by Anne Stuart
“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 Chipple’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 Chipple 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 overhead 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.
12
The Honorable Miss Annelise Kempton was not the kind of woman to pine over things that she could never have. At least, not for long. By the time she reached her room she had composed herself, and she only felt a slight need to slam the door behind her.
She went to her drawer and picked up the soft velvet bag that held the Kempton pearls. It, too, had been made by an ancestor—some ancient kinswoman, doubtless with higher morals than the one who’d bedded King James—and was stitched virtuously, a design of intricate beauty. The velvet was slightly rubbed in places, and she opened the drawstring, letting the pearls fall into her hand.
They were as beautiful as ever. Lustrous, warm. And fake. He was right, of course. A scoundrel would be certain to know when jewelry was fake—it would be part of his stock-in-trade. When had her father switched them? She couldn’t really tell—he’d kept them for her, and she’d worn them once a year on her birthday. She’d never noticed any change, but then, her lack of vanity would have ensured that she didn’t spend a great deal of time staring in mirrors.
Or perhaps it was an excess of vanity. She had never looked as she wanted—not a plump beauty like her younger sister, not a striking one like her elder, and not an adorable little cherub like Hetty Chipple. She was tall and plain and bespectacled, but she’d loved her pearls.
It must have happened when she was nineteen, she thought. Things had been growing more desperate. They were down to two servants, one of them in the stable to care for her father’s beloved horses, and she’d begun to suspect the horses hadn’t been eating well. Their coats and eyes were dull, they moved sluggishly, she couldn’t even coax her beloved Gertie into a full gallop.
And then one day there had been three new servants, two of them in the stable. The horses began to look better, properly cared for, properly fed. The same wasn’t true for Annelise and her father—their table was meager to the point of Lenten. And her father become less and less responsive.
But that sudden influx of money had to come from somewhere, and James Kempton would sit by and watch his house fall into ruin and his daughter starve into spinsterhood, but he’d rob his own mother to feed his horses. Or rob his own child.
It should have felt like the worst kind of betrayal. But it wasn’t. She’d known what he was, quite clearly, known that he’d loved her despite his failings. Almost as much as he’d loved his own misery. The worst betrayal was that he had died.
She put the pearls back in their bag carefully, pulling the drawstring tight, and replaced them in her drawer. Next to Christian’s scrawled note, promising her a third lesson in the art of love.
She wasn’t going to burn it after all. He was leaving—it was doubtful she’d ever have to suffer his company again. She should get down on her knees and offer up a prayer of thanksgiving. Instead she tucked the note inside the velvet bag, along with his lacy handkerchief. She dashed the tears away from her eyes, the stupid things, tidied her already severe hair, and headed back downstairs, the very picture of calm self-possession. If she was going to ache inside, at least no one was going to know it.
Still no signs of the sluggard Chipples. The sun was out in full now, and the fallen rain sparkled like diamonds on the trees and the cobblestones. Of course, Jameson was nowhere to be seen when she really wanted him, but she hunted him down in the dining room.
He was as impassive as ever—perhaps she’d imagined that faint note of cunning in his flat eyes. “I’m going for a walk in the park, Jameson, if anyone asks where I am.”
“I don’t expect the Chipples to rise for quite some time, miss. The last guest didn’t depart until three in the morning.” There was nothing in his tone or expression to cause offense. And yet he made her uneasy.
“I should be back in an hour.”
“Do you wish to have a maid accompany you? Or do you have business of a private nature to conduct?”
She wanted to slap the smirk off his face, but he was so big and ugly she was afraid he might hit her back, and one tap from those giant paws would send her flying across the room. He really was the strangest-looking butler, and so she ought to explain to Mr. Chipple, except that after her discovery earlier this morning she didn’t particularly feel like discussing anything with her host.
“No business, and no need of a maid. I just want some time alone to clear my head.”
“And your time in the garden wasn’t private enough for you, miss?”
He’d known that Montcalm had been there. Known, and done nothing, except perhaps spy on them. He would have seen Montcalm kiss her, for the last time. At least it had clearly been a chaste kiss of goodbye. Well, not entirely chaste—she doubted that word could ever be applied to Christian Montcalm. But it had been brief, and decisive.
She wasn’t about to dignify Jameson’s question with an answer. How she conducted her life was none of his business. Who ventured on Chipple’s property was, but he had chosen to do nothing about it.
“I should be back in an hour,” she said. “Or two, if I feel like it.”
“Yes, miss.” He was immediately all propriety, but his insulting demeanor stayed with her as she walked the short distance to the park. There was definitely something very odd about the Chipple household, though Josiah Chipple did his best to hide it. His butler looked like a retired pugilist and had the manners, as well, the man kept a pistol in his library and there were times when she caught a certain expression on his face that was a far cry from the jovial shipping magnate.
But for the next hour she wasn’t going to think about that. Wasn’t going to think about Christian Montcalm, or her father, or any of the other men in her life who had clearly just been sent to plague her. She was going to enjoy the sunshine, the smell of the damp earth, and think about nothing at all but how nice it would be to be in the countryside, in a garden, with all of London so far away it might as well not exist. She would plant roses, she thought. And hollyhocks. And snapdragons…
“Miss Kempton.”
Bloody hell, she thought as William Dickinson hailed her. Maybe she could pretend she hadn’t heard h
im, maybe she could walk fast enough that she’d outpace him. She had long legs, and could cover ground quite rapidly, but she could hear him gaining on her, and the note of desperation in his voice. Unless she decided to break into a sprint, he was going to catch up with her, and trying to get away was an undignified waste of time. She halted, plastered a polite expression on her face and turned to face him.
The sight of William was a shock indeed. “Mr. Dickinson, are you all right? You look as if you’ve been set upon by Mohocks.” The roving bands of street criminals had become bolder and bolder, and there seemed to be little anyone could do. First Montcalm, and then William Dickinson…
“A minor dustup, Miss Kempton. I’m fine,” he said, clearly lying. He had a split lip, an eye that was blackened and swollen, and his clothes, though he’d made an attempt at righting them, had clearly seen something a bit more than a scuffle. “I have to return to Kent, and I wondered if I could prevail upon you to do me a huge favor.”
“You’re going back so soon? I thought you were planning to stay in London at least another week?”
“It’s a…family issue,” he stammered, clearly not a very good liar. “I wondered if you might take a note to Miss Chipple for me.”
“Mr. Dickinson, you know I can’t do that. I would never have let you see her last night but I was overset. It would be most improper, and her father has yet to approve your suit, but Mr. Montcalm has been persuaded to withdraw his offer, but in time—”
“He’s not going to change his mind,” William said bitterly. “Hetty and I were going to meet and approach him together, but I’ve…I’ve changed my mind. She’s much too far above me to even hope. I should never have come to London, never have dared to approach her…”
“William, she loves you,” Annelise broke in patiently. Lovelorn histrionics were tiresome, but at least they put her own silly longings in the right context. “You may have argued, and Mr. Chipple may have seemed obdurate, but I’m sure with time and diligence he can be persuaded to change his mind. Fortunately, Mr. Montcalm has chosen to relinquish any claim he might have to her affections and the way is clear for you. Your only drawback is that you lack a title, but I would think that Mr. Chipple would, in the end, prove reasonable if it’s his daughter’s happiness at stake.”