can do that later. I expected Miss Kempton would enjoy a ride, as well.”
“I don’t ride,” Annelise said. It was both true and untrue. She hadn’t been on the back of a horse since her father had been thrown to his death, and she had no intention of ever doing so again.
Josiah frowned. “You don’t ride?” he echoed. “You’ll have to learn. We’ll see to it, won’t we, Hetty?”
“I don’t see why we should bother. She’s not going to be here that long and I can go riding with one of the stable hands.”
Rude, as well, Annelise thought. “I appreciate the kindness,” she said, gently directing that sentiment toward Josiah, “but I have a fear of horses and I’ve never been able to overcome it.” That was an out-and-out lie. She still loved them, even the black stallion who’d thrown her father. It hadn’t been his fault—he’d carried her father a hundred times when he was that drunk. But in the end his luck had run out.
“Miss Hetty and I can go for a walk in the park later,” she added. “In the meantime I would love the chance to improve our acquaintance.”
It was going to need some improving. Miss Hetty was about to open that perfect mouth of hers to argue some more, when her father spoke.
“Go upstairs with Miss Kempton, Hetty,” he said, and there was a note of steel beneath the rough voice. One that his daughter was wise enough not to disobey.
She flounced out of the room, not even bothering to glance over her pretty little shoulder to see if Annelise was following her.
“She’s a high-spirited filly,” Mr. Chipple said fondly, “but she’s a good lass. I’m sure the two of you will be best friends in no time.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Annelise said faintly, and started after the obstreperous young creature.
Indeed, it was a shame she was too well bred to earn a living, Annelise thought as she slowly climbed the wide marble stairs. Hetty was waiting at the top of the flight, tapping her tiny foot impatiently, and Annelise had the fleeting notion that the little brat might try to shove her back down those stairs.
If she tried, she’d be going with her, she thought grimly. She reached the landing and gave the girl her coolest smile. The chit came only to her shoulders—making Annelise feel like a hulking giant.
Hetty looked up at her with her wide blue eyes. “My, you are a big one, aren’t you?”
Hetty’s comment had the opposite effect from what she’d intended. At least the girl was smart enough to know where to twist the knife. Very few people knew she was self-conscious about her height, but Hetty had homed in on it immediately. She was going to be a worthy challenge.
“Quite large, in fact,” Annelise said briefly. “But I trust you have enough sense not to make personal remarks to strangers. I’m more than aware that you are none too happy with my arrival, and plan to demonstrate just that in any way you can. However, in polite society one does not comment on another’s physical attributes. A general compliment usually suffices.”
Hetty stared at her. “I don’t have to be polite to you. You’re a mere hireling.”
“In fact, I am not. People of my station do not work for a living. I am merely helping out as a favor to my godmother. I consider you my charity work.”
Hetty blinked, and Annelise wisely moved farther from the treacherous marble staircase. “You dare…” Hetty sputtered.
“My dear child, I am the Honorable Miss Annelise Kempton, daughter of a baronet, granddaughter of an earl, with my family’s name emblazoned in the Domes-day Book long before anyone in your family learned to read. I would suggest you consider carefully what youdare. I don’t expect your father would be pleased to hear that you insulted your guest. He went to a great deal of trouble to arrange this visit.”
Hetty’s lower lip trembled, and Annelise remembered that for all her arrogance, Hetty was just seventeen, and far less sure of herself than she appeared.
“Pax,” she said gently. “I only want to be of assistance, and I promise you I’m neither a governess nor an ogre. My task is to help you attract the right sort of attention, secure the marriage you deserve. Your fortune is astonishing, particularly considering you are your father’s only heir, and of course it’s unentailed. Beyond that, you know perfectly well that you are very pretty.”
Hetty was rousing herself to fight back. “I’m not pretty, I’m beautiful! One of the greatest beauties of all time, better than the Gunning sisters, better than—”
“You don’t need to be more beautiful than the Gunning sisters—they had no money to lure a well-bred husband. With your face and your circumstances you should do very well indeed, once I’ve given you a little polish.”
“I don’t need—”
“Even a rare diamond needs a bit of polish,” Annelise said firmly. “Now show me to my room and you can tell me about the young men you’ve met, who might be a good prospect. I don’t need to ask who has fallen at your feet—I’m certain they all have. But you can afford to be very picky when it comes to a mate. He needn’t have money, but your father would prefer a title, and he must be of good character.”
“I’ve already chosen,” Miss Hetty said firmly. “And no one is going to tell me I can’t have him!”
That was what she’d heard them arguing about earlier, she thought. “Has the gentleman made known his intentions?”
“He doesn’t need to. You said it yourself, every man in London is at my feet. I can choose whomever I please, and I choose him.”
“And who, exactly, is this paragon who has captured your heart?” she inquired, following her charge down the wide, unfortunately-papered hallway until they came to a bedroom door. Hetty flung it open with a dramatic gesture that was entirely wasted, since there was nothing dramatic about the large room she was being offered.
“He’s a viscount,” Hetty said. “Or at least he will be once his uncle dies. And he doesn’t have a penny, but he does very well at cards. Besides, I’ll have enough money for the both of us.”
“True enough.”
“And he’s absolutely beautiful. I deserve a beautiful husband, do I not?”
“There is no reason why you shouldn’t have one,” Annelise replied, wondering how she was going to broach the possibility that extremely beautiful men were often not particularly interested in women.
“So I’ll have him.”
“Who?”
“Christian Montcalm.”
And if Annelise had been the type to swoon, she would be flat on the garish carpet at that very moment, dead to the world.
Fortunately Annelise had never swooned in her life, so she simply shut the door, leaned back against it to look at the defiant Miss Hetty and said, “No.”
2
“I beg your pardon?” Miss
