“You don’t have to marry me!” she cried. “Did someone hit you on the head and knock you senseless? If so, I’d be more than happy to administer another blow to see if it might cure you. My reputation is safe. There is no need for you to make a decent woman out of me.”
“Ah, my sweet, I already have,” he said. He was going to kiss her, and if she had any pride at all she’d kick him in the shins with her heavy boots, shove him away, over the cliff if she could….
The touch of his mouth on hers was so soft it was like a benediction, and she felt the embarrassing tears fill her eyes once more. He had the most deleterious effect on her strength of mind, damn him.
“You’ll marry me, my dragon, and you’ll bear my children, and you’ll drive me mad and live in that ramshackle old house with me and I’ll even put up with the occasional visit from your sister if I must. But you’ll marry me. Not because you have to. But because I won’t let you go.”
She was crying, damn it, and there was nothing she could do about it. “Why?” she demanded.
And he answered the only way he could, in French. “Je t’aime,” he said. “I love you.”
She must have been holding her breath for days. She released it, melting in his arms. “Je t’aime aussi,” she said. “And I will make your life a living hell,” she added in the same language.
He smiled down at her. “I’m counting on it.”
EPILOGUE
10 years later
Christian Montcalm ambled across the field in the direction of the old mansion, two spaniels at his heels. He was in shirtsleeves, but it was a warm day, and he was in no particular need of a coat.
Wynche End was looking better, though nothing would disguise the gothic eccentricities of the place. The new roof had just been completed, and he was pleased that he would no longer be distracted by importunate leaks when he was in the midst of his marital duties. Though he was broad-minded enough to appreciate a few surprises and Annelise had responded with appropriate enthusiasm, sleeping in damp sheets had never been a pleasant experience.
He heard the screams of rage from a distance, but he made no effort to quicken his pace. It was far too nice a day to rush, and he had little doubt where the noise came from. By the time he reached the stable yard the battle seemed to have been concluded. His six-year-old son, Christopher Hercules, was on the ground in the dirt, howling with rage, as his eight-year-old daughter, Minerva Elizabeth, sat atop him, keeping him down. In the meantime, the Browne twins, both seven, were trying to reason with his termagant daughter.
He paused long enough to pluck his daughter off her brother and set her on the ground. She immediately charged back toward her furious sibling, but he simply caught her and held her for a moment, dangling in midair. “Behave yourself, Minnie, or I’ll tell your mother,” he said. Enough to put the fear of God into most people, but Minnie was more than a match for the dragon.
She knew better than to protest. He set her back down on the ground, and she glared at her brother as he scrambled to his feet. He looked as if he was about to leap on her, and Christian cast a warning glance in his direction. “That goes for you, as well, my boy.”
Hercules was wise enough to fear his mother’s formidable temper, and he retreated with a muttered curse, one that Christian wisely overlooked. They knew to harness their language in the presence of their starchy aunt and uncle, and in the meantime it was an improvement over fighting. Hercules was sporting a black eye from the last go-round, and Christian was sorely tempted to pick them both up and toss them in the pond to cool their tempers. It was a pity neither of them took after him, but at least it kept things lively.
A moment later all was sunshine as the four children took off for the fields, chatting amiably, some new plan forming. Christian shook his head, trying to dispel the sudden feeling of dread as he considered just what those four fertile minds could come up with, and walked the rest of the way to the house.
He found his wife in the library, her spectacles at the end of her nose as she perused some improving text full of high-flown romance. Her taste in literature had always amused him, a sure sign that her taste in husbands was equally impractical.
She looked up and gave him a quick smile as she closed the book, shoving it behind her in an effort to hide it. He leaned over and kissed her. “Your children are killing each other,” he said mildly.
“Again?”
“I expect the twins will keep them alive. After all, their parents did the same for me.”
She gave him a fond glance. “I expect Minnie was just pointing out the error of Hercules’s ways.”
“I expect she was.” He wanted her beside him, and not in that spindly chair, so he simply reached down and picked her up. She let out a shriek of surprised laughter before he dropped down on the shabby sofa, holding her in his lap.
She let him distract her for a few moments, then emerged from his attentions with a stern expression on her face. “You haven’t told me about the horses.”
“Mother and foal are doing very well.” He let her pull her dress up with great reluctance. The Brownes were used to his indiscretions, but some of the underservants expected a more traditional household, and he did his best not to rattle them.
“Good,” she said, her voice a bit absent, which wasn’t like her. Annelise took the breeding program very seriously indeed, and the horses produced by their small stable were becoming legendary.
He tugged at her dress again, just enough to give him access to a few inches of her shoulder, and he kissed her. He could feel her nervousness, which always amused him. Even after ten years he had the ability to unsettle her.
“I think you look tired,” he murmured against her skin. “You need a nap. A few hours of rest—I’ll make certain none of the servants are anywhere around to bother us.”
“Behave yourself,” she said in much the same tones he’d used on his children. “I need to tell you something.”
He set her beside him on the sofa, watching her warily. “Am I going to like it?” he asked cautiously.
“Yes and no,” she said. “My sister Eugenia is coming to stay again.”
“Oh, God, no!” he groaned. “She nearly killed me last time! You’d think all her energy would have been spent on you and the new baby, but no, she had more than enough advice to spare for her poor brother-in-law.”
“She’s good for you. Makes you behave.”
“I don’t like to behave.”
“I know, my darling. But you will while she’s here. You’ll be on your best behavior.”
He didn’t bother to argue—it would be a waste. “And when are we expecting the boon of such a visit?”
“In approximately eight months.” Her smile was dulcet, almost shy, and if he’d ever forgotten why he loved her that furtive smile would have reminded him.
He put his hand on her still-flat belly, leaned down and kissed her, quite indecently. She laughed, drew him up and kissed him on the mouth. “So what are we going to name this one?”
“Aphrodite if it’s a girl,” she said.
“Priapus if it’s a boy?”
She gave him a tiny shove. “That’s reserved for his father. It’s no wonder I’m in this condition again.”
“No wonder,” he said, brushing his mouth against her temple. “Why don’t we call him Tom or John or Dick or something?”
“Ares,” she said. “That’ll give him a fighting chance against his sister.”
“It won’t do any good. We breed powerful she-dragons—the poor males are no match for them.”
“Oh, I think you’re a very good match indeed,” Annelise murmured. “And you’re right—an expectant mother does need to nap more often.”
“I knew there was something to make up for your sister’s imminent visit,” he said, rising and taking her hand. “I’ll see to it that you get lots of rest.”
“Of course you will,” the Honorable Annelise Kempton Montcalm teased, letting him lead her up the stairs. “Y
ou are, after all, such a gentleman.”
And the very wicked Christian Montcalm simply smiled.
ISBN: 978-1-4603-0173-9
THE DEVIL’S WALTZ
Copyright © 2006 by Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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Anne Stuart, The Devil's Waltz
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