The Devil's Waltz. Anne Stuart
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an old friend check to see how another old friend is doing? I just happened to come up to London…”
“Just happened? You hate London. You hate cities, you told me. You want nothing more than to spend your entire life in Kent as the perfect country squire.”
“I thought I could change,” Will said in a quiet voice.
More and more interesting, Annelise thought. She should put a stop to this, invite the young man back to the house. If he were really persona non grata he’d come up with an excuse. But right now this was far too fascinating to interfere.
“It wouldn’t matter,” Hetty said. “You can’t change your family, and their estate is not nearly old or illustrious enough to suit my father. And you can’t suddenly come up with a title when your future clearly lies in being Squire Dickinson of Applewood. I’m destined for better things in this life than living a dreary existence in the country with nothing to do but have babies and grow fat. I’m very happy here. I have more than a dozen suitors, I go out every night and dance until I’m exhausted, I hear music and go to the theater and have stimulating discussions about books and such…”
William Dickinson snatched his hat off his head in frustration, crushing it between his big hands. “You haven’t changed that much, Hetty,” he said. “You never cared much for music, you don’t like plays unless there’s a murder in them, and your taste in literature isn’t the sort of thing people sit around and discuss. Most people despise novels. Your father has put too many grand ideas in your head, when you know you’d be happiest back home with a man who loves you.”
“A man?” Hetty’s laugh was derisive—she must have been practicing, Annelise thought cynically. “A boy, I think. A childhood playmate, and perhaps my first sweetheart, but I can look much higher when it comes to marriage. I’ll be a viscountess at least.”
“And who’s this viscount? Does he love you?”
“Of course. And he’s handsome, not too old, and very witty. I’ve moved on, Will. It’s time you did too. Go back to Kent. You don’t belong here.”
Annelise would have given the fortune she didn’t have to see what Montcalm’s reaction would be to being called “not too old,” but then, life was never fair.
William Dickinson was a very handsome young man, in an honest, rawboned fashion—a far cry from Montcalm’s faintly decadent elegance. His face was tanned by the sun, his strong jaw set with frustration, but the love in his blue eyes didn’t waver. Their children would have the prettiest blue eyes, Annelise mused, before remembering her chaperon’s duties.
“Mr. Dickinson,” Annelise said. “Perhaps it would be best if you come back to the house for tea, so you can continue this discussion.”
“I’m not welcome under Mr. Chipple’s roof,” he said in a stark, dramatic tone that was perfectly suited to Hetty’s dramatic streak. “And I don’t have much else to say. Except that you don’t belong here either, Hetty. Come home with me. We don’t need your father’s money—we don’t need the fancy city people and all this foolishness. Come back home and marry me.”
“I already told you that was out of the question. As did my father, much more forcefully. I assure you, I’m where I belong and very happy about it. Go back home and forget about me, Will.” She didn’t sound nearly as certain about it as her words suggested. Her lovely blue eyes were looking suspiciously moist, her plump lower lip seemed close to trembling. Annelise retrieved a handkerchief from her sleeve and presented it to her.
“I don’t need it,” she said, grabbing it and dabbing at her eyes. “I’m just so angry. Why can’t I make you understand, Will? It was one thing when we were young and foolish, but I’m grown up now, and I understand the way the world works. It wasn’t to be.”
Annelise wished she had a second handkerchief with her because Will Dickinson looked as if he was about to burst into tears himself.
Montcalm or Dickinson? No matter what Mr. Chipple’s grand ambitions were, it was more than clear that happiness lay with this raw young man from the country, at least in Hetty’s martyred eyes. And what was Annelise’s role in all this? To further her host’s ambitions—to ensure that Hetty married neither a scoundrel nor a nobody from the countryside.
And Annelise was a woman who knew her duty. And blithely chose to ignore it. “It’s a beautiful day,” she said in her calm voice. “Why don’t the two of you walk down by the duck pond and sit. The benches there are empty—if I sit here I’ll be able to keep an eye on you and you’ll both be very well chaperoned but yet able to converse without restraint.”
“Could we, miss?” Will said, some of the despair lifting from his eyes for a moment.
“Miss Kempton,” Hetty muttered, finally remembering her manners. But she wasn’t objecting to the notion. She glanced in the direction of the duck pond longingly.
“Of course,” Annelise said, moving to the bench, wishing she still had her handkerchief to brush it off, but sitting anyway, giving them a serene, approving smile. “You need time to talk things out. I’ll be right here.”
Mr. Dickinson held out his arm with all the stateliness of a royal duke, and after a moment Hetty put her tiny gloved hand on his sleeve, looking up at him. And in a brief instance all was clear. Hetty was just as much in love with Will Dickinson as he was with her, and the bucolic life could make her blissfully happy. She was young enough to enjoy the admiration of all those around her, but smart enough to eventually need more in her life. Will Dickinson would be steadfast, loyal, protective and devoted. What more could a woman ask for?
She watched them as they made their way down to the pond, and felt a sentimental dampness in her eyes. She fumbled in her pockets, but the handkerchief was already with Hetty, so she sniffled bravely, only to find a snowy white handkerchief proffered from behind her, the hand holding it strong and gloved and dripping with lace.
Annelise had learned some excellent curses from the grooms in her father’s stable, as well as a few from her father when he was in his cups and indiscreet, and “hells bells” just slipped out before she could silence herself.
Christian Montcalm took the seat beside her, laughing. “Now, that’s hardly the language for a dragon,” he said. “Does Mr. Chipple know that the Honorable Miss Kempton swears like a fishwife?”
“That wasn’t my fishwife language,” she said. “You haven’t annoyed me enough to deserve it. Yet.”
A man shouldn’t be that handsome. The faint lines around his eyes had to be from dissipation, not laughter, but knowing their cause didn’t lessen their appeal. It was no wonder an impressionable young thing like Hetty had succumbed to his charm. What woman wouldn’t?
She wouldn’t, Annelise reminded herself. She looked at him. “So I assume that Hetty’s reluctance to come for a walk was because she’d already planned to slip out and meet you?”
“Not at all. This was pure happenstance. If she was planning to meet me she wouldn’t be off with another young man, totally unchaperoned.”
“She’s not unchaperoned—I can see them very clearly from here, and besides, I’m the one who sent them down there so they could talk.” Unfortunately they were sitting a bit too close, and Will’s arm was around her. She should get up and intervene, but then Montcalm would follow her, and that was the last thing she wanted. It would make matters even more complicated than they already were.
“You sent her? Why am I not surprised? And what does this stalwart young swain have to offer that I do not?”
“He’s a decent, honorable man. You’re a wicked, wretched—”
“Hush now, Miss Kempton. You have better manners than that. I don’t understand why you’ve taken me in such dislike—I’m a perfectly charming gentleman.”
“A bit too charming,” she said tartly.
“Merci