Two Turtledoves (10 page)

She leaned across him to look out his window,
brushing his chest with her shoulder.

"It's very dark. I wonder if we have missed
dinner."

Baldwyn had no voice to respond, so he grunted his
agreement.

"No doubt Papa will have informed Cook to set
something aside for us." She sat back again and glanced out her own
window. "I do hope there are some games this evening. After that
splendid rest, I don't think I could retire to bed so soon."

He cringed and wished she wouldn't speak of such
things. Another moment in the carriage with her would mean her
ruination. And he had made a promise.

Before the horses were at a complete stop, he shifted
her away from him and leapt from the carriage, running for the
manor house. He completely forgot about helping Lady Anastasia to
disembark, his only thought was for the drink he sorely needed.

****

Even the footman who helped her out of the carriage
appeared to mirror her shock at the duke's abrupt disappearance.
The man was certainly a great puzzle. One moment he was the epitome
of manners, duty, and responsibility — the next he was fleeing from
all of it.

It seemed he was only a model of restraint where she
was concerned. Anastasia watched in silent confusion as he
retreated into the house, leaving her to fend for herself among the
servants and footmen.

Inside, Baldwyn was nowhere to be seen. Anastasia
thought of dinner, but suddenly had little appetite. She wanted
only to climb the stairs to her chambers and hide the
disappointment from her father. But she knew she must face him.
Tell him she had arrived safely then excuse herself to bed, even
though sleeping was the last thing on her mind.

As she approached his study, she could hear the sound
of low conversation.

"I see you made it safely, Paisley."

"Yes, my lord."

"And how was the journey?"

"It was quite… uneventful."

"Hmmm… that is a pity."

"My lord?"

"Paisley, may I be frank?"

There was a moment of thick silence.

"Of course, my lord."

"I admire and respect you. Of all the peerage, there
is none other I find so worthy as you on whom to bestow my only
daughter. All I have left of my wife."

Anastasia stood completely still outside the door,
listening intently.

"So, please understand I say this with the greatest
love and all due respect…" She could hear him pour a glass of
something.

"You are, at times, a great lummox."

Baldwyn must have just taken a sip from his glass. He
coughed and sputtered and gasped for breath at her father's
directness.

"My lord?" he finally choked out.

"Do not misunderstand, your grace. I do appreciate
your uncommon sense of duty with regards to protecting my
daughter's virtue. And whenever I am in your company, you are a
portrait of devotion and attention. Yet she is sad."

Their voices died away once again, and she thought
she could hear the creak of the chair as Baldwyn stood, the sound
of his glass being set on the desk.

"May I be frank, my lord?"

Anastasia held her breath. What would he confess? He
loved another? Or perhaps his intentions toward her had changed?
Would he ask to be released from their betrothal?

"Of course, your grace," her father answered. His
voice was low and soothing. Did he see anger in Baldwyn's eyes? Was
he treading lightly for a purpose?

"I will not say you had any plans to place your
daughter in a carriage alone with me, though I am certain she is
far too naïve to employ such a strategy. But I will advise you, it
would be wise, and indeed in everyone's best interest to avoid such
arrangements in the future, until we are married."

She could hear her father's low chuckle. But the
indignation burning in her chest overshadowed the rest of their
conversation.

Naïve?

Truly?

His opinion of her was indeed low. Perhaps he would
never see her as anything other than the little girl who climbed
trees and threw mud.

There was no need to continue eavesdropping here. She
would simply wish her father good night and retire. She knocked
lightly on his door and stepped through unbidden.

"Papa?"

"Anastasia. You've arrived!" He smiled broadly at her
with a twinkle in his eyes. How could he be so happy when he had
just had such a tragic conversation? A wave of nausea swept through
her.

"And how was your journey, my sweet?" he prodded,
acting like nothing was wrong in the world.

"It was tolerable." Her gaze wandered to Baldwyn. He
sat staring at the full glass in his hand, not bothering even to
acknowledge her presence. At least he had the good grace not to try
to cover the betrayal that had just transpired. He presented his
true colors and gave her the cut direct.

"Have you had dinner? Cook has set something aside
for you."

"I find myself with no appetite this evening. Perhaps
the wear of the road. I believe I shall retire."

"Very well, my dear. Shall I see you to your room?"
Lord Marks suggested.

"No, thank you, Papa. I can find my own way."

He seemed disappointed and cast a glance in Baldwyn's
direction. Perhaps expecting him to volunteer to take the task on
himself. The duke appeared not to notice and adjusted the cuff of
his jacket sleeve.

After a long pause her father rose and kissed her on
the forehead. "Pleasant dreams, daughter. We shall speak on the
morrow."

"Good night, Papa." With that she turned and left the
room, not daring another look at the duke, who seemed already half
into his cups.

****

Baldwyn lost track of how much he had consumed
somewhere after his third glass of brandy. The silence filling the
house told him everyone else had retired for the night. It was a
shame he hadn't paid closer attention when Lord Marks explained
which room was his.

Vaguely he recalled he would have to go up the stairs
to the find it, but after that he was at a loss. He stood and
steadied himself before moving toward the door. Why was the room
tilting to the left? With a shake of his head he made a slight
navigational adjustment and began the arduous quest to find his
bed.

He must have had more to drink than he thought,
because the trek up the stairs was reminiscent of that tortuous
voyage to the Continent so long ago, as if he was fighting the
pitch of the sea. Taking a firm grasp on the banister, Baldwyn
pulled himself up the stairway to the wing he knew would house the
guests.

Back and forth he staggered, trying to find firm
ground on which to place his next step, but the floor seemed to
give way beneath his feet as he moved. After what seemed like an
eternity, he cast a hazy glance about him. Every door looked the
same. Could they not have labeled each room with a name? That would
have been so convenient. Certainly he was only going in circles
now.

Much longer and he would fall to the floor and sleep
where he landed.

Out of desperation, he pounded on the door closest.
When there was not an immediate answer, he rapped again, louder and
longer until a soft click of the latch told him someone was
there.

The door opened only a crack. Through it a dark
almond-shaped eye peeked out at him, blinking against the candle
light in the hall. Such long dewy lashes, batting so
invitingly.

Baldwyn blinked and stared back at it.

A soft voice floated out to him, falling on his ears
like that much warm molasses, sweetening his clouded mind.

"Is all well, your grace?"

"I—I am uncertain," he said, the slur of his voice
coming belatedly to his ears.

Concern leapt into her expression, and the door
opened wider. It was Lady Anastasia. A sense of guilt pricked at
the back of his mind, as though there were some reason he should
apologize to the lady, but he could not for the life of him grasp
what it was.

"Might one of you show me to my room?"

"One of us, your grace?"

"Yes, you or your identical twin." Perhaps he was
seeing things. There were two of them, weren't there?

"I believe your grace has had a drink or two this
evening."

"That is very true." He took a step toward her but
stumbled and launched himself into the wall instead. "Will you help
me?"

She glanced down the corridor and then back to him.
"Very well, your grace," she said with a sigh and lifted his arm
and wrapped it around her shoulders. "It's just a bit farther."

He didn't remember her smelling so good. Like
Scottish bluebells and primroses. Perhaps the brandy was
heightening his senses. The floor pitched again, and he stumbled
over his own feet. So, perhaps only his sense of smell…

"Your grace, I will see you to your room, but you
shall have to make an effort to keep your feet under you."

"Yes, of course. I do apologize, my love," he
slurred. She stopped suddenly in her tracks, jolting him. "What?
What is it?" he asked.

"This is it." Her brown eyes searched his face.

"Oh. You are angry with me." Baldwyn hung his head.
If only the thick fog in his brain would clear. "I know I have been
awful."

"You misunderstand, your grace. This…" she waved a
hand toward the door before them, "…is your chamber."

"Ah, yes. Very good." She turned away, leaving a cold
void where she had held him. "Anastasia…" He wasn't sure what he
wanted to say, he just knew he wasn't ready for her to leave
him.

"Your grace?"

"Your grace, your grace!" he mocked her. "Must you
always be so proper?"

"Pardon me?" A flash of anger lit up her eyes. "Did
you not just—"

But he stopped listening. His eyes focused on her
lips. He didn't understand a word coming out of her mouth, but it
didn't matter. Ever since he had kissed her at Montmouth's ball,
the memory had plagued him. He would kiss her again. Now. And to
the fire with propriety.

"You arrogant, self-righteous pr—" His lips crushed
to hers, stopping the words in her throat.

It was easy to rationalize it. It was his duty to
show her how dangerous it was for her to be gallivanting about the
hall in her dressing gown… at night… in her own house. Put that
way, of course, it sounded much less chivalrous.

He knew he shouldn't, but the logic of it seemed to
make perfect sense. And in the instant his lips touched hers he was
lost — lost in a sea of desire of need, and powerless to fight what
he'd been craving to do for the past four days.

The lady was innocent, unsure how to respond. Baldwyn
could tell that much in his drunken state.

If he was to be chained to her for the rest of his
life, he may as well teach her how this was done. Surely that was
his responsibility as well.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her,
intending only to gain a better angle from which to begin the
lesson. Still unsteady on his feet, he lost his balance and
stumbled toward the wall, slamming her back to it and falling
against her forcefully. The gasp that escaped her throat left her
mouth slightly opened, enough for him to taste the moist warmth of
her mouth. His brain was on fire and had no room for any other
thought.

Her whimper was all the encouragement he needed, and
he pulled her flush against him. The softness of her pressed
against him drove him deeper still into the flames that consumed
him body and soul.

His hands wandered on their own then, with no regard
to propriety. He couldn't stop if he wanted to.

Anastasia squirmed in his grasp. He took her mouth
wholly with his, pulling her tighter, wanting with every fiber of
his being to somehow stumble into his bedroom and ruin her
completely. Perhaps it was the liquor, but it seemed like a
perfectly lovely idea.

Her hands pressed to his chest like a barrier between
them, keeping them apart. Why wasn't she embracing him? He tangled
his fingers into her long wavy brown hair which hung down her back
and about her shoulders like cascading velvet. Baldwyn traced her
shoulders, down her arms, and finally finding her hands, he
interlaced his fingers with hers and gently urged them away.

She startled as if caught off guard, pulling them off
balance once more, and the two of them lurched to the side,
slamming against a hall table which held an old vase and a pair of
silver candlesticks.

The vase tipped over and rolled to the floor. The
resounding shatter echoed through the hall, bringing Baldwyn
abruptly back to earth.

He took a step back and turned to Lady Anastasia. She
seemed frozen in that moment of time. Both her tiny hands covered
her mouth in what appeared to be horror, and she shook her head.
Tears brimmed in her eyes and began to slip down her cheeks.

"I—" she began. Wrapping her arms around herself, she
began to back away from him.

Baldwyn wanted to reach out. Comfort her. Protect her
from whatever was causing her sorrow… her fear.

"Your room is here, your grace," she whispered
quickly, then whirled around and hurried back to her own room,
closing the door behind her. The latch clicked into place, and the
creak of a key turning in the lock immediately followed.

And with that metallic snap of the mechanism, the
realization came.

It was he who'd caused her sorrow.

He was a great idiot. That was not up for debate.
Unfortunately the episode the previous night was clear enough in
his memory to cause violent pangs of conscience… which were only
compounded by the pounding in his head.

By some miracle he had found his way down to the
dining room, though he was less interested in breaking his fast
than he was in spending the day in his chamber, nursing the skull
splitting ache in his head. Benedict would have the cure. The man
was notorious for his drinking binges and always seemed to come out
on the other side without so much as a twitching brow.