Two Turtledoves (13 page)

"A—a
button
?" The mention of Banbury's name,
the note from Lady Katherine, the locked door… Of course. Baldwyn
shook his head in disbelief.

"Yes, he said it was a family heirloom, or something
of the sort. Have you seen it?"

"He sent you in here to look for his button?"

"Yes."

"And I suppose he described it to you? The
button?"

"Well, no. In fact, he didn't. I have no idea what
I'm looking for."

"I see." Baldwyn had to applaud their efforts, if not
their execution.

"And what are you doing in here?" Anastasia tilted
her head and took a step away from the door.

Baldwyn held the note up between his fingers. "The
Lady Katherine, desperate to discuss her particular troubles with
my cousin, the devil."

"I see." She moved to a chair and sat down. "And
locking the door?"

"Their idea of forcing the issue."

"What issue?"

She stared at him with wide-eyed innocence. Certainly
she knew what they were trying to do. He cleared his throat and
tugged at his cravat.

"Perhaps we should light more candles. It is rather
dark in here." He slipped a handkerchief out of his pocket and
patted his forehead with it. The fire he'd laid in the grate was
making the room very hot indeed. He moved to the other side of the
desk and lit the candles there.

Baldwyn felt rather than saw Anastasia stand and join
him behind her father's desk. When he turned around, she was
standing dangerously close to him, tracing his movements with her
gaze.

The scent of lilac bombarded his senses as she sidled
closer to him. And he noticed once again how well the pale gold
gown accented all her features, and he ached to reach out and pull
her into his arms one more time.

His pulse pounded in his ears. Surely she would hear
the slamming of his heart in his chest. Her gaze held his locked in
a tight embrace, refusing him the liberty to look away. She leaned
closer, only inches away from him now. Baldwyn swallowed hard at
the knot lodged in his throat, but his mouth had gone dry, and
there was not a drop to be had in the study to aid him in his
plight. Then again, he had proven himself untrustworthy in her
company when altered by liquor.

When she reached for him, he tensed and closed his
eyes, bracing himself for the effect her warm touch had on his
resolve to protect her virtue.

But her touch never came, and when he opened his
eyes, she was reaching beyond him to the shelf just behind his left
shoulder. She brought her hand back and took a step away, leaving
him to suffer a cold, empty dissatisfaction.

From her delicate fingers dangled a tarnished brass
key on a blue satin ribbon.

"I suppose your cousin was not counting on the spare
key," she whispered. A mischievous glint danced in her eyes.

"I… I daresay he hadn't." To his surprise, his heart
sank in what felt rather like disappointment. "Well played, my
lady."

"I am not entirely without my uses," she muttered
with a hint of sarcasm and dropped the key into his outstretched
palm.

There was nothing left to do but unlock the door and
go their separate ways, though he couldn't help but wish, even if
for just a moment, that the key wouldn't fit the lock, and she
would reach for him one more time.

The next day was long and brutal.

Baldwyn was cordial.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

After an entire day of just enough of his particular
attention, Anastasia was quite certain he was making a concerted
effort to let her know precisely where he stood on the prospect of
their marriage.

He was not pleased.

He would never see her as anything other than
inconvenient duty.

Anastasia accepted another glass of claret. Her
third. She rarely drank, but somehow the situation seemed to call
for it this night.

The smile Baldwyn offered so freely to Lady Katherine
as they shared their confidence made her blood boil. A smile that
should be hers alone, yet she rarely saw it. With her, he was ever
the stern and tacit suitor.

Perhaps the rumors were true. It was said Lady
Katherine held a secret tender for the Duke of Paisley. He would
know the gossip.

"Are you well, Lady Anastasia?" he asked her
suddenly. How he seemed to know the exact moments she was upset
when he rarely looked at her was a mystery.

"I am, your grace," she replied with a wicked
sneer.

He cocked an eyebrow and stared at her a bit longer
before turning back to his partner.

Lady Katherine lowered her voice and murmured
something into his ear. He laughed.

Chances were it was the claret. Anastasia's head was
positively swimming in it. Whatever it was, every one of her senses
was heightened and fully focused on what was transpiring in that
moment between
her
intended and Lady Katherine.

She knew she was glowering, but she wasn't about to
stop.

And when Lady Katherine patted Baldwyn's forearm,
Anastasia could no longer ignore her growing rage. And just before
she opened her mouth to speak, the thought flashed through her mind
—
perhaps that third glass of claret had been a mistake.

"The two of you are rather cozy. And where is Banbury
at present, I wonder, Lady Katherine?"

"You know well, Lady Anastasia, that he has retired
in order to prepare for an early morning departure," she replied.
Her clear eyes leveled on Anastasia's.

"How fortunate for the Duke of Paisley," Anastasia
snapped. Too much wine or not, she knew she had gone too far with
that outburst. But the overwhelming impulse to scratch out the
trollop's eyes frightened even her. She fled from the room,
hurrying through her father's study and out onto his terrace.

The bitter cold wind seemed to slice right through
her as she hit the outside air, but she did not care. She rushed to
the farthest corner overlooking the garden, which was covered in a
thick blanket of fresh snow and inky darkness. Covering her face
with both hands, she allowed the sobs to rack her body until she
could cry no more.

How long had he stood there before Anastasia sensed
his presence behind her on the terrace? No doubt he had followed
her out to administer the much deserved reproof after the scene he
had just witnessed. The anticipation of that event settled in her
mind along with the equally unwelcome realization that this was
what life would be like with this man. Forever.

No passion. Only duty.

Armed with her indignation and infused with liquid
courage, she gave voice to her thoughts.

"What is it about me you find so terribly
repulsive?"

"Repulsive? Whatever do you mean?"

"You rarely look at me. You never touch me. It's as
if the one stolen kiss put you off forever. Am I that
dreadful?"

"Anastasia, I—" His blue eyes were wide with shock.
Her words had taken him quite by surprise. Perhaps he thought she
hadn't noticed his indifference.

"There are times that you stare at me as though you
cannot believe your misfortune to be forever bound to one such as
me. Though for the life of me, I cannot comprehend what it is about
me that repels you so. Other men find me interesting enough." She
was fighting her own tears now. He looked at her as if she had gone
mad, but she couldn't stop herself from speaking.

"I'm sorry, your grace, but I do not wish to be
someone's
duty.
I have no desire to be simply the burden a
man must bear. And you do not want me. That much is clear." Her
heart was breaking with the honesty of being laid bare before the
duke. She had held it in for far too long. She turned her back on
him. His piercing glare was more than she could stand.

"I have loved you — always. As far back as I can
remember, it has only ever been you to whom my heart has called
out." Her voice was no more than a whisper now. "And I always
dreamed you would one day sweep me off my feet, carry me off to
your castle in Scotland and have your way with—"

She was interrupted by a strong hand on her elbow,
spinning her around before she could resist. And before she could
utter a syllable of protest, Baldwyn's lips were crushing down on
hers in earnest.

He lifted her fully from the ground, pulling her
flush against him, stealing her breath away.

She struggled against him for only an instant. A
thick haze descended. Was this really happening? No. It was a
dream. Wasn't it?

Instinctively, she slid her arms around his neck and
pulled him closer still, meeting his searching mouth with her own,
coaxing him further. He needed no more invitation, but plunged his
warm velvet tongue into her mouth, engaging hers in a slow rhythmic
dance.

From somewhere distant, she understood that he had
lifted her into his arms and was carrying her away — to where, she
didn't care. She only hoped he wouldn't stop kissing her.

****

He must stop kissing her. But his prolonged
abstinence only increased his appetite for her. The heat of her
body pressed against his was like water to a man dying of
thirst.

Baldwyn could thoroughly ruin her. Here. Now.

She wanted him to. She had said as much.

Only one thought stopped him from doing so.

She was young, and had never before been thoroughly
kissed. She wouldn't know how to stop if she wanted to.

That left him alone to guard her virtue. No matter
how much he hated that responsibility. Now — before her wanton
groaning melted all his chivalrous resolve.

With painful regret he set her on her feet, pried
himself from her, and stumbled backward with labored breath.

Her golden brown eyes, still glazed over in a cloud
of desire, accused him of letting go too soon. She leaned toward
him, reaching for his face, but he stepped back, dodging her touch,
instead grasping her hand in his and kissing her fingers.

Confusion seemed to mingle with pain of rejection in
her dark eyes again. His heart broke at the sight.

"No. No. Anastasia, listen to me," he pleaded. "I
want you. Heaven knows I do. Every moment in your presence without
touching you — without feeling the warmth of your lips on mine —
has been pure torture. Torture only the devil himself could
devise." He released her hand and retreated another step, holding
up a hand to keep her from approaching him.

"If I had believed for one instant you thought I
didn't want you, I would have… You must believe me, my love. I
thought only to guard your virtue."

"I asked you for no such favor," she interjected.

"I sought only to protect you. My duty—" He couldn't
keep the tremor from his voice, and no matter what his mind was
saying, the rest of his body was still fully aware of how much he
desired to throw caution to the wind and take her as his own.

"Hang your duty, Baldwyn Sinclair," Anastasia
whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "And hang you!"

Before he knew what had happened, before he realized
he had said anything wrong, she spun on her heel and rushed down
the stairs into the dark garden, leaving Baldwyn gaping after her
in disbelief.

Anastasia didn't even feel the cold wind slicing
through her thin shawl. She stumbled blindly through the snow
drifts, heading who knew where. Crystalline flakes began floating
around her and the only sound was her heavy breath and the crunch
of her feet as she trudged on toward her unknown destination.

Tears stung her cheeks, streaming unchecked down her
face, and the frigid winter breeze burned the remaining wet
trail.

Duty
.
That's all she was to him. An unpleasant
responsibility put upon him by his ailing grandmother whom he
simply couldn't find it in himself to refuse.

Where would that leave them when the deed was done
and the dowager was dead and buried? He would resent her. Despise
her for taking his last shred of freedom and strangling him with
it.

It wasn't her intention. She had no desire to cause
him pain. She had loved him since she was seven. Since he had
rescued her from the giant oak and shared an apple with her,
speaking of turtledoves and her mourning father. Somewhere deep
within him she knew that boy lived still. That knight in shining
armor who would save her from all harm.

But she couldn't do it. She couldn't be the thorn in
his side.

The darkness seemed to fall around her like a blanket
of coal black ink, muddied only by the flurries which suddenly
seemed to be increasing in intensity. She glanced about her but
could see nothing. No landmarks of note.

In her despair Anastasia had wandered haphazardly,
not sure which direction she had taken from the house. Not a single
star lit the darkness. The clouds were black and thick, concealing
the moon and all the stars.

Fear gripped her chest, stealing her breath. She
twirled wildly, eyes widening in search for something, anything, to
indicate where she might be.

Her foot caught on an unmoving obstruction in the
path, sending her flailing to the cold, hard ground. She landed
with a crunch on her hands and knees. Her hand caught a sharp rock,
and she felt the tear of flesh through her glove. A cry wrenched
from her throat, piercing the silence of the dark.

On hands and knees, Anastasia felt the ground all
around her until her gloved hand found the rough solid root of an
oak tree. Her oak tree. Tracing the root to the trunk, she eased
herself into the crook at the base.

She had been there a thousand times. More times than
she could count. Huddling tightly against the trunk, she was able
to block the cold wind somewhat. Her thin evening shawl offered
little protection, and though she hadn't felt it when she fled the
manor house, the ice was beginning to settle in her veins now,
cutting right through the fabric of her bodice and
undergarments.