Two Turtledoves (3 page)

"You just missed a fair bit of excitement!" Rawlings
appeared to be entertained still. Amusement danced behind his dark
eyes.

"Oh? What did I miss?" There were hardly enough
guests here for a mouse in the kitchen to cause a rumpus. At any
rate, there seemed to be no evidence of anything out of the
ordinary now.

"The dowager duchess discovered Banbury on the
balcony with Lady Katherine. The look on his face! I'll never
forget that sight as long as I live."

It took a moment to fully absorb the information.
Surely not even his grandmother would be capable of two forced
betrothals in one evening. A knot formed in his stomach. Even if he
had entertained thoughts of escaping her schemes, the old woman
would find a way to trap him. Just as she had apparently done to
Benedict, his cousin. Perhaps he had shown signs of less than full
cooperation.

Baldwyn would have to step prudently. Avoid
balconies, dark corners, and above all, Lord Marks' daughter. If
Benedict Devlyn, the Devil Duke himself, could be ensnared — a man
of legendary prowess, who was always rumored but never seen to be
ruining some girl, could find himself caught in a woman's trap —
what hope was there for mankind?

"Where is he now?" Baldwyn scrutinized the growing
crowd. If what Rawlings said was true, Benedict would need a shot
of that whiskey.

"Somewhere collecting the remaining fragments of his
dignity, no doubt," Rawlings answered with laugh.

"I suppose I had better seek him out and see to his
wounded pride."

"Right. And I must dance with Lady Rawlings before
she becomes entrenched in gossip with her sister. It's good to see
you, Paisley." He bowed slightly and sauntered toward the
refreshments where his wife stood conversing with the Duchess of
Tempest.

Baldwyn began the search for his cousin. As he
approached the balcony doors, he heard some strange scuffling
coming from the alcove just out of his line of sight. A slow grin
crept across his lips. Some impatient couple had already found
their way into a darkened corner. Could Benedict have truly been
wooing some chit when his grandmother happened upon them?

When he rounded the corner, the answer to that
question lay before him in plain sight.
Oh, Benedict, you played
right into the dowager duchess's hands.
Baldwyn cleared his
throat, breaking the two from their intimate embrace.

"I do hope I'm not interrupting anything." An
ear-splitting shriek erupted from the lady, and she pulled abruptly
from Benedict's arms. Benedict stood grinning from ear to ear,
looking more than a little winded. He cursed and pushed the lady
behind him to shield her from the intruder, but it was to no
avail.

The lady peeked around him, squinting her eyes as if
she was struggling to make out Baldwyn's features. Sudden
recognition broke across her face, then pure horror.

"When did you arrive?" Her voice trembled. And
Baldwyn realized who she was as well.

Lady Katherine Bourne.

So that was the lady whom his grandmother had designs
on for Benedict. Poor devil. His cousin's fate was even worse than
his own.

The girl's humiliation seemed complete with Baldwyn's
discovery of her locked in a love embrace with the Devil Duke. With
a sob, she burst from the alcove and disappeared around the corner,
leaving the two startled gentlemen in her wake.

"Classic." Baldwyn shook his head at Benedict and
burst out laughing. "Tell me, was your plan simply to assault her
in order to win her favor? Or had you not fully thought through
your attack?"

Benedict uttered another curse. "I don't know what
came over me. She's just so blasted irritating. She struck me and
then provoked me."

"Well then…" Baldwyn folded his arms across his
chest. "By all means, make her cry. It seems you earned a bit of
revenge."

A loud groan slipped from Benedict's throat, and he
turned his glower on Baldwyn. "What the devil are you doing here,
Baldwyn? Don't tell me—"

"Agatha," they said in unison. Both as if her name
was an expletive on their lips.

"She got to you too, I imagine?" Benedict asked,
clearly still affected by the secret tryst in which he had just
been participating.

"She called me back from Scotland in the dead of
winter. What other conclusion can be drawn?" Baldwyn shook his head
and glanced at his cousin.

Benedict's eyes seemed to glaze over, and his gaze
wandered to the path Lady Katherine had taken only a moment
before.

Baldwyn snapped his fingers. "Woolgathering? Or
planning to attack another virgin?" he asked with a hint of
sarcasm, betraying the frustration he had felt ever since the
missive from his grandmother had been placed in his hands, calling
him back from Scotland.

"My apologies, you were saying?" Benedict shook his
head and took a step in the direction of Montmouth's liquor
cabinet. Yes, they were both going to require more liquid courage
if they were to survive the evening's festivities… and the prospect
of a lifetime of matrimonial enslavement. With one long stride,
Baldwyn took the lead.

"Follow me. I know where Montmouth keeps it." There
was no need to clarify. Benedict would know instinctively what
Baldwyn meant.

Upon Anastasia's arrival at the Montmouth Winter
Ball, her heart beat in her throat. The ballroom was well attended,
but not nearly so crowded as the events of the Season were. It
should be easy to find him. She was certain he would look the same.
Closing her eyes for a moment, she pictured him. Baldwyn Sinclair.
The tall, broad-shouldered man who had stolen her heart so long
ago. She pictured how he would see her. All at once their eyes
would meet, and the rest of the world would melt away.

His dark auburn curls, his crystal blue eyes, like
the cloudless winter sky. There was nothing about him that wasn't
perfect. And soon they would be together.

She opened her eyes and exhaled a slow, deliberate
breath. Her gaze scanned the room for Baldwyn, every inch of the
ballroom, until she saw him.

He sauntered toward the refreshment table, chatting
nonchalantly with his cousin, the Duke of Banbury. It was difficult
to be certain from such a distance, but it seemed his gait was a
mite unstable, as was that of Banbury's. They moved in unison.
Banbury said something apparently witty. Baldwyn laughed heartily,
and his eyes sparkled with his amusement, and Anastasia wished
again for the moment it would be her witty remark that delighted
him so.

But Baldwyn would never notice her as long as he was
distracted by the duke.

Anastasia made her way around the room, moving
steadily toward the refreshment table. She would meet him there and
wait for his gaze to fall upon her. Then they would dance. Dance as
if they were the only two people in England… except for the
musicians, since they would need music in order to dance… and the
servants, to help them dress and prepare their food… and those who
worked in her favorite modiste's shop — she would need new dresses,
after all. But other than those, Baldwyn and Anastasia would fall
under love's magical spell, and all the world would fade around
them.

Well, eventually they would need a vicar.

The Duke of Tempest interrupted her thoughts, ripping
her abruptly from her fantasy. "Lady Anastasia, a pleasure to see
you out this evening," he crooned, sweeping into a polite bow and
bestowing a kiss on the air above her outstretched hand. "Have you
met my wife, the Duchess of Tempest?"

"Your graces. The pleasure is mine," Anastasia said,
dipping into a brief curtsy. She had not had the pleasure of
meeting the duchess before, but she had heard the stories. They had
a wonderful love story, so much like a fairy tale. The Angel Duke
had whisked in and saved his fair lady from a fate worse than
death.

It was one of the tales Anastasia loved to replay in
her mind in the quiet moments, pretending she was the fair lady,
and Baldwyn was the duke rescuing her. A soft sigh escaped
Anastasia's throat before she could stop it. The duchess arched an
eyebrow, causing a rosy blush to burn in Anastasia's cheeks.

"Are you well, Lady Anastasia?" Lady Tempest
asked.

"Yes, your grace. Perhaps it is the excitement of the
evening. I have been so looking forward to the Montmouth Winter
Ball for some time."

The duchess smiled as though she knew what the night
meant to Anastasia. She was a lovely woman. Certainly kinder than
many of the ladies of the
ton
. With just one short summer
Season of experience, Anastasia already knew it was not a
characteristic common among polite society.

Baldwyn and the Duke of Banbury were drawing nearer
now. Anastasia could no longer focus on the conversation with the
duke and duchess. She longed for an easy and yet polite way out of
their company, for she did not wish to offend them.

The Angel Duke himself came to her rescue. He glanced
over his shoulder, perhaps having followed the line of her
gaze.

"Banbury! Just the man I have been searching for!"
His pronouncement broke up the camaraderie between Baldwyn and his
cousin. "Please excuse us, Lady Anastasia. We must speak with this
gentleman."

"Of course," she said with another polite curtsy. "It
was lovely meeting you, your grace."

The duke and duchess nodded and turned to address the
Duke of Banbury. Anastasia slipped into position by the refreshment
table, awaiting Baldwyn's acknowledgement. The moment she had been
waiting for all her life.

Baldwyn greeted the duke and duchess for a brief
moment, then excused himself from their company and stepped to the
food table.

He looked exactly as she had remembered him. Taller
perhaps. His hair a darker auburn. The navy blue coat strained
against the cut of his broad shoulders and solid muscular arms.

When he glanced at her, she beamed in expectation of
his recognition, but his piercing crystal blue eyes swept over her
only briefly before returning to the table piled high with tasty
delicacies.

Disappointment threatened to overtake her, but she
shoved it aside. Likely he was simply too hungry to concern himself
with a closer look. In a moment he would recognize her, and then
his gaze would turn longingly upon her, and they would dance.

It was inevitable.

So she waited.

But when she had waited longer than one could expect
of her, she had to say something. Something to make him notice
her.

****

"Good evening, your grace. It is a lovely party,
don't you agree?" The lady's melodic voice floated through the haze
his brain seemed to be wading through. Did she know him? He vaguely
recollected that one did not to speak to a gentleman of polite
society unless they had first been introduced.

She could not be more than twenty, and therefore
would not have been introduced into society before he had left for
Scotland. It was impossible that she knew him, so perhaps he had
been so long in Scotland, the rules had changed.

"I suppose it is, if you enjoy these sorts of
things," he managed to say without slurring.

"Do you mean to say you do not like to dance?" she
asked, and her expression seemed more than a little
crestfallen.

"Oh, no. I enjoy dancing. It is just that this
evening in particular…" How should he explain it? He allowed his
gaze to sweep over her as he weighed his response. She was a sweet
beauty. Her chestnut tresses were swept up in a becoming fashion,
with only a few rebellious tendrils teasing at the back of her
slender ivory neck. Her eyes were dreamy dark almonds, fixed in
anticipation upon his lips, as though waiting for something — some
pearls of wisdom to drip from them.

"Yes, your grace?" she prompted. Baldwyn noted her
full soft pink lips.

He cleared his throat. And his eyes traced the length
of her light gold dress which clung to her every curve — curves in
all the right places. Why couldn't his grandmother have chosen
someone who looked like this? Instead, he would be forever chained
to a straight-framed girl in pigtails who flung mud balls in order
to get his attention.

The thought brought him sailing back to the present
conversation. And he remembered his indignation at the prospect of
the impending announcement of his engagement.

"This particular evening is the beginning of my
destruction," he finally answered. "My grandmother, the Dowager
Duchess of Durbin and Evil Incarnate, has — with neither my
knowledge nor my consent, mind you — struck a betrothal contract on
my behalf with a wretched little wench boasting a wiry frame and
mousy brown hair. No more than a child she is!" It gushed out of
him before he knew it was coming.

The lady stared at him with wide dark eyes as though
she had been struck. Baldwyn supposed it did sound shocking, coming
out with so little concern for proper conversation. He was perhaps
more than a little foxed.

"Pardon me, my lady. It's just that the horrid woman
called me back from Scotland rather suddenly, and announced the
news to me just this afternoon. I mean, I hardly know the chit, but
what I do know of her, I can tell you, is enough to cause a
gentleman to do himself in."

"I s-see. She… She sounds perfectly dreadful, I'm
sure," the lady said, her voice almost a whisper. She seemed to be
recoiling for some reason. Had what he said truly been that
shocking?

Baldwyn bit into something gooey spread over a piece
of bread and eyed his companion with concern.

"She threw mud balls at me," he added after a
moment.

Her face grew pale in an instant, and she shook her
head in horror. Here was a woman who understood exactly how
appalling that act had been! He smiled at her to offer some
comfort. "It was several years ago, of course. Both my horse and I
have since recovered from the trauma," he said with a hint at humor
in his voice, hoping to lighten her burden on his behalf.