Chapter 7

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.

But he was getting distracted from the main prize. He needed to secure the impressionable Hetty first, then he could concentrate on the far more challenging dragon. In the meantime things were moving along quite nicely.

Josiah Chipple would be extremely displeased with the arrival of Hetty’s childhood love, or so he assumed the young man to be. Once Christian had settled on the heiress he’d made it his business to discover everything he could about her and her family, though some information had been

frustratingly hard to come by. Mrs. Chipple had died when Hetty was quite young, according to Hetty. Mr. Chipple had amassed his fortune through shipping, though how he had advanced from a simple importer to someone with the dazzling fortune he now possessed was shrouded in mystery.

Christian didn’t particularly care where the money came from, as long as he could get his hands on it.

Which he planned to. His debts were getting more pressing, and his luck at the cards last night had been less than usual. Probably because he’d been unduly distracted by his encounter on the terrace and the damp piece of lace tucked in his coat. A weakness he couldn’t afford.

For the next few weeks he would concentrate on his financial salvation.

And then he’d allow himself to play.

She was still clutching the lacy handkerchief in her hand, Annelise realized. She should throw it on the ground, stomp on it to express her total rage and disgust with Christian Montcalm. But in the last few years economy had been drummed into her, and it was too fine a handkerchief to wantonly destroy, she told herself virtuously. She reached under her cloak and tucked it into her bodice, next to the folded note that still lay there. At this rate she was going to become quite top heavy, she thought with a trace of grim amusement. She could only hope Montcalm didn’t take it into his head to present her with anything bulky.

He wasn’t going to present her with anything at all. As soon as she got back to the house she was going to give the lovely handkerchief to one of the maids, burn the note and toss the flowers out the window. Well, perhaps she might leave the flowers—they were lovely, and not to blame that they’d come as a mocking salute from a wastrel.

She glanced down at the duck pond. They were sitting far too close together—Montcalm had been right about that. And perhaps Mr. Chipple wouldn’t be pleased, but once she told him of the danger his daughter was courting he might be more amenable to the safe, reliable comfort of someone like William Dickinson.

They didn’t even notice her approach. Hetty had been crying, the tears making her china blue eyes even more beguiling. She was one of those rare females who looked even lovelier when she cried. Her nose didn’t drip and turn red, her eyes didn’t swell, unlike Annelise’s. It shouldn’t come as a

surprise and it wasn’t the least rancorous—Hetty was simply everything Annelise was not.

They jumped up guiltily when she appeared in front of them, and Hetty fumbled in her lap for her discarded glove. It was a good thing no one had seen them but the ducks, Annelise thought, or Hetty might have done real damage to her reputation. And it was all Annelise’s fault.

But it wasn’t too late to mend. “I think you should come back to the house with us after all, Mr. Dickinson. It’s almost teatime, and I’m certain you’ll want to renew your acquaintance with Mr. Chipple. I expect Hetty will welcome the chance to restore amity between the two of you.”

Hetty didn’t look as if she welcomed anything. “He can’t come home with us,” she said flatly. “You don’t know my father—he doesn’t like to be thwarted.”

“No one’s thwarting him, my dear. And I suspect he would dislike subterfuge even more, and word will certainly get to him of this afternoon’s accidental meeting.”

“How would he know?”

“Because I would tell him. I have a certain responsibility, and it was my choice to allow you to have some time in relative privacy.”

“You don’t have to…” Hetty began, but Annelise continued smoothly.

“Besides, if I don’t, you can be sure Christian Montcalm will. He saw the two of you, and he would find it to his advantage to inform your father.”

“Who’s Christian Montcalm?” William asked. His ruddy cheeks were the complete opposite of Montcalm’s pale handsomeness, and Hetty’s face flamed at the mention of her suitor.

“He was here?” Hetty said in a choked voice, clearly horrified.

Annelise didn’t wait for Hetty to come up with an explanation. “He’s simply one of her many suitors. The most determined and the least desirable of them. If he has the chance he’ll cause trouble, and I need to circumvent that.”

“He wouldn’t do such a thing!” Hetty protested.

William looked down at her in surprise. “Hetty, are you in love with this man?”

“Of course not, Will!” she said in a cross voice. “I just want to marry him.”

William looked tempted to bolt at this artless confidence, so Annelise simply took both their arms and herded them back up the path. Mr. Chipple

could scarcely be as difficult as Hetty warned, but it wouldn’t hurt to be as honest as possible. The sooner they faced him, the better.

“We’ll have tea in the green salon,” she informed the maid when they arrived back at the house. “And ask Mr. Chipple to join us if he’s able.”

In fact, the green salon was a bilious color designed to make any inhabitant look like a corpse, with the notable exception of Hetty. As far as Annelise could tell, nothing could lessen her incandescent beauty. Perhaps she was being too cynical—Christian Montcalm might have fallen desperately in love with the exquisite creature and her fortune was merely a happy adjunct, despite his crass avowals.

And the moon might be made of green cheese, she thought. If it were, it was probably the hideous color of Josiah Chipple’s parlor. After all, if Montcalm was really in love with the heiress why had he kissed her on the terrace? He should be focusing all his efforts on winning his beloved, not tormenting her protectors.

William and Hetty seemed to have exhausted their entire conversation, though Annelise suspected the mention of Christian Montcalm had put a decided damper on things. Therefore it was up to her to keep matters going, and she prattled on like a total idiot, serving tea, discussing the weather, asking polite questions, which resulted in monosyllabic answers except when she happened on the topic of country living. William became almost voluble, and to her surprise Hetty joined in. Since Annelise herself preferred living in the country things loosened up for a bit, until Mr.

Chipple appeared in the open door, glowering.

Hetty didn’t help matters by looking nervous and guilty, but William jumped to his feet, instantly polite, and took the proverbial bull by the horns by starting up a conversation.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said, his voice betraying his nervousness only slightly. “I ran into Miss Chipple and Miss Kempton in the park, and Miss Kempton was kind enough to invite me back for tea. I hope you don’t mind that I trespassed on your hospitality, but I wanted to renew my acquaintance with both of you during my short time here in the city.”

Annelise must have imagined the chill that had emanated from the door.

Mr. Chipple stepped into the room, affable enough. “It’s good to see you, Will. What brings you into the city? You’re a country boy, born and bred. I wouldn’t think the likes of society would suit you very well.”

“I had a commission for my father,” Will said with only a slight stutter.

“I thought I would take advantage of the trip to acquire a bit of town bronze. I expect it’s a lost cause.”

“It’s smart of you to recognize when a cause is lost,” Chipple said with a pleasant smile that somehow failed to warm. “When are you going back home?”

“I’ll be here for a week.”

The obvious, polite response would have been to invite him to stay in the house, or at least proffer a dinner invitation. As titular hostess Annelise was about to do just that, something stopped her: the unspoken tension in the room. The usually friendly Mr. Chipple suddenly seemed a great deal less hospitable.

“Then perhaps we’ll run into you again,” Chipple said. “Though I doubt we’ll travel in the same circles. Hetty, I think you should have a rest before Lady Helton’s ball tonight. You’ll be up all hours and you need your beauty sleep. Hetty has a great many suitors, William, and it’s quite exhausting for the dear girl. Miss Kempton, could I see you in the library at your convenience?”

The dismissal was clear and abrupt, and there was nothing to be done.

Even Hetty didn’t argue. She merely murmured a listless farewell to her devoted swain and left the room, followed by her father.

There was nothing Annelise could do to redeem the situation, but she at least managed to put a softer sheen on Chipple’s rudeness, forcing him to drink another cup of tea and discuss the merits of sheep versus cattle. He was obviously longing to unburden his heart to Annelise, but she was determined that he not. As long as she wasn’t officially privy to their clandestine affair she could feel righteous in her social choices. Once she knew this unacceptable young man was a determined and ineligible suitor, at least to Mr. Chipple’s eyes, then she would have no choice but to keep him away.

And she was still hoping for something, anything, to save Hetty from the dire mistake of a man like Christian Montcalm.

It was probably no more than half an hour later when Annelise presented herself at Mr. Chipple’s study. If he was unhappy with her delay he failed to show it, or even to acknowledge her presence just inside the doorway as he pored over his books, leaving her to wait awkwardly.

But Annelise was not the sort to wait. She walked into the room and seated herself in one of the chairs opposite the desk and said, “You wished to see me, Mr. Chipple?”

There was no missing the astonishment in his small, dark eyes. He’d probably never had a woman fail to be cowed by him. Annelise had never been fond of bullies—when confronted they were usually full of harmless bluster, and she expected Josiah Chipple to be the same.

He slammed his book shut, leaning back in his chair. He hadn’t risen since she’d appeared—a notable insult that was doubtless designed to express his unhappiness with her. She would have to find a tactful way to explain to the man that manners and displeasure could coexist, but at the moment she was beginning to understand some of Hetty’s caution as far as her father was concerned. So she sat still and held her tongue, her hands folded in her lap, waiting.

“Will Dickinson is not welcome in this house,” he said flatly.

“Indeed? I gather he’s a childhood friend of Hetty’s, and he certainly seemed quite unexceptional. I thought it might relieve some of her homesickness to spend time with an old friend.”

“She’s not homesick! This is her home now, and she loves being the center of attention.” Annelise could scarcely dispute the latter, so she stayed silent. “Her affection for William was simply that of a child. She knows her duty and she’s more than happy to fulfill it, as it benefits her as well as me.”

“And what is her duty, Mr. Chipple?”

“I thought you were already clear on this, Miss Kempton. She is to marry well. A titled gentleman. His fortune is not important, but his standing will ensure that she and my descendants will be unquestioned members of society despite her working-class father. She has the face and the fortune for it, and I’m not about to be contravened at this point. There are any number of possibilities available, and I don’t want Dickinson confusing her about who she should marry. Women are easily distracted, and she’s not that bright to begin with. She has the sense to do as I tell her, but I need to make certain that there’s no unfortunate temptation from her former life.”

For a moment Annelise said nothing. Hetty was a great deal smarter than her father gave her credit for, but that was probably a lost argument.

“Did Mr. Dickinson propose marriage?”

“He did indeed, the impudent boy! As if I’d let any treasure of mine go so easily. She’ll have a title or my name isn’t Josiah Chipple.”

Unfortunately, she suspected it was, indeed—no man would choose such an undignified name. And there was no argument she could come up with at this point, except…perhaps one.

“He’s at least a more respectable choice than Christian Montcalm,”

Annelise offered.

Mr. Chipple scowled. “Has that fellow been sniffing around her skirts?”

he demanded crudely. “She can do better than him. I’m not saying he wouldn’t do in a pinch—man’s going to be a viscount, after all. That’s nothing to sneeze at. He’s a bit of a scoundrel, I gather, but a wife can change all that.”

“Perhaps you don’t quite understand the severity of the situation.

Christian Montcalm is more than a scoundrel—he’s considered persona non grata at the best houses. His reputation is such that he is cut by some of the most influential high sticklers in society. His behavior in the past has been so questionable that it’s unlikely to be salvaged, and marriage to your daughter wouldn’t help her any. She’d be as ostracized as he is, perhaps more. People are more tolerant of men’s bad behavior, but they’ll have no reason to welcome your daughter into their houses.”

Mr. Chipple stopped to consider this. “How very enlightening, Miss Kempton. I’m glad to see I didn’t make a mistake in having you come join us for the season. You understand things that are quite beyond my experience. But if Montcalm is not accepted at the best houses then why do we keep running into him?”

She could hardly tell him that the nouveau riche Chipples were also unwelcome in the best houses. After all, there was only so much their sponsor, Lady Prentice, could do, and even Annelise’s unexceptional presence in their household could only elevate their social standing one small notch. “He makes it his business to seek your daughter out. Mr.

Montcalm’s quite determined to marry her, and your daughter finds him very attractive. I’ve tried to warn him off but he pays no mind.”

“Of course he doesn’t—why would he listen to a woman?” Chipple replied. “So clearly I’ll have to step in to make certain he receives the message that his attentions are unwelcome. Do you expect there will be a problem?”

Annelise remembered the cool mockery in Montcalm’s laughing eyes.

“I don’t think he’ll give up without a fight. As you’ve said, your daughter is both beautiful and possessed of a remarkable fortune. Most men wouldn’t admit defeat lightly.”

“Then I’ll have to make sure Montcalm understands,” Chipple said.

“It’s a shame, though. She did seem to fancy him, and it got her mind off young Will until the little bas—er…until he showed up again. And a viscountcy was the most promising so far—I’d hate to settle for anything less.”

Again, Annelise thought, there was the problem of not being invited to the more exclusive gatherings. But with determination, that could change—

despite Josiah’s working-class drawbacks Hetty was really quite charming, and many society matrons would overlook the smell of the shop for such a well-endowed wife for one of their sons. “I think we need to be patient, sir,”

she said carefully. “As long as Christian Montcalm knows that he’s wasting his efforts, and if it turns out that Mr. Dickinson is truly unacceptable, then we can move forward.”

Indeed, it grieved her that the young lovers were going to be parted. Her sentimental streak was coming forth again—Will and Hetty had looked so sweet together.

But the undoubted blessing of involving Mr. Chipple would be that Christian Montcalm would no longer trouble be Annelise’s responsibility.

She had little doubt Chipple would make it very clear that any alliance was out of the question, and Montcalm would have no choice but to turn his attentions elsewhere, sparing Annelise from her very disordered feelings.

“Trust me, Miss Kempton. I’ll take care of Mr. Montcalm. In the meantime, you distract my daughter from any romantic memories she might harbor for Dickinson. She’s not marrying a farmer no matter how much she cries.”

Had Hetty cried for Will Dickinson? Interesting, since she’d said her father would give her anything she wanted. Unless it interfered with his own ambitions, apparently.

“Certainly, Mr. Chipple. In the meantime perhaps we might miss the ball tonight—Christian Montcalm is certain to be there, and you won’t have had time to discourage him effectively.”

“Oh, I will most definitely have enough time, Miss Kempton. I’m an efficient man, and once I decide on a course it’s as good as accomplished. I

don’t expect you’ll be seeing Montcalm at Lady Helton’s, or anywhere else for that matter. I’ll make certain there’s no room for misunderstanding in my message.”

She thought she detected a faintly ominous edge to Chipple’s hearty voice. Must be her wild imagination again. “In that case perhaps I should go and have a rest before the evening’s festivities. Unless you had something else you wish to discuss?”

“Not at all, Miss Kempton,” he said, rising this time like a gentleman.

“You’ve been very helpful to me. Go get your rest while I attend to business. I want you to be fresh enough to keep an eye on my daughter.”

No one was ever that fresh, Annelise thought with a trace of asperity, noting that Chipple hadn’t suggested she might benefit from a beauty sleep.

Like most men he would consider it a lost cause.

But indeed, she was unaccountably weary after the stimulating day. It was the time outdoors, not the company that had exhausted her, she decided. After all, Christian Montcalm had only subjected her to his unwanted presence for a few short minutes.

Annelise’s room was still and quiet, and when she lay down on the bed, she felt the paper press against her breast. She reached inside her gown and pulled the note and handkerchief free. The small fire was burning in the grate to ward off the evening chill, but she was too tired to climb off the bed and toss the note in. She could accomplish that simple act eventually. There was no great rush.

She looked at the lacy handkerchief in her hand, then brought it to her face. It smelled of her scent, of course, the subtle rose that she favored. But it smelled of him as well—something spicier, foreign and mysterious.

She reached under the coverlet and shoved the offending handkerchief under her pillow, along with the note, then wrapped herself in the throw at the foot of the bed. Easy enough to dispose of later, she thought sleepily.

There was no hurry to get rid of the things. Now that she’d managed to get rid of Montcalm himself.

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