scarcely room for them to breathe. There was no question but that she was well and truly trapped here for the time being.

And no question that any fears she had about her own chastity were entirely wishful thinking.

“Are you certain you don’t mind us abandoning you?

” Will asked anxiously, ever the gentleman.

Hetty had settled comfortably into the carriage and seemed to have no qualms about deserting her chaperon, the ungrateful wretch.

“Of course not,” Annelise lied through her teeth. “It’s not as if I am a young woman of marriageable age.”

“True,” said William, totally without tact. “And no one is likely to even imagine a man like Christian Montcalm would offer you any importunities. The very idea is absurd.”

“Absurd,” Annelise echoed unhappily.

“I’m sure your sister will send transport for you as soon as we reach there. I wouldn’t recommend you returning to Chippie House—Josiah Chippie is not a man to be crossed. We would welcome you in Kent once we return.”