Two Turtledoves (16 page)

His grandmother's face was gray as slate, but her
look was peaceful as she slept. Baldwyn slipped the hand mirror
from the dresser and held it under her nose, checking for signs of
life. The glass clouded with her breath. Relief settled through
him. He sat beside her and took her hand.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I don't know what I was
thinking." He rubbed his eyes with his free hand and sighed as the
guilt washed through him.

She stirred and her eyelids fluttered open
halfway.

"You mustn't blame yourself, Baldwyn." Her breath was
labored and her voice scratched like pebbles under foot.

But it sounded like music to his ears. Hope surged in
him. She was too feisty to simply give up the fight. "And why not,
Grandmother? Had I done as I always have, you would be bustling
about making demands of the servants even now."

"Had you done as you always have, dear boy, you would
be just as miserable as you have always been." She gasped for her
next breath.

"You shouldn't tax yourself, Grandmother. Rest."

"I will tax myself! And you will listen to me!" She
clutched his hand in a vise-like grip. "The good things in life are
always worth the risk. Do you understand me?"

He nodded. Tears burned behind his eyes.

"You have always been the easy one, Baldwyn. So
responsible and good. But you don't take risks when you should.
Here is a clue — Lady Anastasia is a worthy risk." She gasped
again. Her breath caught in her throat, and a fit of coughing
racked her frail body. When she found her breath, she added, "Now,
leave me. I wish to conserve my strength for the devil duke, and I
shall need all I have left for that one." She squeezed his hand and
dismissed him with a weak smile.

He motioned to the maid as he stepped into the
hallway.

"Stay with her awhile. Make sure she rests," he
instructed.

His grandmother was right, of course. He had always
been honorable, responsible… and perfectly miserable.

Until now.

The question was what was he going to do about
it?

"Anastasia," Lord Marks said as she turned to greet
him. "Pardon the intrusion. I — I have some news."

The concern etched on his face sent Anastasia's heart
into her throat.

"What is it, Papa?" She hurried to him and rested her
hand on his forearm.

"The dowager duchess has passed on. It happened this
morning."

She could hear the words. She even understood what
they meant. But she didn't believe them. Couldn't believe them. The
dowager had been fine just the day before — as cantankerous and
meddlesome as ever.

"Paisley is an honorable man." Her father was still
speaking, but what he said now wasn't making any sense. "I wouldn't
worry about him backing out, my dear."

She hadn't even considered that notion. Until her
father spoke of it, and suddenly it seemed like the only logical
conclusion.

Her stomach churned as icy fear seemed to shoot
through her veins, and a cold sweat broke out all over her.

He could very well decide to up and return to
Scotland without a word. What was keeping him here now? There was
nothing. No one reminding him of his duty.

True, they had come to an understanding. Their shared
moments at the country house — his promise to marry her — but what
if… What if with the opportunity to escape, Baldwyn had a change of
heart, chose to get out while he had the chance?

Her expression must have betrayed her, because her
father lifted his hand and gently patted her cheek. "I wouldn't
expect him to call today. But have no fear of his intentions, my
sweet. He is a man of his word."

Anastasia wished she could be as certain.

****

Christmas Eve arrived and the house was a bustle of
activity in preparation for the Kringle Ball.

It was the winter event everyone looked forward to
during the Yuletide season. Lord and Lady Kringle always
transformed Holly Hall into the envy of the
ton
. They were
certain to outdo themselves once again that year.

Ordinarily, Anastasia would be positively giddy with
her gown, her hair, her escort for the evening — but her usual
enjoyment for the event was overshadowed by the apprehension.

She hadn't heard from Baldwyn since his grandmother's
death. Not a visit, not a note, not a message of any sort. For all
she knew, he could have already packed up and returned to his
beloved Scotland.

Her father had tried to reassure her, but the
sympathetic looks and hushed voices of the servants when she drew
near them gave her a desperate sense of foreboding. What if he
didn't come for her?

What if his sense of duty had died with the dowager?
What if he fled London and the horrifying prospect of a lifetime
shackled to her?

She wrung her gloves in her hands as Trudy fussed
over her hair.

"M'lady, you'll ruin yer gloves, fretting that way.
Clara just 'ad 'em pressed. She'll be sore if she has to do it
again."

"I'm sorry, Trudy. I don't know what has come over
me," Anastasia lied.

"Don't fret, Miss, I'm certain the duke will be
here—" the maid cut off at the end and clamped her mouth shut as if
remember her boundaries, but too late.

Tears stung behind Anastasia's eyes and she fought a
losing battle against their threat. Trudy had voiced Anastasia's
very heart of fear, and hearing it spoken aloud seemed to make it
that much more real.

"I'm so sorry, m'lady!" Trudy cried. Her eyes were
wide with worry.

"Never mind, Trudy. Never mind." She shook her head
and turned back to the mirror. "Let's just finish my hair."
Anastasia bit her lip and closed her eyes. Her father would call
for her in a short while, and it wouldn't do to have red puffy eyes
just before the ball.

****

Lord Marks made lively conversation during the short
trip to Holly Hall. No doubt an effort to bolster Anastasia's
spirits. She tried to humor him, to laugh along with his jests, but
inside she was in turmoil.

She would know her fate in a matter of minutes, but
in the meantime there was nothing she could do but hope.

As the footman announced them, Anastasia scrutinized
every face in the ballroom one by one.

Her heart sank when her search returned empty.

Her father offered his arm, whispering in her ear,
"It's early yet, my sweet. Chin up. He'll come."

Anastasia braved a weak smile. "Of course, Papa.
He'll come." Her throat clenched around the words she desperately
wished were true.

Safely deposited among the ladies on the side of the
great hall, Anastasia continued her search for Baldwyn's auburn
hair and clear blue eyes.

When Lord and Lady Kringle were announced, the music
began. There was still no sign of Baldwyn. Anastasia clung to her
father's words.
It's early yet.
Her gaze made its fourth
desperate sweep of the ballroom.

Behind her, a familiar masculine voice drifted to her
ears, sending waves of chill dancing down her spine all the way to
her toes.

"So lovely to see you again,
señorita
."

Mr. Tenorio.
Anastasia cringed as though with
his words and his smooth exotic accent he had touched her. And then
he stepped even with her, standing far too close. She retreated a
step, but found herself against Tristan Markham on the other side,
who had closed in without her notice.

"Mr. Markham. Mr. Tenorio." Anastasia offered a
shallow curtsy.

"Please." Mr. Tenorio grasped her hand and lifted it
to his lips, pulling her toward him in the same motion. "Allow me
to be the first to offer my sympathy, my dear."

"Sympathy, sir?" she asked, regarding him with
contempt.

"On the dissolution of your engagement, of course. It
must have been a frightful experience, your entanglement with the
Scottish duke. I hear he has a terrifying temper," Tenorio
crooned.

Had it not been for his possessive grip on her hand
and the unsettling words about her betrothal, Anastasia would have
laughed out loud then, for the proof of Baldwyn's
terrifying
temper
was still fading from Tenorio's cheekbone, though he had
apparently tried to cover it with powder.

"Pardon me?" Anastasia stared at him. On her other
side, Tristan bumped her elbow, pushing her into Tenorio's
chest.

"Yes, yes,
señorita
. There is no need to
pretend all is well. We are friends, no?" His grasp slid to her
elbow and he held her firmly to him, as his other hand reached to
caress her cheek. He smoothed her lips with his thumb.

"No," she countered and closed her lips into a stern
line, glaring into his soul-less black eyes.

"Aww, you wound me, my lady… and after all we've
shared together." He clicked his tongue as if to shame her.

"Let go of me."

Tristan Markham leaned nearer to add, "Come now,
Anastasia, Tenorio is only trying to be friendly. Why won't you
bestow a favor or two on him as before?" Anastasia's stomach
twisted into a tight knot, and she wrenched her arm free of
Tenorio's grasp only for Markham to snatch her other one, digging
his fingers into the flesh of her forearm.

Was the room so crowded that no one noticed her
distress? Two men accosting her in the middle of the great
hall?

"Mr. Markham, will you kindly take your hands off
me?" Where was her father? Desperately, she tugged free of
Markham's grip and backed away quickly, gathering her skirts in
both hands. Her frantic gaze scanned the crush for someone to run
to.

Lord Rawlings danced with his wife. The Duke of
Tempest was engaged in an intense discussion with an elder
statesman. Her father had disappeared altogether.

She glanced at the doors to the balcony. Tenorio was
right on her heels.

"Looking for a quiet place to tempt me?" he whispered
into her ear, taking her arm again. He moved toward the door with
Anastasia in tow.

"No!"

"Come now, your precious
fiancé
has gone back
to Scotland. Let me soothe your broken heart." His thick accent
trickled through her, drudging up horrible memories of the last
time they had met. Her heart cried for Baldwyn.

Out of the corner of her eye Anastasia saw Lord
Renwick sipping a hot drink and watching the dancing. He stood
directly in the path Tenorio was dragging her. She had only one
chance to get his attention.

"How do you know?" she blurted in desperation, louder
than etiquette would tolerate. Several heads turned in their
direction. But Tenorio avoided their looks, sidestepped Lord
Renwick and had her through the doors and on the terrace before
anyone could interfere.

"The late dowager's solicitor works also for my
father," Markham interjected. "You did know, didn't you? He made
preparations to leave immediately after his grandmother's accounts
were settled."

A slow, solicitous grin spread over Tenorio's face.
His white teeth flashed brilliantly against his dark Mediterranean
complexion. "Your expression betrays you, my lady. So you see,
amor
, you are quite ruined already. And I am the only one
who wants you."

He wouldn't have left without a word. Not after all
that had happened.

Nausea threatened to spoil her rapidly deteriorating
composure.

"Are these gentlemen bothering you, Lady Anastasia?"
Lord Renwick asked.

Before she could answer, Tenorio stepped between
them. "This is none of your concern, Renwick."

"But it is mine." The sweet familiar sound of
Baldwyn's deep tenor sliced through the space, thrilling Anastasia
to her toes.

On the other hand, Tenorio whirled around to face
him, but still not in time to prepare for Baldwyn's fist sailing
through the air to meet his left temple. It was a sickening sound,
the blow that landed on the Spaniard's face, yet music to her ears.
As he crumpled to the ground in a heap, she threw herself into
Baldwyn's arms.

At Markham's weak protests, Lord Renwick grabbed him
by the back of his collar and showed him roughly to the door.

"You're here!" Anastasia's legs gave way and she
melted into Baldwyn's arms.

"Of course, I'm here. I told you I would be." He
smoothed her hair.

"They — they said you were leaving, that you had
already gone. I thought… since the dowager was gone… you didn't
want, you wouldn't—"

"Anastasia," he said, lifting her chin toward him
with a single finger. "Look at me."

She hesitated, not willing to meet his gaze. Her
fragile heart could not withstand any more rejection.

"Anastasia." His smooth, comforting voice melted her
defenses, and she gave in, slowly allowing him to draw her focus to
his perfect clear blue eyes. Eyes that seemed to pierce straight
through to her soul.

His fingers traced her jaw line. His thumb swept over
her tear-streaked cheek, wiping away the remnants of her despair.
"You are mine," he whispered. He bent his head and kissed her
cheek, then returned to gaze into her eyes. He released her hand
and lifted his left hand to cradle the other side of her face,
wiping away the tears from that cheek as well with a tender brush
of his thumb.

"I am yours." His voice was barely more than a breath
now. He brushed a soft kiss just below her right eye, catching a
falling tear.

"Duty, yes." She tensed at the word, but his
feather-light caress on her neck lulled her. The glint in his eyes
intensified as he continued, "But only in so much as I
desire
to be duty-bound to you." He drew close once more,
pressed his warm lips to the corner of her mouth, and withdrew only
a hand-breadth. "To you alone."

Angling his head, he brushed lightly against the
other side of her mouth and stepped back again, staring fervently
into her eyes, as though he could impart his whole heart with that
one deep, penetrating look.