But when she turned, she felt herself stiffen like one of Chipple’s marble statues.
She had never been so close to him before. Her previous acquaintance, such as it was, had been across crowded ballroom floors, where she’d heard whispers about the women he danced with, the women he flirted with. She was well out of her league with someone like Christian Montcalm, and he would have been totally unaware of her existence—just another awkward wallflower. She had watched him, fascinated, and told herself “pretty is as pretty does” with a deprecating sniff.
But, oh my heavens, he was pretty! His dark hair was long, tied back simply, but one lock fell forward to caress his high cheekbone. She’d always had a weakness for well-defined cheekbones. His faintly tilted eyes were a deep, fascinating green—she’d never been close enough to see them before, but they held a hint of laughter that was undeniably appealing. And his mouth, his lips…It was no wonder he seduced every woman he met, talking them into doing unspeakable things. His rich, full mouth alone could seduce a nun.
And he was taller than she was. She’d expected he probably would be, since he towered over most of his dance partners, but that his height made her feel suddenly delicate was simply one more unfortunate circumstance. The man was well-nigh irresistible, particularly as he looked at her steadily out of those laughing eyes.
But Annelise was made of sterner stuff than that. She swallowed, then found her voice, grateful that it came out calm and cool. “That was Miss Chipple,” she said. “And she had no business being out here meeting a gentleman without a chaperon. Though no gentleman would have ever agreed to such a meeting in the first place.”
He appeared unruffled. “And what business is that of yours? Hetty didn’t mention she had an ogre spying on her every move. I would have been more discreet.”
“I doubt you know what discretion is,” she said. “—and I’m a friend of the family, keeping her company while she makes her debut.”
“No, you’re not,” he said, tilting his head to survey her more closely. “The Chipples know very few members of society as yet, and you’re clearly not of their world. You’re not a governess—you’re not meek enough. If I guess right, you’re a woman of breeding who’s fallen on hard times. So exactly who are you?”
A number of retorts came to her, most of them originating from the stable. She had learned a very colorful vocabulary of curses from her father’s stable lads, but she tried to keep them to herself. It was a cold spring day, but he was radiating heat, and those exotic eyes of his were very…disturbing.
“I’m someone who is going to make your designs on Miss Chipple impossible to carry out,” she said. “So cast your lures elsewhere.”
He laughed. Like everything about him, his laugh was enticing. “That sounds like a challenge. And a gentleman never resists a challenge.”
“But I thought we’d already ascertained that you’re no gentleman.”
He didn’t even blink after so heinous an insult. “I’d kill a man for saying that,” he said mildly.
“Then it’s fortunate for me that you have some standards, despite all rumors to the contrary. Goodbye, Mr. Montcalm.”
Another figure stumbled through the bushes, this time a shorter, slender man, with his hair askew and a faintly bleary expression on his face that signaled either dim wit or too much wine at such an early hour. Annelise didn’t care to find out.
“Who’s this Long Meg, Christian?” the man demanded. “And where’s the pretty little chit? I was going to keep watch for you but demme, I think I’d prefer to go inside and get something to warm me up.”
“Go right ahead, Crosby,” Montcalm murmured without moving his gaze from Annelise’s. “I still have some business to conduct.”
“Not with her, old man!” Crosby protested. “The woman’s a dragon. And a bit long in the tooth. Not your type at all.”
“I’m open to all possibilities,” Montcalm murmured in a silken voice. “She’s not that old, and if I can get her to remove those spectacles she might be quite entertaining.”
“There’ll be no getting beneath her skirts, old man. I know the type—too starched to even bend at the waist.”
Annelise had had enough. Bravery was all very well and good but standing so close to Christian Montcalm and listening to his friend insult her was more than she cared to endure.
“Good day, gentlemen,” she said, letting a lingering, ironic emphasis on the word gentlemen make her point. It sailed straight past Crosby, but Montcalm simply laughed that dangerously seductive laugh.
“You may be sure we’ll meet again, dragon,” he said, and for some reason the term sounded more affectionate than insulting. No wonder the man was so dangerous—even she was not totally impervious to his wicked charm.
“I doubt it.” She wheeled around and took off, back stiff, shoulders straight, as dignified as she could manage, being outside without a coat or a hat. She wouldn’t look back—they were probably laughing at her—and she wouldn’t run. Though it would take forever, she would walk back up the hill to the street and across to the Chipple mansion; she would not let him see that for the first time in what seemed like years, she was unaccountably close to tears.
“Bastard,” she muttered under her breath, liking the sound of the curse. “Goddamned rutting bastard.” Even better. Now she was feeling better. The tears had vanished, the house was in sight, and the next time they met she’d be better prepared.
But she was going to make every effort to ensure that there was not going to be a next time.
“Who the hell was that?” Crosby demanded. “You told me you were meeting the heiress.”
Christian Montcalm turned to look down at his slightly inebriated friend. Crosby had never been the most reliable of his cronies, but then, Christian didn’t tend to consort with reliable people. “The dragon got in the way. Don’t worry—there’ll be other chances.”
“You’re the one who should be worried. If you don’t come up with some money soon you’ll be in the river tick.”
“Nonsense.” He shoved the loose strand of hair away from his face. “There’ll be cards tonight, and I can make more than enough to tide me over until the engagement can be announced.”
“But you can’t always count on the cards, old man. They don’t always fall your way.”
Christian smiled. He wasn’t about to point out to Crosby that not only was he absurdly lucky when it came to cards, he was also skilled and unscrupulous enough to do something about it if the cards misbehaved. “I don’t expect to have any problem.” He turned his gaze back to the tall figure of the woman marching away from them. She was almost out of sight, which was a pity. She was really quite diverting—more interesting than the tiresome beauty was. His conversation with Miss Chipple, when he wasn’t stopping her mouth with temptingly chaste kisses, consisted of an unending line of compliments. For such a beauty she demanded constant reminders that she was, indeed, unmatchable. It was very tedious.
The dragon was far more interesting. True, she was no young maiden, but he’d had mistresses far older than she and enjoyed them tremendously. She couldn’t be much more than thirty, making her younger
