Two Turtledoves (8 page)

Lord Marks chuckled and nodded his agreement. "An apt
analogy, Paisley." He poured a glass of brandy and offered it to
Baldwyn, who waved it aside. "The dowager approached me with this
arrangement several weeks ago. The betrothal arrangement." He
scrutinized Baldwyn as though gauging the younger man's
response.

Baldwyn nodded. He knew the contract had been made
long before his grandmother called him back to London.

"She led me to believe you were in full agreement."
With a raised eyebrow, he regarded the duke, perhaps expecting an
objection.

Baldwyn said nothing.

"I am an observant man, Paisley. Your behavior last
night was of a man taken by surprise."

Still Baldwyn held his peace. Was Lord Marks trying
to offer him an out? Or was this a test of his worthiness?

"My daughter was upset." His gaze never left
Baldwyn's face. "I love my daughter, your grace. She is all I have
left of her mother." He glanced at his empty tumbler and reached
for the bottle again. "I realize it is often unheard of in our
social circles, but I loved my wife. More than my own life."

Baldwyn swallowed hard, though he'd wager the girl
hadn't told her father all that had upset her about the evening. So
what was the man trying to tell him?

"Though my… circumstance is… um, unique in regards to
placating the dowager, I would not see my daughter hurt for the
blunt of the entire British Empire." He swirled the contents of his
glass in one hand while staring directly into Baldwyn's soul. "Do
you understand?"

"I assure you, Lord Marks, I have only the most
honorable intentions where your daughter is concerned. I know where
my responsibility lies."

"Excellent. I know I can count on you, Paisley."

"Thank you, sir." Baldwyn stood. "I will take my
leave now with your permission, but I would be most honored if you
and your daughter would be my guests this evening at the
opera."

"That would be most agreeable, your grace."

"Excellent. I will call for you at six."

Baldwyn had every intention of playing the perfect
gentleman, of making certain Lord Marks saw him as a doting and
devoted match for his daughter. The contract had been made, and no
matter how he hated not having his own choice, he had always taken
his responsibilities seriously.

After seeing Lady Anastasia again that morning, it
was ever clearer to him that she was no longer the little girl he
remembered with the mousy brown braids, firing mudballs at him from
her hiding place in the hedge. She was a grown woman. And a
frightfully perfect one at that. Perhaps if he had been given his
choice, he would have chosen Anastasia Trent on his own.

For that reason, he knew he would have to be careful.
She was an innocent. One who seemed even more so with her wide-eyed
admiration of him. As though she had concocted a fairy tale about
him, made him into a knight in shining armor. It was far too easy
to take advantage of that kind of innocence. It wouldn't be fair.
To either of them.

Reality was far less romantic. And inextricably
interwoven with reality was his ever-present duty.

His grandmother had defined it for him.

Marry. Produce an heir.

Fine. That was what he would do. In the meantime,
there was no reason to cause her father concern. But neither would
he play to her fairy tale, because if he did, he might find himself
believing it.

****

They entered The King's Hall a few minutes late.
Baldwyn seemed overwrought with embarrassment at their tardiness,
but Anastasia shrugged off his concern. She hadn't been to the
opera in ages and many of her friends had told her wonderful things
about
Le Nozze Di Figaro.
Since her mother's death, her
father rarely went out to the theater, but Anastasia recalled how
her mother had loved it.

"I was privileged to see this at the Burgtheater in
Vienna many years ago," Lord Marks said, as they climbed the
staircase to Baldwyn's box. "Mozart himself directed."

"Mozart?" Baldwyn inclined his head toward her
father. His blue eyes sparkled with interest, seeming impressed
with her father's revelation. He opened the door and guided her to
the front row of seats, holding her chair for her like the perfect
gentleman.

The performance had already begun, but their late
arrival seemed to draw some interest from the boxes around them in
the form of a brief commotion of head-turning and gestures to where
they sat.

Anastasia was instantly enraptured with the scene
unfolding on the stage below. So much so, that when she turned to
comment to Baldwyn about the witty banter between Susanna and
Marcellina taking place, she was surprised to find him staring at
her.

He slowly leaned toward her, his gaze intent on hers.
Her heart caught in her throat. Would he kiss her? Here? In front
of her father? In the middle of the opera? Her pulse raced as he
drew closer, and Anastasia couldn't keep her eyes from wandering to
his lips.

The heat of his nearness radiated to her body. The
memory of his lips on hers the night before replayed itself in her
mind, teasing her heart with possibilities. With a slow, deliberate
movement he lifted a hand to gesture across the theater, turned his
mouth to her ear, and whispered, "The dowager."

And then he retreated in his chair, sending her hopes
careening to the floor. Her stomach felt as though it had fallen
into her slippers. A glance across to the box he had indicated
revealed not only the dowager, but the Duke of Banbury and Lady
Katherine Bourne as well. The dowager fanned herself and nodded
acknowledgement in their direction.

Anastasia returned the nod and glanced at the other
residents of the box. The Duke of Banbury, dressed in all his
finery, was staring at Lady Katherine — of course. The notorious
rake had no semblance of propriety. Anastasia's gaze traveled to
Lady Katherine to see if she was equally as taken with her escort.
But Lady Katherine appeared to be quite entranced and staring at…
Baldwyn.

A sudden surge of jealousy swept over her, and she
slipped her hand possessively into the crook of Baldwyn's arm.

****

Anastasia's hand on his arm startled Baldwyn, and he
looked quickly to her father to gauge if he had noticed. As luck
would have it, Lord Marks seemed fully engaged with the interaction
on the stage below. Perhaps reliving his experience in Vienna so
long ago.

She clutched his arm tighter, and his pulse
quickened. Was she frightened? Surely not from the comedy. More
likely she was concerned about the love triangle playing out before
them. Women were frightfully anxious about such things.

The warmth of her touch was both pleasant and
frustrating, reminding him of the stolen moments in in Montmouth's
study the previous evening. He had resolved to do his duty, to
behave the perfect gentleman, but when she touched his arm, it took
every ounce of his will to keep his mind on anything else. Thank
heavens her father was there with them.

"Is that Lord Evansbrook?" Lord Marks craned his neck
to the right and gestured with his mother-of-pearl opera glass.

"It appears so, Papa," Anastasia answered, squinting
her eyes to see through the darkness. "I thought he had gone to the
country for the holidays."

"He had." Lord Marks handed the opera glass to his
daughter and slapped his knee. "I really must speak with him. Will
you excuse me, dear? Paisley."

"Right now? Can it not wait until the intermission,
Papa?"

"Not at all, sweet girl. If I wait, he'll be overrun
by Lord Benchley's supporters. And I have no intention of letting
that blighter get to him first." He stood quietly and patted her on
the arm. "Don't worry, Anastasia, I'll return shortly. Mind my
daughter, Paisley."

Baldwyn stood halfway and offered a curt nod as Lord
Marks exited.

"Yes, Paisley, mind his daughter," Anastasia
repeated, her voice a mocking laugh. She grasped his arm again and
pulled him down into the seat, still clinging to him as though he
might disappear at any moment.

The temperature in the box rose ten degrees. Baldwyn
squirmed in his seat, making an effort to inch out of Anastasia's
reach unnoticed. It was difficult enough controlling his baser
urges when her father was chaperoning them. But now, alone with the
mud-slinging chit, Baldwyn struggled to master his desire to ravage
her. There, in his grandmother's opera box, while below on the
stage Marcellina demanded Figaro honor his contract to marry
her.

"So what are your thoughts, your grace?"

"M-my thoughts?"

"Yes." She inclined her head. If he was not mistaken,
her golden brown eyes were reading his thoughts that very moment.
Her lips parted and she waited in patient silence. His pulse
throbbed violently in his neck.

"I—I think… um, what was the question?" Baldwyn
swallowed the lump in his throat.

"The opera — should Figaro honor his contract with
Marcellina? Or should he marry his love?"

"Oh." Baldwyn glanced toward the scene below. "He has
made a bit of a cake of things, hasn't he?"

"He has indeed." Her gaze remained firmly fixed on
his face.

"On one hand he has a duty to Marcellina."

"On the other, Susanna holds his heart."

The click of the door behind them shattered the thick
silence between them.

"Well, we were mistaken, my dear. That was not Lord
Evansbrook at all, but his younger brother making use of his box."
Marks settled back into the chair on the other side of Lady
Anastasia.

"I'm sorry it was a wasted trip, Papa." She handed
the opera glass back to him.

"Not entirely wasted, my sweet. I did discover Lord
Evansbrook intends to accept the invitation to the Kringle
Christmas Eve Ball. So I know he'll be back in Town within a
fortnight."

"Lovely! Perhaps you should invite the marquess to
dinner upon his return."

"That's a brilliant plan, my dear. And you shall join
us, Paisley! I would love to introduce you to Evansbrook. He is a
good man to know if you want anything done in Parliament."

"Any excuse to spend more time with Lady Anastasia,
my lord."

****

Anastasia glared, not really sure what he meant by
that bold statement. If he wanted to spend time with her then he
wouldn't react to her touch as if she had the plague!

Spend more time with her? She narrowed her eyes. The
man seemed more likely to drown himself in the Thames before he'd
choose to spend more time in her presence.

Ignorant boor. Bitterness was an altogether new
emotion for her considering she had taken on life in what one could
describe as blind optimism, choosing to look at the positive
instead of the negative cynicism of the world. Interesting how
easily cynicism caught on when one was shackled to a man who'd
rather speak to her father than her.

She cleared her throat, a pathetic try for attention.
Baldwyn looked at her and flushed, his eyes widening as they
flickered across her chest.

"You have, ahem…" He coughed and reddened even more.
"That is to say, a tiny piece of…" He closed his eyes and reached
out to touch her.

Fearfully she slapped his hand away, which of course,
made him lose balance on his chair, which then caused him to grab
at whatever he could, which naturally ended up being her. With a
squeak she fell on top of him.

Her father rushed to her aid, but not before
Anastasia caught a glimpse of the look in Baldwyn's eyes. It was
the same look he'd had before he kissed her, only this time it
seemed fiercer, predatory as if an extra second in his arms would
ruin her for life.

She leveled him with a stare of her own, a challenge,
and accepted her father's hand as she sat back in her seat.
Fortunately, their fall had happened at the exact moment that the
audience had begun to clap.

"Intermission," her father announced. "I'll just run
and fetch you some lemonade, your grace. You look positively
flushed," he added, and rushed out the door.

Something like a curse escaped the duke's mouth as he
managed to right himself back in his seat.

"Apologies," he ground out. "You had a tiny bug on
your gown, and I was endeavoring to remove it."

"By falling to your knees no doubt," Anastasia
snapped back. "Consider yourself lucky, your grace."

"Lucky? Hardly," he murmured just under his breath.
She almost didn't catch it.

"The instant before you fell, I noticed a small bug
on your person — your head actually — and I was seconds away from
swatting it. Who knows? You might have fallen over the balcony and
into the crowds. Would have been an absolute shame."

"Right." His nostrils flared. He leaned toward her,
but Anastasia pulled back.

"A favor, your grace?"

"Of course." He swallowed.

"If you feel the need to put on a play for my father,
please do so when I'm not around. I believe we both know where your
true interest lies."

His lips formed a pained smile. "And where is
that?"

"My dowry, no doubt, and an alliance with my father.
Nothing more, nothing less. Let us stop pretending it is anything
more than an arrangement."
Before you break my heart
, she
wanted to add, but didn't.

"Your dowry and your father?" His scowl burned into
her. "Let me make this plain to you, my lady. I have interest in
neither your money nor your father's good name. I have an abundance
of both. My interest lies only in doing my duty, which I would have
been content to remain in Scotland to do, had it not been for the
arrangement
your father made with my grandmother. As I have
told you on more than one occasion, I know where my duty lies, and
I know my place in this arrangement. But I would find it to be
infinitely easier if you also knew yours."