Two Turtledoves (2 page)

She waved him off.

"Oh, posh!" A bemused grin tainted one corner of her
mouth.

For all her fearsomeness, Baldwyn knew she adored
him.

However, all the adoration in Europe would do nothing
to shield him from her matrimonial schemes. Which, no doubt, was
the only thing short of Napoleon laying siege to Mayfair that would
incite her to send for him in the dead of winter. Cursed ducal
obligations to propagate the family name. He groaned and shook his
head.

"You shall cease those unearthly sighings, young man,
and sit down. We have important family matters to discuss. And
there is no time to waste. The Montmouth Winter Ball is this
evening. Word has already been sent that you shall be in
attendance."

Baldwyn slumped into the royal blue wingback chair
and eyed her with suspicion.

"What are these important
family
matters,
Grandmother? Please. I wish to be enlightened."

"Your tone says otherwise, Baldwyn. Remember to whom
you are speaking." She was seething now. He had pressed her too
far.

"Of course, Grandmother. I apologize. Please,
continue."

The dowager lifted her head and glowered down her
aristocratic nose at him. Again her steel blue gaze sliced right
through him, sending a sudden chill stampeding down his spine. He
took the cup of tea offered by the maid and sipped, hoping to cover
his momentary lapse in ducal composure.

"I have wonderful news for you."

That is debatable
.

"I have arranged a betrothal."

The tea turned to sludge in his throat and he choked,
spewing the mouthful he had just drawn from the cup all over the
table before him. He glanced up in time to see the fresh brew
dripping from the dowager duchess's chin.

Her stoic glower told him all he needed to know.
Death awaited him.

The maid was at the old woman's side in an instant,
fear radiating from her crisp green eyes as she dabbed at the
duchess's tea-bathed face. Baldwyn rose to offer his aid, but his
grandmother's hand shot up, freezing him in place.

"Sit down, Baldwyn. We shall complete the business at
hand." She wrenched the linen cloth from the maid's hands and
swatted her away. As she continued, she patted her forehead,
cheeks, chin, and neck with the cloth.

"As I was saying, I have arranged a betrothal
contract between you and the daughter of Lord Marks."

Baldwyn's blood curdled in his veins. Shock held him
prisoner where he was, tying his tongue until finally he forced
out, "Betrothal! You've gone mad!"

"I
said
sit down
.
" Her gaze leveled on
him once more, compelling him to his seat.

"How did you—? What makes you think—? You have no
right!" he stammered like a fool.

"I have every right. Lord Marks and I have come to an
agreement. You shall marry the girl. You shall produce an heir. And
you shall conduct yourself as the duke you are expected to be."

"Lord Marks' daughter is a child, Grandmother. A
child with mousy brown hair and braids. And straight as an—" He
stopped mid-sentence. It was humiliating enough without divulging
his preferences to his grandmother.

She arched a malevolent eyebrow.

The last time he had seen the child had been five
years previous upon a visit to Lord Marks' country estate to
discuss a business venture. She had loitered about underfoot the
entire afternoon, vying for his attention. Her father had indulged
her every whim and seemed to view everything she said or did as an
enchantment of sorts. Baldwyn had simply rolled his eyes, concluded
his business, and took his leave at the first opportunity.

But the girl was not content to be pleasantly
tolerated by a gentleman nine years her senior. She preceded him
out of doors and lay in wait behind a hedge, and as he rode past
she ambushed him, hurling crudely formed mud balls dangerously
close to his head. Fortunately, her aim left something to be
desired, though by pure dumb luck, one of the misfired projectiles
struck square in his horse's eye. The animal reared, taking Baldwyn
by surprise and sending him flailing all the way to the ground. The
few strategically placed bruises would have been humiliating
enough, but through some horrifying twist of fate, his horse had
recently dropped a steaming pile of dung in the precise location he
found himself sitting.

Naturally, no doubt to the delight of the devilish
pixie, he had to immediately return to the house to clean up and
change before he could leave again. But it was already late, so he
was forced to remain for the night, enduring an evening of unending
prattle as the girl begged for his particular attention.

Even now as he thought on the tragic memory, his head
ached and his backside throbbed.

Baldwyn massaged his temples in slow deliberate
circles, hoping to erase the reminiscence from his mind
forever.

"Lady Anastasia is no longer a child, Baldwyn. And
you have responsibilities." His grandmother's voice broke through
his anguish.

"Regardless, Grandmother. It would have been nice to
have a choice in the matter."

"You were given ample time to select a suitable
bride. It is I who had no choice."

"Are there no other options?"

"None. The deal has been made. The announcement shall
be made tonight."

The Duke of Montmouth's Winter Ball was the first the
duke had had since his marriage last winter. As such, it promised
to be a memorable event. Anastasia Trent, the only daughter of the
Earl of Marks, had been looking forward to it for weeks. Ever since
her father had informed her of the betrothal to Baldwyn
Sinclair.

Anastasia had been in love with him for ages, though
he had never shown much interest in her. Truth be told, she hadn't
seen him in several years, but that last meeting still made her
cringe with abject shame. How she could have ever been so purely
disgraceful and immature was beyond her own understanding.

She only hoped he had forgotten the incident.

There was a sort of hope in that he had agreed to the
betrothal. At any rate, tonight they would announce their
engagement, and he would be hers forever, just as she had always
dreamt.

Last year, her eighteenth year, she had begged her
father to allow her to sit out another Season and debut at
nineteen. She realized it would be strange to be presented so late,
but there was only one man she had ever wished to marry, and as he
was in Scotland, there was no use in coming out.

Her father had always indulged her every whim, and
though Anastasia had never told him her reasons for hesitation, she
knew he had a suspicion. When he brought her into his study one day
a few weeks before and asked her how she felt about a marriage to
the duke, she could hardly contain her enthusiasm.

Finally, the evening of the ball had arrived.
Anastasia had spent the entire day preparing herself — two baths,
four hairstyles, and seven gowns later, she was ready to meet her
groom-to-be. A bit of the old schoolgirl giddiness bubbled in the
pit of her stomach, and she prayed she wouldn't have to make
another trip to the necessary.

Her father awaited her at the foot of the staircase.
Her heart soared as she descended, and her feet hardly touched the
floor. If the look on her father's face was any indication, the
pale gold gown she had finally settled on was the perfect
choice.

"You are a vision, my sweet," her father crooned,
offering his arm gallantly. His broad grin and sparkling brown eyes
warmed her heart. He still cut a dashing figure with the brush of
silver at his temples, highlighting his chestnut hair. It was a
shame he refused to marry again after her mother had passed
away.

He often told her she looked like her mother, but
Anastasia knew it wasn't true. She had his hair and his eyes, while
her mother had been a blonde beauty with marvelous hazel eyes. If
she had inherited any of her mother's traits, it would have to be
her spirit — her sense of adventure. Though Anastasia hardly
remembered, her father had told her many stories of Lady Marks'
escapades. Each new story inspired her more than the last.

Her favorite, of course, was the tale of how her
mother had captured her father's heart.

It was that story — that fairy tale — that had burned
in her soul since childhood.

She wanted a story like that.

And she was certain the one to give it to her was
Baldwyn Sinclair.

"Shall we go to the ball?" Her father interrupted her
thoughts once again, his glowing admiration of her still fixed in
his expression. A warm tingle of excitement washed through her, and
she couldn't keep herself from the involuntary giggle that bubbled
forth.

Anastasia took his arm and followed him out the door,
down the steps, and to the carriage where it waited in the front
drive.

****

Why his grandmother had insisted they make an
appearance promptly at the start of the evening was beyond
Baldwyn's understanding. No one of any consequence had yet arrived,
which left him with nothing to do but seek out the best hiding
places in the house in case they were needed later.

And that is what he was doing when the Duke of
Montmouth happened to come across his path.

"Paisley, I didn't know you had returned to the
city." Montmouth greeted him with a hearty pound on the back.

"Aye, 'tis my misfortune that beckons me," Baldwyn
answered, grimacing under the duke's painful salutation.

"The dowager?" his friend asked, arching a single
eyebrow.

Baldwyn nodded. "She insists I marry."

"Sounds familiar," Montmouth said. He shook his head
and chuckled knowingly. "So tell me, has she yet selected the
perfect target for your matrimonial bliss?"

"Worse." Baldwyn's stomach turned even as he said it.
Certainly Montmouth would note the displeasure undoubtedly etched
across his face. "She has already spoken to the girl's father on my
behalf."

Both of Montmouth's eyebrows shot up in blatant
shock.

"Yes, indeed. It is true. Without my knowledge or
consent, I have become betrothed to a girl I hardly know and
haven't seen in years. In fact, the last time I had the pleasure,
she hurled mud balls at me."

Montmouth's delight broke out in a loud, bellowing
laugh.

Baldwyn was not entertained in the least. He leveled
his gaze on his host. "You'll pardon me, Montmouth, if I do not
share your amusement."

The larger man tried in vain to stifle his mirth.
"Ahh! I'm sorry, Paisley." He burst into another round of raucous
laughter. When it wound down, he shook his head and wiped at his
eyes with the back of his hand. "I am sorry, Paisley. I do hope she
has outgrown that phase by now. The duchess would be terribly put
out if the girl began flinging mud in her ballroom."

Baldwyn glanced around the room. The very thought of
the wretched child taking aim at him that evening made his throat
go dry. "Have you anything stronger than champagne in the
house?"

Montmouth pounded him on the back again. "Yes, of
course. I can see that you need it, and if it wasn't already
necessary, it shall be very soon!" He chuckled again as he stepped
to the liquor cabinet, drew a bottle of good English whiskey from
its place there, and filled two glasses.

He handed one to Baldwyn and raised his own in toast.
"To your engagement, Paisley. May she be everything you need."
Montmouth gulped the contents of his glass and laughed once more.
Baldwyn eyed the amber liquid in his glass before tossing down his
drink as well then lifted his glass to request another.

His host shook his head with a smirk and took the
glass from Baldwyn's grasp. "I think not, Paisley. After all, a
gentleman should be altogether alert when meeting his future
wife."

"I'd rather be foxed when the assault ensues."
Baldwyn scanned the room once more looking for some worthy place to
hide.

As if reading his intent, Montmouth said, "There's no
good place to hide in here, Paisley. Your grandmother will find you
if she has to bring in the dogs." He stepped toward the door. "I
have to see to my newly-arriving guests. Feel at liberty to search
out a more worthy concealment… but do stay out of my whiskey." With
that, the Duke of Montmouth disappeared through the doorway,
leaving Baldwyn to wallow in his apprehension.

He didn't linger. Eventually, his grandmother would
come looking for him. It would be far wiser to keep moving, throw
the bloodhounds off his scent. As he entered the corridor the music
from the ballroom drifted into the hall. Baldwyn cringed. He would
have to dance with her. She would probably trip him.

How he longed for the serenity of his estate in
Scotland. Of course, in that moment, he longed for the serenity the
war on the Continent could provide.

Baldwyn stepped into the ballroom and glanced around
the room. More guests were arriving by the minute. The dowager
duchess was nowhere to be seen. His eyes fell on the balcony doors
on the far side of the room. A perfect place to hide. No one would
yet be there so early in the evening, not with the weather so
bitterly cold.

He began his trek through the room, nodding and
offering brief polite pleasantries to the few guests he encountered
in his path. He could hide there, wait for Lord Marks and his
daughter to be announced, and get a good look at the girl before
being forced into her company… for life. If nothing else, it would
give him an illusion of some control in the arrangement.

"Paisley!" A familiar voice drew his attention from
his destination. Baldwyn turned to find himself face to face with
an old family friend. One with whom he had spent many a night
carousing about the town back in those old days past.

"Rawlings!" The sight of his old chum comforted him
somewhat, making him think of simpler times. No responsibilities.
No demands. No betrothals.