Two Turtledoves (6 page)

Then she sighed, and it felt as though she had been
waiting to exhale that breath all her life.

His lips touched her again — first on one cheek, and
then the other. Kissing away her pain. Her tears.

Anastasia rose on her tiptoes, wanting… needing more
of him. Hope bloomed anew in her heart, and she willed him not to
stop.

He cursed his grandmother, which seemed odd, but then
his lips grazed Anastasia's — once, twice — then fully captured
them. A moan escaped her as his scent overwhelmed her senses. He
nibbled at her lower lip and eased his tongue through the barrier
of her mouth until all she could taste was him.

This was what she had been waiting for — what she had
saved herself for — the whole of her life. Here in the arms of her
intended, on the night of their engagement, she could die happy.
This was what it was meant to be.

Anastasia sank into his warm embrace, wishing the
moment would never end. His kiss grew more intense, more demanding,
drawing her deeper into the haze of longing for him. His hands felt
their way to her arms, as if he would lift her again into his
embrace. When his fingers tightened around them, a stabbing pain
shot straight through her and she flinched against it.

Instantly Baldwyn released her and stumbled backward,
searching her face for signs of injury. Before her very eyes, the
cloud of desire dissipated from his, retreating in the face of raw
fear, and on the heels of that fear, sparked to life a blaze of hot
fury. So sudden was the transformation, she had no time to react
before he had drawn an index finger up in front of her face.

"What were you thinking! Have you not been told never
to roam the gardens unchaperoned with any man? Were you not
concerned for your reputation? For your virtue? Is this the type of
daughter Lord Marks has raised?" Baldwyn dropped his hand to his
side, clenching it into a fist with evident rage. He began pacing
back and forth before her. Anastasia shrank back as he lashed out
again. "You, who so brazenly go gallivanting about in the dark with
a suave foreigner? What did you expect him to do, pray tell? Out
there in the dark! In solitude!"

"Truly, your grace, I wasn't—" she began, but he cut
her off with his continued tirade.

"What if I had not happened by? What if I had been
inside searching the ballroom for my betrothed and never once
thought to look out of doors?"

A lump rose in Anastasia's throat, and she didn't
dare risk her voice, lest it give away the tears threatening to
break through the floodgates. Confusion and fear reigned.

Only a moment ago, he held her in his embrace.
Comforting and shielding her from the waking nightmare she had
endured. And now — now he derided her for her glaring stupidity.
Her
naïveté
. Scolding her as if she was a mere child.

A mere child in mousy brown pigtails.

"Were you?"

"What?" He stopped in his tracks and swung around to
face her.

"Were you?" she repeated.

"Was I what?" he demanded.

"Were you searching for me?" Her heart dared to hope
for it.

His reply was an exasperated grunt. Then he pivoted
on his heel and stormed from the room bellowing, "It's not enough
that you tear me from my true duty in the dead of winter, but now I
must play nursemaid to the infants as well!"

She knew the outburst was meant for his grandmother,
but the words sliced through her already raw and wounded spirit.
How she longed for the wretched night to end.

What was that?
Baldwyn cursed again as he
entered the ballroom. Surely a fluke — overcome by the passion of
the moment.
Nothing real
, he assured himself. After all, she
was the same girl who had thrown mud balls at him only a few short
years before.

Wasn't she?

Even as the thought made its way through his mind, he
knew it for the lie it was. His grandmother was right, and the fact
galled him. Anastasia Trent was no longer a little girl.

But she was acting like a naïve child.

Whatever had she been thinking?
Señor
Tenorio
was known far and wide as a notorious rake. Even so, Baldwyn had
never known him to move so fast. Almost as though he saw the
engagement announcement as an open challenge, and his window of
opportunity rapidly closing.

But Baldwyn had been absent from Society for a long
time.

He made a valiant effort to reason his rage away, to
no avail. Though it made no logical sense, he wanted to kill
Tenorio.

With his bare hands.

Tear him limb from limb.

Foolish, foolish girl!
A fresh resurgence of
anger overcame him as he scoured the ballroom for Lord Marks. The
only thing to do was see the chit safely on her way home.

The ballroom was a buzz of activity, rather lively
for a winter event. It seemed more of the peerage had remained in
town this year than in the past

Perhaps it was the war dampening the desire to
travel.

His gaze scrutinized the dancers until he noticed a
couple quite out of step. Another drunken assailant? And the
victim? Katherine Bourne. His cousin's burden — coerced though it
might be.

And where was Benedict? Not rescuing the chit. That
was certain.

Baldwyn cursed again, louder than he intended. The
ladies near him gasped and fanned themselves vigorously. "Pardon
me," he mumbled and nodded his regret.

Lady Katherine seemed helpless as her partner
lumbered around the dance floor, dragging her along with him.

No doubt it was up to Baldwyn to save her. If she
were anywhere near as simple-minded as the Lady Anastasia, she'd be
out in the gardens being pawed to death in no time. And whose fault
was it truly? If Baldwyn had stepped in when young drunk Markham
had been dancing with Anastasia, he would've never had to rescue
her from Tenorio. He grunted in disgust, and grudgingly made his
way toward Lady Katherine.

****

There was no use in following right behind the duke
to the ballroom. She had no intention of giving the gossips more
fodder for conversation. Baldwyn was already furious with her for
the episode with the Spaniard. If anyone else saw the scene, she
would be done for, and so would her father's good name. The
possibility nauseated her.

Stealthily she made the short trip to the ladies'
lounge. A few moments of peace and she could return to the ballroom
to search out her father and ask him to take her home. All she
wanted was to see the end of this wretched night.

Once she regained her composure, and righted her
dress and hair after the harrowing ordeal, she re-entered the
ballroom with renewed confidence, certain that her evening's
excitement had gone unnoticed by everyone but Baldwyn.

From across the room, she caught sight of Baldwyn
dancing with Lady Katherine Bourne, an acquaintance she had often
wished she knew better. But the particular attention Baldwyn seemed
to be paying to her in that moment was disturbing, and Anastasia
couldn't help but envision herself tearing out the poor girl's
hair.

She glanced around the room until she found her
father amidst a small group of older gentlemen. And though
everything within her demanded she chase after Baldwyn and scratch
out Lady Katherine's eyes, Anastasia focused her energy on reaching
her father.

Halfway to him, pandemonium seemed to break out
behind her, and she turned to see what the matter was. Just beyond
the doorway from which Anastasia had just entered, the Duke of
Banbury staggered onto the dance floor, bellowing unintelligibly.
He seemed angry. He was certainly inebriated.

And he was heading toward Baldwyn.

Anastasia froze in her place and watched the scene
unfold. It seemed all in attendance did the same.

Banbury stopped abruptly when he reached the dancing
couple. Anastasia held her breath. He wouldn't hit Baldwyn, would
he? She stared at him, silently willing him to leave Baldwyn
unharmed. Banbury grasped Lady Katherine's arm and tugged her away
from her partner, and together they trudged out of the ballroom,
leaving a silent and shocked audience in their wake.

Anastasia's gaze returned to Baldwyn. Was he
laughing? He shook his head and turned her way, wearing a small
amused grin. When his gaze reached her eyes, the twinkle left his
expression, and for an instant he held her gaze. Then Baldwyn
looked past her and lifted a hand to adjust his cravat before
striding forward with purpose.

She remembered she still held her breath, and let it
out in a soft blast, while tracing his path across the floor.
Toward her.

He paused directly in front of her and bowed his head
briefly.

"My lady, shall I see you to your father?" He offered
his arm, but no smile. Ever the well-mannered duke, he was simply
doing what was expected of him. It would be awkward for him indeed
to abandon her to her own devices on the night of their engagement,
after all. Though he had done just that no less than two times
already. Perhaps his mind was just now coming out of the haze of
liquor he had drowned himself in before the announcement.

No doubt he had needed the liquid courage to face the
horrifying task of promising to marry her.

Anastasia felt the sting of rejection in her eyes,
threatening to induce another bout of tears. She swallowed them
back and placed her hand on his arm.

"That would please me, your grace," she finally
forced out, and focused her attention on the group with whom her
father stood just a few feet away from them.

"Good evening, Lord Marks," Baldwyn said, drawing her
closer to him.

Her father looked up from his conversation with a
wide smile. "Paisley, my boy! I am so glad to see you have returned
to London at last!" He gestured toward Baldwyn with a nod and added
to his companions, "Gentlemen, you all surely know the Duke of
Paisley, my daughter's intended."

The others bowed briefly and chuckled. Several
congratulated him and nodded toward Anastasia.

"Gentlemen," Baldwyn acknowledged them. "Lord Marks,
I thank you for the loan of your lovely daughter this evening, but
I do believe she has reached the end of her taste for the
entertainments."

He was sending her home? While it was true that she
had suffered quite enough for one evening, it seems he could have
at least asked her preference before making the decision for her.
With little more than a glance in her direction, he slipped her
hand from his arm, placed a chaste kiss on her gloved fingers and
turned her over to her father.

"Come around in the morning, Paisley. We should have
a chat."

"Certainly, sir. First thing." He turned back to
Anastasia. "My lady," he mumbled, then nodded to Lord Marks, turned
on his heel, and left.

"Your grace," she said to his retreating form.

Anastasia's father kissed her hand, drawing her
attention back to him. "Was it all you dreamed it would be, my
dear?" His eyes held a hopeful sparkle.

A lump formed in her throat. How could she tell him
what a horrifying disappointment the evening had turned out to be?
Could she tell him of her failures, of how close she had come to
being compromised? She swallowed back her regret once more and
forced a sweet smile.

"Of course, Father. Everything I had hoped and
more."

He patted her hand tenderly. "I'm glad to hear it, my
sweet. Very glad indeed."

As he escorted her outside to their waiting carriage,
she clung to her father's strong arm — the only thing she knew she
could depend on to hold her up, when all she wanted to do was
crumple to the ground and weep.

Baldwyn awoke to the sound of his grandmother's
tirade right outside his chamber door.

"I don't care one whit what time he dragged into bed
last night! I want him up, dressed, and ready to call on the Duke
of Banbury within fifteen minutes, or I shall bring in the dogs to
roust him! And Heaven help you, if I have to deal with the hounds!
Do I make myself clear, young man?"

The simpering murmur that followed could only be
Munro, the traitorous wretch. Selling him out to the old woman once
again to save his own hide. Surely he knew that only Baldwyn could
discharge him.

The thought made even Baldwyn chuckle. She would find
a way. The devil's own bride, his grandmother. She could find a way
to make anyone suffer.

Munro entered his room with a soft click of the door.
Baldwyn held deathly still. He would not make this easy on the
valet. Let the man sweat a bit at the prospect of the wretched old
dowager haunting his children's children for years to come. It
would serve him right, for choosing to ignore his master's
instructions that he not be disturbed.

"Your grace…" Munro began, his voice soft at first.
When Baldwyn did not stir, the valet gently laid a hand on his
shoulder and spoke louder. "Your grace." Again Baldwyn dared not
even breathe.

The urgency in the young man's voice grew tangible.
"Your grace!" he shouted and shook Baldwyn rigorously.

Baldwyn lay completely still. How long could he hold
out?

With each second ticking by, the poor fellow's
desperation grew. After multiple attempts to rouse him, Baldwyn
could sense the valet retreat to the side of the room. He heard the
splash of water being poured from the pitcher into a shallow basin.
The man wouldn't dare… would he?

Baldwyn cracked an eye open into a squint and watched
as Munro grasped the glass of ice cold water and balanced it
carefully on the way back to the bed, lifting it slightly when he
got close and pulling back his elbow in preparation to douse what
he thought was the sleeping duke.

"Don't you dare!" Baldwyn bellowed as he leapt from
the bed, scaring the valet so savagely, that his arm jerked in
surprise, sending the contents of the glass sloshing directly into
Baldwyn's face before he could dodge it.