Two Turtledoves

by Leah Sanders

Published by Astraea Press

www.astraeapress.com

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 LEAH SANDERS

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

TWO TURTLEDOVES

Copyright © 2012 LEAH SANDERS

ISBN 978-1-62135-089-7

Cover Art Designed by AM Design Studios

For my sisters:

Sarahlee, Rebekah, Liz, Amy, and Ann — for all the times you wanted me to "kiss and tell" but I refused…

I love you guys!

Prologue

The mourning call of the turtledove echoed across the field, muffled only by the rustling of the nearby trees in the mild summer breeze. From the far side, a lone figure, a boy no older than one and six, carried a musket at the ready, wading through the tall field grass with a slow, deliberate gait. His gaze scoured the land all around him. The crack of a twig brought him swinging around to take aim at the disturbance, but his sudden movement startled the prey, sending it scurrying back into the cover of the nearby thicket.

He shook his head and turned in the opposite direction, following his original path. His bright copper hair danced in the light gust sweeping the field as he traipsed forward once again, musket at the ready.

A piercing scream mingled with the call of the turtledoves, startling the hunter and the wildlife. There was an instant rush in the trees as birds took to wing. The boy craned his neck in the direction of the unearthly wail. It seemed to come from beyond the line of trees.

Somewhere in the blur of thick foliage, he seemed to catch sight of something he wasn't expecting. Patches of bright blue interspersed among the leaves high in a tree glittered in the sunlight.

Tiptoeing forward, he made his way through the field to stand directly under the giant oak. He slung his musket over his shoulder, crossed his arms, and gazed up into the branches at the offending apparition.

"Young Miss Trent, I presume?"

Her only response was a pitiful whimper. She gazed down on him with wide brown eyes which glistened with fresh tears.

"Are you stuck?" he asked.

After a moment of hesitation, she answered with a loud sniffle. "Yes."

"Then I shall rescue you, fair damsel," he announced, sweeping low into a grand bow. He removed his musket sling and game satchel and leaned them against the base of a nearby elm. Without further ado, he reached for the lowest branch and hoisted himself up, crawling higher and higher until he reached her side.

"Alas, fair lady, your knight has arrived." His most dazzling smile comforted the frightened girl. "However did you come to be imprisoned here in this tower, Princess?"

"My foot is stuck."

"I see. This is a grave situation indeed. May I?" He gestured to her slipper. Her mousy brown pigtails bounced when she nodded her assent.

With a gentle twist, the boy freed her foot from its confinement. He lifted her into his arms and started back down the tree.

Once safe on the ground, he set the little girl on her feet and knelt on one knee to examine her face-to-face.

"Are you well, Princess?"

She bobbed her head again and threw her arms around his neck.

"There now, Princess," he said, patting her gently on the back. "All is well."

As if she remembered her part in the farce, she released him and stepped back with a coy smile and a sweet curtsy. "Thank you, Sir Knight, for rescuing me."

"At your service, my lady," he said, rising to his feet and bowing at the waist. "'Tis my sworn duty to protect a lady of the realm."

She giggled. Her eyes shone bright with joy in their little game.

"Are you hungry, Princess?" He picked up his hunting satchel and reached inside it, fishing out a shiny red apple and a hard biscuit.

The little girl smiled wide, showing a gap where her two front teeth used to be.

"Oh, dear. I suppose the apple is out of the question then," the boy said with a wink. "Unless…" he paused thoughtfully, then reached a hand into his bag once more, retrieving a small hunting knife with triumphant flair. "Ta-da!"

She clapped and shrieked with laughter.

"Apple, Princess?"

Her enthusiastic nod sent him straight to work peeling and slicing the fruit into crisp slivers.

They sat under the tree together. He handed the juicy slices to her one at a time, and she munched on them happily. "Thank you, Sir Knight!"

"You, my dear princess, may call me Baldwyn."

"Baldwyn," she tried it out, chasing it with a short burst of bubbly little girl laughter.

"There now. Isn't this much better than being stuck up in that old tree?"

"Yes!"

"Whatever were you doing up there anyway?"

"I was looking for the nest."

"The nest?"

"The turtledoves. Papa says they make their nests out here in the spring and fly away in the fall."

"That's true. They do like it out here in the fields."

"I heard them crying. I thought maybe they needed help."

"Ah, yes. They do sound terribly sad, don't they?"

"Yes. Like they've lost their true love."

The boy chuckled. "I suppose that's exactly how they sound." He handed her another sliver of apple. "That sad cry is the sound they make when they call to their mates. Turtledove pairs don't like to be apart. So they call to each other, reminding each other where they truly belong."

She sat silent for a moment, staring at the piece of apple in her hand. "Sometimes I awake at night and hear that sound." Her voice lowered to a confidential whisper. "Once I followed it to my father's chamber door." Her big brown eyes lifted to meet his sparkling blue gaze. "Do you think he cries like that because Mama was his turtledove?"

The boy's eyes glistened as he blinked back at her. "That might be," he whispered finally. They held their peace for a moment, listening to the mournful cry of the turtledoves dodging through the canopy of branches overhead.

Finally, the boy stood and brushed off his breeches. He reached for his musket and satchel and slung them each over his shoulders. He offered a hand to the child who still sat at the base of the giant oak. When she grasped it, he helped her to her feet, then proffered his elbow. "May I see you home, Princess?"

"I'd be delighted, Sir Knight." Her smile was cheery and bright once more as she rested her tiny fingers on his forearm like the perfect little medieval lady, and the two of them made their way back across the field to the estate house, laughing and joking as they went.

Chapter One

Twelve years later

Baldwyn Sinclair, the Duke of Paisley, gazed out the window, blinking his heavy eyelids, and watched the snow-covered landscape slip by. As rare as it was for the present time of year, the sun was shining, casting a blinding reflection off the pristine white ground, causing him to blink and turn away from the window.

The wind was quiet. It was an eerily calm winter day, far from normal in that part of the country. The calm before the storm was more like it.

His grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Durbin, had summoned him back from Scotland. For what, he did not know, but one did not ignore a request from her grace.

It was only a matter of hours now until his impending arrival at her London home. She never retired to the country for the winter anymore. The old woman much preferred to stay ensconced in her townhouse, wreaking havoc on the lives of any relative foolish enough to reside within the city limits.

Bile choked his throat in direct proportion to his anxiety as he considered one more time what the old crone could possibly want with him.

Baldwyn should have been safe in Scotland. After all, his cousin, the Duke of Banbury, was well within her reach and could surely keep her meddlesome hands occupied for several months.

Why hadn't he accepted that commission when he had the chance? He could have been away on the Continent fighting against the evils of the French rather than the evils of her grace's machinations. Staring down the barrel of Napoleon's cannon would have been preferable.

He closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall of the coach. It would be wise to rest now. No doubt his grandmother had already arranged for him to attend a winter event that evening and would have him racing to ready for it the moment he set foot in her front door. Taking a slow, deep breath, he soothed his frazzled nerves and allowed himself to drift into a fitful sleep, propped against the blue satin-lined wall.

****

"Your grace." The voice of his valet broke through his haze of sleep. "We have arrived."

Baldwyn groaned with anguish as he opened first one eye and then the other.

"Munro," he muttered in disgust, "I have told you of my feelings on being awakened with bad news, have I not?"

"Yes, your grace," Munro offered. "However, in matters such as these, I believe your wrath is less daunting than that of the dowager's."

Baldwyn sighed. One couldn't argue with that logic.

The massive stone structure rose ominously above him, as he stepped down from the carriage and squared his shoulders in preparation for the onslaught he knew he was about to endure.

His Hessian boots suddenly felt like they were encased in the stone path as he endeavored to move toward the stairs leading to the front entry. Dread weighed in the pit of his stomach. Where was Napoleon's cannon when he needed it?

At the door, his grandmother's loyal old butler answered Baldwyn's hesitant knock almost immediately, as if he had been stationed there with the express purpose of tethering the duke the second he laid eyes on him.

"Good afternoon, Perkins," Baldwyn managed to grunt.

"Your grace." Perkins bowed and held out the tray for his hat and gloves. "Her grace awaits you in the blue salon."

"May I not refresh myself before the torture commences?"

Perkins' emotionless expression was fixed firmly in place. "Her grace wishes to begin the moment you arrive."

Petulant little man.

Baldwyn directed an ironic smirk at the smug butler. He knew, of course, it wouldn't have any effect. Perkins would be far more concerned with what his mistress would do to him if she discovered her instructions had been ignored than anything the Duke of Paisley might threaten to do.

He turned to the blue salon, and with one last deep breath of free air, he threw the doors open and strode in with Scottish bravado.

"Guid efternuin, Grandmother! Ye ur lookin' brammer as ever!" He knew the native brogue would infuriate her; nevertheless, he raised his voice to a ridiculous volume as well, knowing full well she would take it as a direct insult to the condition of her hearing.

"Bite your tongue, boy. We are not deaf. Nor are we in the presence of the wild Scottish savages you spend your time with these days." Her icy steel blue glare bore into his face. Oh, yes, he had succeeded in incurring her wrath in less time than it would take to seduce a whore.

Inwardly, he winced but showed no sign of contrition as he drifted to her and planted a light kiss on her pale cheek as though he was as innocent as the driven snow.

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."

Chapter Two

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.

"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.

Chapter Three

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.

The lady did not seem comforted, so he made up his mind to ask her to dance. As he turned to offer his services to her, however, the music stopped and he heard the unmistakable voice of the dowager shatter the peace of the room.

"Lords and ladies…" she began.

Baldwyn's stomach clenched into a tiny knot, and he regretted eating anything. He glanced at the lady, whose eyes seemed to be scrutinizing his every move.

"It is my pleasure to welcome my grandson, the Duke of Paisley, back to London, and…" She seemed to be drawing the announcement out as long as possible. Probably hoping to prolong his agony. "…to announce his engagement to the lovely Lady Anastasia, daughter of Lord Marks."

He could feel the blood rushing from his face and pooling in his feet, making them feel like his boots were full of millstones. His ears felt as though they had burst into flame at his grandmother's announcement.

"Your grace," the melodic voice floated to him once more. Baldwyn glanced toward her. "I believe that's our cue."

She slipped her slender gloved hand around his arm and smiled weakly. The reality of what she said sank in slowly, weaving its way past the whiskey and the brandy and the indignation. Even then his disbelief blinded him, but she forced him to move forward.

Forward to the dreaded fate of being forever fettered to the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Chapter Four

The sinking feeling in the pit of Anastasia's stomach didn't go away. Not even when Baldwyn asked her to dance. It was perfunctory. She realized that now. The moment he had let slip that he was forced into the betrothal, that he hadn't forgotten her mud ball flinging incident, and that he had no interest in marrying her whatsoever, her heart felt as though a two-ton weight had crashed down upon it, dashing her hopes and dreams into a million pieces.

The fantasy she had so carefully constructed dissipated in an instant, and Anastasia was left reeling from the crushing blow. Within, her spirit wailed its death cry, but outwardly she had to maintain appearances. They were still at the ball, after all. And the engagement had just been announced. There was no turning back now. Not now.

She should have insisted they meet ahead of time. Become reacquainted. Made certain the betrothal was right. Instead she had been so enamored with the idea of Baldwyn as her husband, it had never occurred to her that he would feel differently about it. And now it was too late.

Certainly, Anastasia could break the engagement. But it would not do well for her family name, and as such, she could not seriously consider the possibility. She would simply have to make the best of the disappointing situation. Perhaps if she could make him see her as something other than the little girl who had pelted him and his horse with mud balls.

Perhaps then he would be content with her.

All this she thought as Baldwyn led her around the room in the dance. She didn't dare to meet his gaze, but it seemed he wasn't making much of an effort to cast it her way either. A few well-timed sidelong glances told her that. When they switched partners, Baldwyn would smile and engage in pleasantries with the girl with whom he was dancing. When they came back together, he fell into a dark, brooding silence. It was almost unbearable.

When the dance ended, Baldwyn offered her his arm and escorted her back to the refreshment table, finally breaking the stiff silence between them.

"Care for something to cool to drink?" he offered, a hint of spite dancing in his blue eyes.

"I believe I would," she said, trying to muster up her sweetest smile. He seemed not to take any notice. Instead he handed her a glass of lemonade and offered his arm one more time.

"Shall we take some cold winter air?" When he put it that way, it didn't sound nearly as romantic as she had imagined it would be. But why start now? If nothing else, perhaps he would offer an apology for his brutal treatment of her earlier, so she hooked a gloved hand around his proffered elbow and allowed him to lead her through the ballroom doors onto the terrace.

****

The situation was increasingly complicated. Why hadn't he simply refused his grandmother's invitation back to London? Even as the question entered his mind, he knew it would have been already too late. The dowager had made the betrothal contract weeks ago. She just hadn't bothered to tell him until that day.

The girl had known longer than he had.

Baldwyn glanced down at her beside him. Perhaps girl was no longer an appropriate term. She was every inch the woman and nothing he had expected her to be. Her mousy brown hair had metamorphosized into rich chestnut waves. Her formerly straight frame had transformed as well into something he could only describe as desirable. It might not be so bad waking to find her in his bed every morning.

He shook his head to dispel the thought. The arrangement was his grandmother's doing. And Baldwyn wanted no part in it.

Glancing at her again, he noted she had crossed her arms over her chest and hugged them close to herself. Her face angled away from him toward the floor and the far side of the terrace. It was rather chilly to be out in the open air without a wrap.

Baldwyn slipped off his coat in one fluid motion and draped it over her shoulders.

She offered him a weak smile and muttered, "Thank you." But her gaze returned to the ground immediately. Perhaps it wasn't just the cold bothering her.

He wished he could recall exactly what he had said earlier when his head still spun with Montmouth's brandy. He had consumed far too much with Benedict, hoping to deaden his sense of what he would have to endure that night. Montmouth was right. Blast him. He should have left well enough alone. Too much brandy, and as his head was beginning to clear, he had only a faint sense that he should perhaps apologize. For what, he wasn't certain.

Clearing his throat, he turned to face her, intending to string some sort of regret together and ask her forgiveness for whatever it was he had done. Not that he believed he hadn't committed the offense, he simply couldn't remember what it was.

At the sound of his cough, she turned back and gazed up at him with her deep brown eyes, sad but expectant. His mind went blank, and the words dangling there on the tip of his tongue disappeared instantly.

"Um… I… that is to say, you—" His words stumbled over one another, getting lost in his drunken haze. Why couldn't he think of any words?

"Ever the eloquent speaker, your grace," she said with a hint of mockery.

"Yes, well, normally I have a better grasp of language, I do confess."

"I remember." Her eyes seemed to search his as though for something lost. Sad longing hung behind them mixed with… what was that?

Disappointment.

Odd. He had expected to be disappointed with his grandmother's choice. Instead he found indescribable beauty. Never once had Baldwyn considered she would be disappointed with her end of the arrangement. Every girl aspired to marry a duke.

"You seem… unhappy, my lady. Could it be that you are not content to be engaged to a duke?" The offended tone that edged his words surprised even him.

In answer, she removed his jacket from her shoulders and handed it to him with a stoic expression.

"A duke shouldn't be seen without his coat, your grace." He took it from her, slipped it back on and considered her for a long moment. She simply lifted her chin and stared him down. A look that reminded him of the dowager, sending an instant chill prancing down his spine.

The rap on the glass door behind him gave him an excuse to tear his attention away from his companion. Much to his chagrin, his grandmother stood on the other side of the glass, glaring at him intently. What did she want now?

With an adamant nod and a raised eyebrow, she indicated his jacket pocket, then lifted her cane in a gesture toward his betrothed. When Baldwyn hesitated in his confusion, the dowager duchess repeated the gesture more vehemently and pounded her cane on the marble floor to punctuate her silent order.

Baldwyn reached into his coat pocket and felt along the seam. It was next to impossible to feel anything through his glove. What had she planted there anyway? He rolled his eyes and shot the old woman a scowl. She returned it with equal fervor and another stamp of her carved wooden cane.

Without breaking eye contact with his grandmother, Baldwyn lifted his hand in the air and finger by finger pulled off his glove. He knew the act would exasperate her — taking off his glove in public. She was ridiculously fond of her social proprieties. One more reason to hole up on his estate in Scotland and never return to London again.

Again he plunged his hand into his coat pocket and fished around for something hidden there.

Then he felt it.

Small. Round. Cold.

His mother's ring.

Blast the dowager.

She was ordering him to propose properly and offer up his mother's ring as a testimony of his commitment to the arrangement.

A heavy sigh escaped his lips, and he turned to the lady once more. He cleared his throat again to gain her attention.

When she glanced up at him, he thrust the ring toward her with all of the grace of a French goat wearing Hessian boots.

"Here," he grunted. When the lady made no move to accept the ring, he grasped her left hand in his and slipped it on her finger.

"What are you—" she began, but he cut her off with a shrug.

"You don't want my coat, so perhaps my mother's ring will warm you. Take it. As a token of my… affection." She opened her mouth to object, but Baldwyn had no intention of presenting her to his grandmother without that ring on her fragile little finger. "Wear it, my lady. We are, after all, engaged — whether we like it or not." The last words tumbled out of his mouth before he had a chance to stop them, and thus trailed off into a whisper. He hoped she hadn't heard them, since apparently he had done more than enough damage for one night, but the brittle smile she offered did not reach her eyes as she took the arm he offered and followed him stiffly back into the warmth of the ballroom.

Chapter Five

The night couldn't end soon enough. All her life Anastasia had dreamed of the moment of her engagement to the Duke of Paisley. But it had all been for naught. Not one part of the evening had lived up to the fantasy she had concocted.

Baldwyn Sinclair didn't want her.

He would always see her as the little girl with mousy brown hair who threw mud balls at him to gain his attention.

The air in the ballroom was stifling. Even with the smaller crowd, the fires were roaring in the hearths at each end of the hall, seeming to suck every ounce of oxygen from the room.

After Baldwyn escorted Anastasia once about the room, he presented her to his grandmother and promptly disappeared. The dowager duchess took over from there, dragging her from lord to lady, introducing her as the future Duchess of Paisley.

All Anastasia desired was to go home, crawl into her canopy bed, and mourn the loss of her dreams. If she could just find her father, perhaps he would consent to taking her home.

Beside her, the dowager entrenched herself in conversation with a small group of ladies, discussing the future wedding plans. Normally, Anastasia would be enthralled with the prospect of planning her nuptials. After all, she had been doing just that since she was seven. Somehow a groom who didn't share her enthusiasm about the blessed event made the whole thing repugnant to her very spirit.

Her father was nowhere in sight, which meant he had congregated with the older men, holed up somewhere discussing politics. Anastasia knew he would give in to her request and take her home, but he socialized so seldom since her mother died, it seemed unfair to ask him to quit the company of his friends.

A throat clearing behind her caught her attention, and she glanced over her shoulder. Tristan Markham, the son of the Count of Brundage, stood there with a broad grin spread across his face. He wasn't much older than she was, and she had known him for several years.

"Good evening, Miss Ana—Anashtashia," he slurred thickly and bowed at the waist. "Would you like to dance?"

"Mr. Markham. That would be lovely." He seemed somewhat foxed, but she was dying for an excuse to leave the dowager. And Tristan was harmless. A childhood friend. They used to make mud pies together long ago. The sound of Baldwyn's guarded laughter from across the room reminded her, however, that it wasn't so long ago.

Tristan offered his arm, and Anastasia offered a brief excuse to the dowager before taking it. He ushered her onto the floor beaming like he had won at the gaming tables.

As they danced, Tristan leaned close to Anastasia's ear as though he wanted to tell her a secret, but his voice was hardly hushed.

"I'm drunk," he blurted and winked at her with an air of confidentiality.

Anastasia stifled a nervous giggle. "Yes, I believe you are, Mr. Markham."

As if to punctuate his confession, he stumbled over her feet, forcing her to steady him by clutching at his flailing arms, lest they both careen to the ground in front of everyone.

That would never do on the night of her engagement to the Duke of Paisley, even if the man despised her. She would not be the cause of his further disappointment and humiliation.

If he had noticed her partner was drunk and stumbling about the floor with her, Baldwyn gave no sign. He was engrossed in deep conversation with Lord Renwick and Lord Rawlings. Not one glance at her since she had been dancing with Tristan.

Any hope she was holding onto that she might be able to arouse some flicker of jealousy, some signal that he might carry a secret tender for her, even a glimpse of concern for her welfare, was thoroughly dashed as she followed Tristan's unstable lead about the dance floor.

Tears burned behind her eyes, but she refused to give them leave to flow. Not here. Not where the duke might see. Where he might think she truly was still only an emotional child. Instead, Anastasia swallowed back the dry lump in her throat and forced her mind to focus on the steps of the dance, which were becoming increasingly difficult with such an inebriated partner.

Just when she was certain Tristan would surely slump to the floor, she heard a thickly accented, deep voice break in. "Pardon me, Markham, I would like to dance with this lovely lady if I may."

Tristan glanced at him through glassy eyes and smiled wide in recognition. "Ah, Tenorio. Just in time." With a grand sweeping gesture, he offered his place in the dance to the suave Spaniard and staggered to the nearest seat.

Left alone with a complete stranger, Anastasia could feel her face burning to deep crimson. What just transpired could hardly count as an introduction, and yet of all the gentlemen in the room, he was the only one to come to her rescue. Not that she was ever in any real danger from Tristan. She knew that.

But they didn't.

And certainly Baldwyn couldn't have known.

"I apologize, señorita, for the inadequate introduction, but I could not in good conscience allow you to be treated in such a fashion." His eyes were black as night, but they gleamed with admiration as he gazed into Anastasia's. "I am Santiago Tenorio, the son of the Spanish emissary to the Crown. May I ask your name?"

"You may call me Lady Anastasia. My father is the Earl of Marks." Mr. Tenorio's gaze seemed to scorch her as she spoke, forcing her to avert her own. His olive skin and wavy black hair cut a striking figure, stealing her breath away as they danced.

When the music came to an end, the Spaniard bent over her hand, pressing a lingering kiss to her glove, before lifting his dark eyes again to her face.

"The pleasure is mine, Lady Anastasia." Her name dripped off his tongue in an accent that turned her knees to warm porridge. The sensation spread through her, warming her throughout, causing her to fan herself involuntarily.

"It is rather stifling in here this evening. Would you care for some fresh air, señorita?"

It was stifling in the ballroom. She had thought so only moments ago as she listened to the dowager drone on and on about the wedding preparations. And fresh air sounded so lovely and inviting in that accent. Baldwyn had yet to notice her. Perhaps her whole life had been leading to that moment. Mr. Tenorio was gallant. He was dark and handsome. And he alone had saved her from the would-be ravishing of a drunken rake.

A small electric thrill pulsed through her as she accepted the Spaniard's proffered arm and allowed him to guide her onto the terrace, down the icy stairs, and into the snow-encrusted garden.

****

From the corner of his eye, Baldwyn saw the Spaniard escort Lady Anastasia out onto the terrace. He had become quite adept at keeping tabs on her in such a short amount of time. Strange, since his only aspiration at present was to determine the best course of action to find his way out of the engagement. Why should he care if his fiancée took fresh air with the Spaniard?

Because she was his. That was reason enough.

But he had also heard stories. Tenorio. A man of great talent where ladies were concerned. And with his thick romantic accent oozing from his every Spanish pore, the reputation was of little wonder.

Baldwyn knew that a lady who had ensnared a duke would be a complete fool to jeopardize the match — on the day of their engagement, no less. So why could he feel the burning ire surging to his heart?

"Don't you agree, Paisley?" Renwick's brusque voice broke into his thoughts. Baldwyn hadn't heard a word of what the earl had spoken.

"Yes. Yes, of course," he answered curtly and glanced back toward his companions. "Will you excuse me, Renwick? Rawlings." He offered a brief nod and trudged in the direction of Montmouth's study. Certainly there was another drop or two in the bottle he and Benedict had efficiently polished off earlier in the evening.

Chapter Six

It was lovely out in the garden, though bitterly cold. The moonlight reflected on the crystalline frost, glistening like a bouquet of diamonds.

Diamonds.

The thought drew Anastasia's attention back to the ring on her left hand. The ring that had been offered to her with all the care of a plow horse in a China shop. A sentiment that hardly matched the beauty of the heirloom. A deep blue sapphire laid in a wreath of brilliant diamonds, all set in a filigreed gold band, cast to look like autumn leaves.

"It is a lovely token, señorita." Her companion's voice shattered her silent reflection, reminding her that she was not alone.

"Thank you, Mr. Tenorio." A wistful sigh escaped her throat as she cast another lingering glance at the jewel on her hand.

"Pardon me, señorita, but you do not seem as happy as I imagine a newly betrothed lady to be." He stopped abruptly in the garden path and faced Anastasia, capturing her hand in his. Very forward. Even for a Spaniard.

"Do I not? How very odd." She gently slipped her hand from his grasp. No matter how horrible Baldwyn had behaved, Mr. Tenorio should not be allowed such liberties. Not with a lady betrothed to another. "I am deliriously happy."

"My apology, then, for the mistaken observation. You sighed so sadly just now, I thought perhaps it was a match that did not please you."

His dark gaze bore into her, as though he could read her deepest thoughts — the bitter disappointment must have been written across her face. For the first time, Anastasia realized she was alone with him. Outside. In the dark. On the night of her engagement.

An icy chill shot through her and she shivered against it. How had she allowed it to happen? Inwardly, she cursed her own stupidity.

Even as she questioned it, she knew. Baldwyn's rejection, her shattered romantic dream, a handsome stranger coming to her rescue. A glance at her companion told her he had read all those things in her before he ever stepped in to dance with her. She was naught but prey to a discerning rake.

Mr. Tenorio took a step closer. "Are you cold, amor?" The predatory glint in his eyes warned her of his intent to remedy the situation.

"No. Thank you, sir, for your concern. I am quite comfortable." Fear cracked her voice, and she struggled to project a confidence that was rapidly dissolving in the danger that threatened her. A step backward put the needed space between them, but he immediately closed the gap.

"Señorita…" He spoke in a low whisper. His Spanish charm dripped from every syllable of the word. "Surely you tremble with cold."

Anastasia retreated once more. He followed, matching her step for step. Ever so slowly backing her into a darkened gazebo. Her heart raced.

"Don't be afraid, amor. I wish only to warm you and protect you from the winter chill." He reached for her arm, but with a clever turn, she spun free of his grasp.

"Perhaps we should return indoors. I would certainly enjoy some hot wassail. Wouldn't you?" Her voice cracked again, as steadily she drew away from her assailant.

"You are quick, sweet dove, but there is no need to take flight." His smooth movement toward her and the alluring warmth of his voice lulled her. Another step. She must get away.

With a solid thunk she found herself backed up against a wooden balustrade, unable to retreat further. Her breath caught in her throat with an audible gasp.

A grin crept wide across the man's face as he closed the narrow space between them and wrapped his fingers tightly around each of her arms. Now there was no escape. She would be ruined. And any chance she had for happiness with Baldwyn would dissipate like smoke curling from the chimney.

"Please, Mr. Tenorio. I wish to return to the dance." Her voice was hardly a whisper. If she could only find it again, she might scream.

"In time," he murmured as he pulled her against him.

"If you do not release me, sir, I shall scream," she insisted, though so softly, he no doubt took it as an invitation.

He laughed, drawing closer to her. "Come now, amor, do not be coy. I can see you are in need of my warmth."

As if in slow motion, his head descended toward her, his eyes intent on her lips. Fear in the face of inevitable ruin, the fate that was worse than death — her body reacted as though an involuntary force, and she struggled violently against him. A fervent voice shattered the silence encompassing them. And it was several moments before she realized the screaming she heard was her own, as though she were viewing the scene from a balcony seat at the opera.

"No! No! Let me go!" Anastasia's insistent wail brought her spirit sailing back down from the rafters, jolting her into the present danger. She wrenched an arm from his vice-like grip and swung at him with all her might.

Her attacker caught her arm mid-swing and laughed heartily in her face. "Your spirit simply makes this more interesting, señorita. So fight on, amor. The music is too loud, and the night too cold. No one shall hear your cries but me."

He released his grasp on her wrists then, but only to wrap his arms around her, immobilizing her completely. When his lips crushed onto hers, her mind screamed in fury. The depraved cur was stealing from her what she had saved her entire life to offer only to her duke. For Baldwyn alone. Her whole body revolted against the vile sensation, the taste of his Spanish accent. Bile rose in her throat, and she had no intention of holding it back, should it come with urgency.

Inexhaustibly she struggled against his hold on her. With every chance for air, she screamed her protest. With every chance for movement, she pounded him with her fists. Until he seemed to weary of her fight.

"Enough!" He railed and twisted her arms, sending sharp pains stabbing through her with vicious intensity until she had no choice but to fall to her knees at his feet. "And now we shall see." The wicked gleam in his eye danced in the darkness held there.

"Yes, we shall!" Another voice echoed over her. Before she knew what was happening, someone grabbed Mr. Tenorio by the shoulder and spun him around to meet with a bone-shattering blow, delivered sharply to the man's jaw.

Another scream escaped Anastasia's throat as her assailant crumpled to the ground unconscious.

She leapt to her feet and covered her mouth with both hands. Her gaze darted to her savior, who loomed over his quarry, panting as though out of breath.

He had come. Baldwyn had saved her.

The reality of her ordeal slammed her with full force then, and she threw herself into Baldwyn's arms, clutching at him for dear life.

The tears flowed on their own. She could hardly stop them. How close she had come! How close she had been to—

She dared not give voice to the truth. All she could do was cling to her rescuer as though life would end otherwise.

When he wrapped his arms around her, the warmth from his frame spread through her, chasing away both the chill of the winter night and the icy fear that had frozen the blood in her veins.

Slowly he swept her into his arms and carried her toward the house with a deliberate stride, murmuring softly in her ear, "It's over now. All is well." His native Scottish accent seemed to grow more evident as he spoke, and the words seeped into her every pore, soothing her simpering breath, melting away her fears.

Anastasia buried her face against his neck and breathed him in. The smell of safety. Protection. The smell of a knight in shining armor. The smell of sandalwood and nutmeg. How she loved that smell.

The warmth emanating from the grate in the dark room welcomed them as Baldwyn stepped inside and set her on her feet. Lord Montmouth's library. They had come through a side door, just out of sight of the balcony but with a grand view of the gazebo where she had only moments ago been held captive.

His hands remained on her shoulders, as though to steady her. She lifted her gaze to meet his. His clear blue eyes shone with concern, but a veiled hint of fear seemed to hang there as well.

He truly was her knight in shining armor. The one who would ride in on a gleaming white stallion when she needed him most and carry her off to safety. Was it so wrong to want to stay in the comfort of his arms? Even if it meant only a few more minutes of the safety of his embrace?

Disappointment flared in her chest when he relinquished his hold on her shoulders, but instead of leaving, he cradled her head in his hands and sighed, gently wiping a stray tear from her cheek with a soft brush of his thumb.

"Did he harm you?"

She shook her head, positively transfixed by the concern in his deep blue eyes, an involuntary shiver made its way down her spine. Only a slight tremble, yet enough for him to take notice.

Baldwyn cursed. "You're shaking like a leaf." He pulled her closer still, close enough to share the heat radiating from him. He inclined his head toward hers and pressed his lips against her forehead. She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the tenderness in the delivery of the kiss.

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.

Chapter Seven

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.

Chapter Eight

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.

"Munro…" Baldwyn muttered as he wiped at the water streaming down his face.

Munro immediately covered his mouth with his hand, hiding the evidence of his amusement. "The dowager requests your presence, your grace," he managed to choke out, and handed Baldwyn a dry cloth.

"Munro, if I live through this day, you and I shall have a lengthy discussion about your continued employment upon my return." Baldwyn knew it was his own fault for scaring him, but it seemed rather obvious that one way or another he was going to be on the receiving end of that icy shower.

"Forgive me, your grace," he muttered. "But the dowager has given you a mere fifteen minutes. You're down to ten." Were Baldwyn's eyes playing tricks on him, or did he see a shiver of fear in his valet's shoulders as the man worked to lay out Baldwyn's clothes?

The Dowager Duchess of Durbin could strike fear in the stoutest of hearts. One could hardly blame the young valet.

"Very well, Munro," he conceded. "I shall make haste for your sake. And when I return, I will share my brandy with you. I'm certain after a day in this house, you will have earned it."

"Not to worry, your grace. The house staff keeps a fine liquor cabinet well-stocked in the servants' wing."

Naturally, Baldwyn thought. And who could blame them? He rushed to ready himself for the visit to Benedict. Lord Marks would have to wait his turn.

****

Sunlight streamed through the windows, nagging at Anastasia's closed eyes. Her lady's maid pushed the curtains back with surprisingly little care for how much noise she was making.

Anastasia flinched in complaint at the brightness of the daylight infringing on her rest. She felt as though she hadn't had a wink of sleep all night. Her eyelids were swollen and heavy from the tears she had indulged in throughout the restless hours, replaying the events of the evening over and over in her mind.

"Trudy," she whined pitifully.

The girl turned to her with an apology in her eyes. "I'm sorry, milady. The earl asked me to wake you. The duke will be comin' this mornin'. Yer father wants you to receive him and keep him busy until he can finish his mornin' business."

Keep him busy? How was she to accomplish that? She could see it now, the whole conversation…

You look well, your grace.

I hope you've learned your lesson, child. Proper girls do not go into dark gardens with Spaniards.

Yes, your grace. I'm sorry.

Yes. Yes, you are. Very sorry indeed. Perhaps your nanny should accompany you to your next event. To wipe your nose and keep your gloves clean.

My father has said as much, your grace.

Excellent. Now where is he? I grow tired of this childish conversation.

"I've laid out your blue afternoon dress, milady. Cook is already setting out the morning meal."

Anastasia groaned and rolled out of bed. The day ahead would be long and trying. She steeled her nerves and reached for her slippers.

****

His grandmother's rush had deprived him of his morning meal, but fortunately, Benedict's kitchen staff had already laid a suitable spread.

The dowager had been in such a fit this morning, she hadn't uttered a word the entire way to the Banbury house. She simply stared straight forward, clenched her hands tightly in her lap, and periodically heaved an exasperated huff.

At one point Baldwyn opened his mouth to ask her if she was well but thought better of it when he noticed the vein straining in her temple. A sign he had long ago learned meant his grandmother was not to be trifled with.

Now as he sat in Benedict's place at the table, he couldn't keep the smile of relief from playing at his lips at the fact that his cousin was the object of her wrath rather than himself. He lifted a hot scone to his mouth and took a large bite.

Benedict wouldn't mind. In fact, it would come as quite a surprise to Baldwyn if the man had any appetite left after dealing with the dowager this morning.

A maid poured him a cup of tea, but when he reached for it, he heard a throat clearing beside him. Baldwyn glanced up to the man standing at his elbow with a bottle on a silver tray.

"For your tea, your grace."

"My tea?" Benedict certainly had strange habits. Whiskey in his morning tea? He regarded the footman with suspicion for a moment.

"You are staying with the dowager, are you not?"

Baldwyn stared at him. His cousin was a genius.

"Indeed," Baldwyn said as he chuckled, reached for the bottle, then changed his mind. Liquor on his breath when he met with the dowager would not be the most brilliant of strategies. Above him the crystal chandelier trembled with the vibrations of his grandmother's raised voice. The same shiver seemed to course around the room, leaping from one servant to the next.

He hesitated for an instant, eyeing the bottle once more. Then he shook his head adamantly and waved the footman off.

A few minutes later, Benedict burst into the room.

"She's fainted again!" he bellowed to his servants. "Where are the smelling salts?" One of the maids leapt into action, exiting immediately to retrieve the smelling salts.

"Again?" Baldwyn asked, wiping the last few crumbs from his lips. "How often does this occur?" He stood to join Benedict near the door.

"Occasionally," Benedict replied.

"Perhaps it is a ruse?" Baldwyn suggested. He hadn't known her to garner attention through a farce in the past, but in a situation such as this, where she might feel her stratagems falling flat, there was no telling to what depths she would stoop.

"Perhaps. I had just told her I had plans to ruin Lady Katherine," he said with a calculated wink. "Then again, the shock of my exploits being plastered in all the gossip papers could easily be the culprit."

"The dowager is never shocked, Benedict. She knows of every scandal before it even happens."

Benedict shook his head mournfully. "The truth of that statement pains me."

"It pains us all." Baldwyn rested a hand on his cousin's shoulder. An abrupt change of subject was in order. He cleared his throat. "I have an appointment this morning with Lord Marks. Will you see the dowager home?"

Chapter Nine

The Marks' butler met Baldwyn at the door the moment he raised the brass knocker. He was promptly ushered through the foyer to the salon.

"Lord Marks is occupied, your grace. The lady of the house will receive you. If you will please be seated, Lady Anastasia will be with you in a moment."

Baldwyn's nerves protested, but he waited in the salon as instructed. After the night before, he wasn't certain what he would say to her. He had behaved horribly.

Not that any man would have handled the situation better than he had. It was only the previous day he had arrived from Scotland, been informed of the betrothal, announced his engagement to a girl he hadn't seen in years, rescued her from a fate worse than death, kissed her senseless, and scolded her ruthlessly. All in all, he had made a thorough fool of himself.

He stood rather than sat, since he hardly felt at ease.

The doors opened, and Lady Anastasia entered, followed by her lady's maid, a proper escort.

It was impossible not to notice that her hair was down, draped carelessly over her shoulders. Did she not expect his visit? Why would a proper young lady receive a gentleman caller without her hair properly arranged?

He was staring. He knew he was, but he could no more pry his gaze from her soft wavy chestnut locks and the way they framed her ivory face than he could will his heart to stop beating.

"Good morning, your grace," she said, interrupting his silent appreciation of the vision before him. She tilted her head to the side and regarded him with a raised eyebrow. "Are you well?"

"Yes." He shook he head slightly to clear it. "Yes. Pardon me, my lady. I was just—" He stared at her and gestured with a sweep of his hand. "I — your hair."

"My hair?" A look of confused horror blazed in her dark eyes, and she lifted a hand to examine what was amiss. From the expression on her face, it seemed she had no idea of her lack of preparedness for this meeting. "Oh dear!" She covered her mouth with her other hand and glanced to her maid.

"Trudy—" Her voice seemed to freeze in the air, and the maid's gasp mirrored the lady's mortification.

"I imagine the damage is already done." In more ways than one. Did she know what her appearance brought to mind?

Brown hair spilled nearly to her waist, and he was having a devil of a time keeping his eyes from following the silky tendrils as they danced along her body and rose and fell with her breath. And Baldwyn realized anew that Lady Anastasia was indeed no longer a child.

"Forgive me, your grace, I was a bit rushed this morning." Her cheeks reddened with embarrassment. Baldwyn couldn't tear his eyes from her, and she cringed under the weight of his steady gaze. Her eyes darted to her maid once more as she gathered her hair and twisted it behind her head. Perhaps silently pleading for the girl to do something about her current state.

The girl disappeared through the door without another word, leaving them quite alone.

He had told himself the night before that his interest in the lady was a fluke. That he wasn't truly attracted to her, but had been swept up in the passion of the moment. Now he wasn't so sure.

But there was one way to prove it to himself.

She was his betrothed, after all.

And the maid had left them alone.

****

After the previous night, the only thing Anastasia could think of was being kissed by the duke. Her mind had been a thousand miles away. Little wonder how she had gotten all the way to the salon without realizing her hair was still down. But as he said, the damage was already done.

Baldwyn was staring at her with the most frightening look in his eyes. As if he couldn't believe her wantonness. She sat down on the settee to prepare herself for another scolding. Surely he must believe her to be the worst kind of misbehaving child. She glanced at her hands, awaiting his lecture.

When it didn't come, she looked up to find him standing in front of her.

"May I?" he asked, gesturing to the seat beside her.

"Yes, of course." Anastasia scooted further to her side, leaving him plenty of room. Her heart skipped a beat at his nearness.

"I would like to offer an apology, my lady, for last night. My behavior was inexcusable." His words caught her completely off-guard. He was apologizing? A duke? "My grandmother's dictum came as a… surprise. I—" Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed him fidgeting with his gloves. "I thought perhaps I might have a few years more before being forced to marry."

Ah. So there it was. She was his burden to bear. Hardly the romantic love affair she had imagined all these years. Her long sigh gave away her disappointment.

"I mean to say, as a matter of course, I fully intend to do my duty, my lady. You have nothing to fear from me. From here on out I will behave as the perfect gentleman where you are concerned."

Her heart sank to her slippers. That was a shame.

The maid swept back into the room with a handful of pins and made short work of securing Anastasia's wayward tresses on the back of her head.

"Thank you, Trudy."

****

He simply couldn't go through with it. No matter how much he desired to test his theories.

The girl was young, unspoiled, and it hardly seemed fair to ravage her here in her father's house when they scarcely knew each other. They would be married soon enough, and then he would claim his rights.

Baldwyn had withstood temptation once or twice before, though he didn't make a common practice of it.

However, if she ever wore her hair down in his presence again, he couldn't say for certain that would remain the case.

In the meantime, it would be best to keep their social visits as public as possible. For though he had resolved to treat her as a sister, he knew he couldn't trust his carnal nature if it was given half a chance. As evidence he could still feel her soft lips against his from the night before at Montmouth's ball, and they had been alone for mere minutes.

The butler entered as if on cue. "The earl will see you now, your grace. If you will please follow me."

Baldwyn rose from his place next to Lady Anastasia and bowed slightly in her direction. "It has indeed been a pleasure. If you will please excuse me." He followed the butler toward the door, but stopped just short of leaving with one last thought. "May I ask your father's permission to invite you to this evening's opera, my lady?"

"That would be lovely." She didn't smile at him but seemed to be scrutinizing his intentions through narrowed eyes.

"Until this evening then."

****

"Your grace," Lord Marks greeted him as he entered the older man's study. "A pleasure to see you again."

"The pleasure is mine, sir," Baldwyn replied. He had always admired the earl and enjoyed his company. One more reason to treat the girl with the utmost respect. Baldwyn had no desire to break trust with Lord Marks.

For all her tiresome meddling, his grandmother could not have chosen a more amiable family with whom to align.

"Your grandmother is a fearsome adversary, is she not?" Lord Marks had always been direct. A trait Baldwyn appreciated.

"More so than Napoleon, sir."

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."

Chapter Ten

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."

The sound of the door stopped any reply she might make, and her father re-entered the box carrying a drink for each of them. His sheepish glance told her he had overheard the exchange. Concern was etched in his eyes, but he masked his worry with meaningless chatter.

"The theater is rather crowded tonight. I am surprised there are so many people still in Town."

So went the conversation the rest of the evening — her father prattling on about nothing, Baldwyn answering politely, and Anastasia clenching her fists in her lap.

Chapter Eleven

"Anastasia," her father said the moment they entered the house and she had turned to retire upstairs. "A word?"

She should have known he would want to discuss the evening, but the timing made her wonder how much he had heard of the conversation between Baldwyn and her. "Certainly, Papa."

He closed the study door behind them and gestured to a seat across from his desk. So it was to be one of those types of discussions. She cringed and sat where he indicated.

"The duke seemed… conflicted," he finally said after a long silence.

"Conflicted, Papa?" He had seemed rather single-minded to her. If there had been any conflict in him, it was in the decision on how best to deride her — a fierce lecture on her responsibilities or a firm set down on her lack of interest in preserving her reputation.

"You must remember, my dear, Paisley has only just made the discovery that he is attracted to you."

Anastasia's heart leapt into her throat. Her stomach dropped to her toes. Surely her father was mistaken. Baldwyn couldn't stand the thought of her.

"Yes." His answer to her unspoken question took her by surprise. "He is painfully incapable of expressing it to you, of course. But you must give him time. Up until now, you were, in his mind and memory, a little girl who could be trying on a grown man's patience."

Anastasia winced as the image of her younger self taking aim with a sloppy mud ball flashed in her mind. She eyed her father, who seemed to be measuring her reaction to his assessment.

"The duke is a man unfailing in his duty. Everyone among the peerage trusts him to do as he says. And, frankly, that is a rare and inspiring trait." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I believe I have a solution. Something to give Paisley the push he needs to… Well, the push he needs."

It was a lovely sentiment, and she was desperate to believe it. Her own heart had called out for him ever since she could remember — like a mourning turtledove would call for its lost mate. The possibility that his heart might not answer had only now occurred to her, and that thought weighed on her like a pile of stones.

"I have been wanting to spend a few days at Shepherd Hall, a respite before the Kringle Ball. We will make it a house party, invite several guests. Paisley, of course. Perhaps Banbury and his intended, a few of your friends and some suitable gentlemen.. What do you say to that, my dear?"

"That would be lovely, Papa. When do we leave?"

"I'll send out the invitations in the morning. We can leave as soon as you're ready."

****

"Good morning, Grandmother. How are you feeling?" Baldwyn said as he took his seat at the table beside her.

The dowager looked at him through weary eyes. She seemed remarkably quiet for so early in the morning.

She answered with a brief nod and lifted a sealed envelope to him. Two firsts. Silence and an envelope still sealed. Perhaps she was ill.

He accepted the letter and broke the seal. His grandmother scrutinized him as he skimmed the missive.

"Well?" she asked, apparently unable to wait out the suspense.

"An invitation. To Shepherd Hall for a few days." He tossed the letter onto the table and took up his cup of tea.

"You'll accept, of course." Ah, there she was, the grandmother he knew and loved.

"What else have I to do? As long as I am not at home, it is difficult to conduct my affairs effectively."

Her glower sliced through him. "Perhaps you have forgotten what your business is in Town."

Baldwyn took a long drink of his tea and set the cup back on the table. "I daresay that is impossible, Grandmother. I have such tender reminders from you each moment." He rose and bent to kiss her on the cheek. She inclined her head to accept it, but stared after him with a dour expression as he bowed and left the room.

If nothing else, a few days out from under the dowager's watchful eye would do much to relieve his anxiety.

****

It was nearing late afternoon of the next day when Baldwyn's carriage pulled up to the front of Lord Marks' townhouse. He climbed down and strode to the door. When the butler answered it, there was near silence behind him. As if no one was ready to depart, but they were all still upstairs in their rooms packing.

He was shown to the parlor where he waited for what seemed like an hour. He sat tapping his heel, beating a steady quick rhythm against the marble floor. The sound of the door opening startled him, and he rose immediately.

"Do pardon me, your grace," Lady Anastasia said advancing toward him as if in a rush. "Things have been thrown together so suddenly, I am quite behind this afternoon."

"Is your father ready? I can have my footman see to loading the carriages." He glanced around her, hoping to see someone following close behind.

"No, your grace. I'm sorry. Were you not told?" A look of distress flashed across the lady's face. "My father had to see to the arrangements. He left yesterday and has promised to meet us at Shepherd Hall."

"Your father will not be traveling with us?" Baldwyn stood paralyzed, frozen to the spot. His worst nightmare come true. Why had he consented to accompany the lady to the country house?

"I do apologize, Paisley. I thought you knew." She furrowed her eyebrows in concern and added, "It's only a couple of hours. We are betrothed… I am certain no one will consider it unseemly."

He cleared his throat, hoping to exude some semblance of confidence and control. "That may be. I would be far more comfortable, for your sake, if your lady's maid would travel with us."

Her gaze dropped to her gloved hands. "Of course, your grace. 'Twas my intention." She glanced back at him with sad dark eyes. "We will be ready presently."

"I'll alert the footmen."

****

Her father apparently had great faith in Baldwyn to leave her to travel alone with him. And he thought his little trick would go unnoticed, but Anastasia knew the staff at Shepherd Hall was more than adequate to the task of preparing for a small party on short notice. He had left her alone with Baldwyn on purpose.

But it came as a complete surprise when her maid suddenly bolted from the carriage just as Baldwyn instructed the driver to go.

"Pardon me, your grace — my lady! I forgot the trunk of your unmentionables!" Without waiting for a reply, she leapt from the carriage and scurried back into the house. The driver seemed not to notice and whipped the horses into a brisk trot, jolting the two remaining passengers.

Baldwyn's eyes widened in pure fear. And he pounded on the wall to get the driver's attention.

Anastasia herself sat in shock for several minutes as Baldwyn continued his efforts to get the driver's attention to no avail. Oh, her father was good. A smooth master of engineering the "push" her intended needed.

The moment Baldwyn realized the driver was ignoring him, he sat back in his seat and stared at her with what appeared to be utter disbelief and disgust. When his face grew red, and he began to pull at his cravat as though it was choking him, Anastasia knew she was in for another thorough scolding. She closed her eyes, sighed in resignation, and waited for the inevitable to come.

She waited.

The lecture never came.

She opened one eye and peeked at him.

He looked positively ill and sat staring out the carriage window, twisting the brim of the black silk hat he held in his lap.

Come to think of it, she wasn't feeling all that dapper herself. Traveling backward in a carriage had always affected her stomach in a dreadful fashion. Of course, drawing attention to her weakness now would only serve to support his opinion about her childishness. And it did seem silly. Why should traveling backward cause distress?

She opened her other eye. If she moved to his side of the carriage, he would have something to say about her impropriety, no doubt. What could her reason be?

He did look terribly ill.

She slipped from her side of the carriage to the seat beside him. Baldwyn swung around to face her.

"Are you well, your grace?" she asked, putting a gloved hand to his forehead. "You look rather flushed."

"Do I?"

"Yes. Yes, you do. Perhaps I should stay here beside you… in case you faint."

It was winter, and not overly warm in the carriage, yet he was perspiring.

He shook his head adamantly.

"I think not, my lady. It wouldn't be proper."

"Oh." Her stomach flip-flopped. Was it possible for one to turn green? "Are you certain? After all, we are betrothed, and it would be only for your own health." If he made her go back to the other side Anastasia was certain to revisit her afternoon teacakes. And she did feel as though her own pallor had faded to a ghostly white.

His clear blue eyes looked at her intensely, as though seeing her for the first time that day. He scanned her face and a sudden realization seemed to wash over his features. "Oh… I see." His voice was a mere whisper. "Are you unwell, my lady?"

At first she thought to deny it. He would see it as a silly childish ailment. But the concern in his eyes gave her reason to hope. Perhaps he would understand.

Slowly she nodded and cast her gaze at her skirts. "Yes. I cannot abide traveling backward. I do apologize, your grace."

"No need for apologies, my lady." He smiled then. The first she'd seen since he'd arrived in Town. His straight white teeth, his broad grin, the dimple she had admired since she was seven. If her stomach wasn't twisting into an unseemly knot, she might very well have reached out and touched it.

****

Baldwyn had never seen that shade of green on a lady before. He had felt that color once, however, while sailing for the Continent. It was the most miserable voyage of his life. The sailors had laughed as he hung his head over the side of the ship wishing for death to take him.

If the lady felt anything like that, she would need a distraction. A distraction.

A number of possible solutions leapt to mind. Most of which were not aligned with his promise to guard her virtue.

She moaned in agony and rested her head on his shoulder.

He held his breath, closed his eyes, and thought of his grandmother. This was all. Her. Fault.

"Talk to me, Baldwyn, please." Her eyes were closed, but her face crinkled in tight grimace. "I believe a distraction might help."

"A distraction?" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, taking care to deepen the timbre of his voice.

"Yes. If you don't mind." She slipped her hand around his elbow and relaxed against him.

"Very well. What do you wish to discuss, my lady? Art? Music? Politics?"

"No. No. Do you remember when we were young and you rescued me from being trampled by wild horses?"

"Wild horses? Hardly. It was one old nag moving at a snail's pace." He chuckled at the memory.

"You pulled me out from under the wheels of a racing carriage. Do you not remember?"

"I remember you crawled under an idle coach and muddied your dress. Your mother was very cross. I pulled you out and helped you to your maid, so you could change."

"Hmmm… I remember that rather differently."

"Do you remember, my lady, when you were a little girl and would run through the fields and climb the trees?"

She squirmed and protested. A little frown played at the corners of her mouth.

"I did no such thing."

"Oh, yes, I remember it quite clearly. Hunting for nests, wasn't it?"

"Turtledoves." Her voice sounded as if she was fading into sleep.

"Right. Turtledoves. You thought they were sad."

"And do you remember what you told me? About the turtledoves?"

"They cry for their mates… to remind th—"

"To remind them where they belong," she finished for him.

They fell into a comfortable silence which stretched out minute after minute. Until Baldwyn heard a soft snore coming from the girl leaning against him and promptly started to sweat once again.

Chapter Twelve

By the time the carriage turned onto the long drive towards Shepherd Hall, Baldwyn was drenched with perspiration. The lady had slept against his shoulder the entire way, snoring softly and occasionally snuggling closer to him, accompanied by all manner of ungodly noises.

"Lady Anastasia, we approach the house," he whispered to the angel resting against his arm. When she did not stir, he shook her arm gently. "My lady."

She blinked twice and lifted her groggy gaze to his. He could see the sleepy confusion dissipate into understanding in her dark eyes.

"Are you well?"

"Much recovered, your grace. Thank you." She sat up slowly and eyed him. The smile of a sweet angel crept across her soft pink lips.

The growing need to take her in his arms and make her decidedly his mounted to urgency, and he knew he had to get out of those close quarters immediately.

She leaned across him to look out his window, brushing his chest with her shoulder.

"It's very dark. I wonder if we have missed dinner."

Baldwyn had no voice to respond, so he grunted his agreement.

"No doubt Papa will have informed Cook to set something aside for us." She sat back again and glanced out her own window. "I do hope there are some games this evening. After that splendid rest, I don't think I could retire to bed so soon."

He cringed and wished she wouldn't speak of such things. Another moment in the carriage with her would mean her ruination. And he had made a promise.

Before the horses were at a complete stop, he shifted her away from him and leapt from the carriage, running for the manor house. He completely forgot about helping Lady Anastasia to disembark, his only thought was for the drink he sorely needed.

****

Even the footman who helped her out of the carriage appeared to mirror her shock at the duke's abrupt disappearance. The man was certainly a great puzzle. One moment he was the epitome of manners, duty, and responsibility — the next he was fleeing from all of it.

It seemed he was only a model of restraint where she was concerned. Anastasia watched in silent confusion as he retreated into the house, leaving her to fend for herself among the servants and footmen.

Inside, Baldwyn was nowhere to be seen. Anastasia thought of dinner, but suddenly had little appetite. She wanted only to climb the stairs to her chambers and hide the disappointment from her father. But she knew she must face him. Tell him she had arrived safely then excuse herself to bed, even though sleeping was the last thing on her mind.

As she approached his study, she could hear the sound of low conversation.

"I see you made it safely, Paisley."

"Yes, my lord."

"And how was the journey?"

"It was quite… uneventful."

"Hmmm… that is a pity."

"My lord?"

"Paisley, may I be frank?"

There was a moment of thick silence.

"Of course, my lord."

"I admire and respect you. Of all the peerage, there is none other I find so worthy as you on whom to bestow my only daughter. All I have left of my wife."

Anastasia stood completely still outside the door, listening intently.

"So, please understand I say this with the greatest love and all due respect…" She could hear him pour a glass of something.

"You are, at times, a great lummox."

Baldwyn must have just taken a sip from his glass. He coughed and sputtered and gasped for breath at her father's directness.

"My lord?" he finally choked out.

"Do not misunderstand, your grace. I do appreciate your uncommon sense of duty with regards to protecting my daughter's virtue. And whenever I am in your company, you are a portrait of devotion and attention. Yet she is sad."

Their voices died away once again, and she thought she could hear the creak of the chair as Baldwyn stood, the sound of his glass being set on the desk.

"May I be frank, my lord?"

Anastasia held her breath. What would he confess? He loved another? Or perhaps his intentions toward her had changed? Would he ask to be released from their betrothal?

"Of course, your grace," her father answered. His voice was low and soothing. Did he see anger in Baldwyn's eyes? Was he treading lightly for a purpose?

"I will not say you had any plans to place your daughter in a carriage alone with me, though I am certain she is far too naïve to employ such a strategy. But I will advise you, it would be wise, and indeed in everyone's best interest to avoid such arrangements in the future, until we are married."

She could hear her father's low chuckle. But the indignation burning in her chest overshadowed the rest of their conversation.

Naïve?

Truly?

His opinion of her was indeed low. Perhaps he would never see her as anything other than the little girl who climbed trees and threw mud.

There was no need to continue eavesdropping here. She would simply wish her father good night and retire. She knocked lightly on his door and stepped through unbidden.

"Papa?"

"Anastasia. You've arrived!" He smiled broadly at her with a twinkle in his eyes. How could he be so happy when he had just had such a tragic conversation? A wave of nausea swept through her.

"And how was your journey, my sweet?" he prodded, acting like nothing was wrong in the world.

"It was tolerable." Her gaze wandered to Baldwyn. He sat staring at the full glass in his hand, not bothering even to acknowledge her presence. At least he had the good grace not to try to cover the betrayal that had just transpired. He presented his true colors and gave her the cut direct.

"Have you had dinner? Cook has set something aside for you."

"I find myself with no appetite this evening. Perhaps the wear of the road. I believe I shall retire."

"Very well, my dear. Shall I see you to your room?" Lord Marks suggested.

"No, thank you, Papa. I can find my own way."

He seemed disappointed and cast a glance in Baldwyn's direction. Perhaps expecting him to volunteer to take the task on himself. The duke appeared not to notice and adjusted the cuff of his jacket sleeve.

After a long pause her father rose and kissed her on the forehead. "Pleasant dreams, daughter. We shall speak on the morrow."

"Good night, Papa." With that she turned and left the room, not daring another look at the duke, who seemed already half into his cups.

****

Baldwyn lost track of how much he had consumed somewhere after his third glass of brandy. The silence filling the house told him everyone else had retired for the night. It was a shame he hadn't paid closer attention when Lord Marks explained which room was his.

Vaguely he recalled he would have to go up the stairs to the find it, but after that he was at a loss. He stood and steadied himself before moving toward the door. Why was the room tilting to the left? With a shake of his head he made a slight navigational adjustment and began the arduous quest to find his bed.

He must have had more to drink than he thought, because the trek up the stairs was reminiscent of that tortuous voyage to the Continent so long ago, as if he was fighting the pitch of the sea. Taking a firm grasp on the banister, Baldwyn pulled himself up the stairway to the wing he knew would house the guests.

Back and forth he staggered, trying to find firm ground on which to place his next step, but the floor seemed to give way beneath his feet as he moved. After what seemed like an eternity, he cast a hazy glance about him. Every door looked the same. Could they not have labeled each room with a name? That would have been so convenient. Certainly he was only going in circles now.

Much longer and he would fall to the floor and sleep where he landed.

Out of desperation, he pounded on the door closest. When there was not an immediate answer, he rapped again, louder and longer until a soft click of the latch told him someone was there.

The door opened only a crack. Through it a dark almond-shaped eye peeked out at him, blinking against the candle light in the hall. Such long dewy lashes, batting so invitingly.

Baldwyn blinked and stared back at it.

A soft voice floated out to him, falling on his ears like that much warm molasses, sweetening his clouded mind.

"Is all well, your grace?"

"I—I am uncertain," he said, the slur of his voice coming belatedly to his ears.

Concern leapt into her expression, and the door opened wider. It was Lady Anastasia. A sense of guilt pricked at the back of his mind, as though there were some reason he should apologize to the lady, but he could not for the life of him grasp what it was.

"Might one of you show me to my room?"

"One of us, your grace?"

"Yes, you or your identical twin." Perhaps he was seeing things. There were two of them, weren't there?

"I believe your grace has had a drink or two this evening."

"That is very true." He took a step toward her but stumbled and launched himself into the wall instead. "Will you help me?"

She glanced down the corridor and then back to him. "Very well, your grace," she said with a sigh and lifted his arm and wrapped it around her shoulders. "It's just a bit farther."

He didn't remember her smelling so good. Like Scottish bluebells and primroses. Perhaps the brandy was heightening his senses. The floor pitched again, and he stumbled over his own feet. So, perhaps only his sense of smell…

"Your grace, I will see you to your room, but you shall have to make an effort to keep your feet under you."

"Yes, of course. I do apologize, my love," he slurred. She stopped suddenly in her tracks, jolting him. "What? What is it?" he asked.

"This is it." Her brown eyes searched his face.

"Oh. You are angry with me." Baldwyn hung his head. If only the thick fog in his brain would clear. "I know I have been awful."

"You misunderstand, your grace. This…" she waved a hand toward the door before them, "…is your chamber."

"Ah, yes. Very good." She turned away, leaving a cold void where she had held him. "Anastasia…" He wasn't sure what he wanted to say, he just knew he wasn't ready for her to leave him.

"Your grace?"

"Your grace, your grace!" he mocked her. "Must you always be so proper?"

"Pardon me?" A flash of anger lit up her eyes. "Did you not just—"

But he stopped listening. His eyes focused on her lips. He didn't understand a word coming out of her mouth, but it didn't matter. Ever since he had kissed her at Montmouth's ball, the memory had plagued him. He would kiss her again. Now. And to the fire with propriety.

"You arrogant, self-righteous pr—" His lips crushed to hers, stopping the words in her throat.

It was easy to rationalize it. It was his duty to show her how dangerous it was for her to be gallivanting about the hall in her dressing gown… at night… in her own house. Put that way, of course, it sounded much less chivalrous.

He knew he shouldn't, but the logic of it seemed to make perfect sense. And in the instant his lips touched hers he was lost — lost in a sea of desire of need, and powerless to fight what he'd been craving to do for the past four days.

The lady was innocent, unsure how to respond. Baldwyn could tell that much in his drunken state.

If he was to be chained to her for the rest of his life, he may as well teach her how this was done. Surely that was his responsibility as well.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her, intending only to gain a better angle from which to begin the lesson. Still unsteady on his feet, he lost his balance and stumbled toward the wall, slamming her back to it and falling against her forcefully. The gasp that escaped her throat left her mouth slightly opened, enough for him to taste the moist warmth of her mouth. His brain was on fire and had no room for any other thought.

Her whimper was all the encouragement he needed, and he pulled her flush against him. The softness of her pressed against him drove him deeper still into the flames that consumed him body and soul.

His hands wandered on their own then, with no regard to propriety. He couldn't stop if he wanted to.

Anastasia squirmed in his grasp. He took her mouth wholly with his, pulling her tighter, wanting with every fiber of his being to somehow stumble into his bedroom and ruin her completely. Perhaps it was the liquor, but it seemed like a perfectly lovely idea.

Her hands pressed to his chest like a barrier between them, keeping them apart. Why wasn't she embracing him? He tangled his fingers into her long wavy brown hair which hung down her back and about her shoulders like cascading velvet. Baldwyn traced her shoulders, down her arms, and finally finding her hands, he interlaced his fingers with hers and gently urged them away.

She startled as if caught off guard, pulling them off balance once more, and the two of them lurched to the side, slamming against a hall table which held an old vase and a pair of silver candlesticks.

The vase tipped over and rolled to the floor. The resounding shatter echoed through the hall, bringing Baldwyn abruptly back to earth.

He took a step back and turned to Lady Anastasia. She seemed frozen in that moment of time. Both her tiny hands covered her mouth in what appeared to be horror, and she shook her head. Tears brimmed in her eyes and began to slip down her cheeks.

"I—" she began. Wrapping her arms around herself, she began to back away from him.

Baldwyn wanted to reach out. Comfort her. Protect her from whatever was causing her sorrow… her fear.

"Your room is here, your grace," she whispered quickly, then whirled around and hurried back to her own room, closing the door behind her. The latch clicked into place, and the creak of a key turning in the lock immediately followed.

And with that metallic snap of the mechanism, the realization came.

It was he who'd caused her sorrow.

Chapter Thirteen

He was a great idiot. That was not up for debate. Unfortunately the episode the previous night was clear enough in his memory to cause violent pangs of conscience… which were only compounded by the pounding in his head.

By some miracle he had found his way down to the dining room, though he was less interested in breaking his fast than he was in spending the day in his chamber, nursing the skull splitting ache in his head. Benedict would have the cure. The man was notorious for his drinking binges and always seemed to come out on the other side without so much as a twitching brow.

"Good morning, cousin!" Benedict announced far too loudly while pounding him heartily on the back.

Baldwyn cringed at the sound ricocheting through his brain like a French cannonball.

"I see very little good about it," he whispered. Benedict only smiled back at him like he had lost his mind. Baldwyn peered at him through half-open eyes.

"It's a lovely morning! And there shall be ice skating!" If it were possible, the devil's grin grew even wider. There was something wrong with him.

"Why are you so—" Baldwyn searched his mind for the perfect word to capture the essence of Benedict's ailment.

"Handsome? Intelligent? Well-endowed?" Benedict offered.

Baldwyn snorted, then cringed at the stabbing pain. "I was going to say happy. I don't think I've ever seen you so disgustingly merry."

"And so I am… all of those things!" His cousin threw his head back with a raucous laugh and slapped Baldwyn on the shoulder once more.

"Cousin, you must stop doing that." He clutched his head in his hands and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the devil duke stood beside him grinning like an imbecile and staring across the room at none other than Lady Katherine Bourne, the accident-prone wench the dowager had designed for his future.

Nausea rolled through his stomach and he shook his head in disbelief.

"Oh, no." There was no hope. No hope for a man such as Baldwyn if even the devil duke was susceptible to the dowager's schemes. Hot fury rose in his chest. He wanted to kick. He wanted to scream. If only neither of those activities would make his head explode.

"Excuse me, Benedict," he muttered. Baldwyn would get to the bottom of her hold on him. The ton's last great bachelor could not go down so easily.

In four long strides, he stood beside her. His indignance overshadowed the throbbing pain in his head. He grabbed the plate from her conniving little hand and began scooping large amounts of eggs onto it. "Allow me."

Lady Katherine stared at him in amused confusion. "Thank you—" her voice broke off with a questioning lilt, and she reached for the plate to take it back, but Baldwyn pulled it back just out of her reach.

"What the devil did you do?" He was seething. He had to stop this. Had to break her spell over the last great hope of bachelors everywhere.

"Pardon?" Such an innocent face. But underneath she was a scheming hoyden, out to put a stranglehold on all eligible gentlemen.

This would never do. It was one thing to force the two dukes to marry. To forge betrothal contracts in their names. To plot their demise. To design and plan and weave a twisted web in which to trap the two. To force a marriage with any young chit.

But it was another matter entirely to engineer a match that sucked every last bit of life out of the notorious rake, leaving him nothing more than a shell of his former moody self. Baldwyn couldn't take it.

And he knew. As he had known the first night in the garden at the Montmouth ball.

His heart was next in line for the fall.

****

Anastasia hadn't slept. And now she was wishing she had remained in her room until everyone else had finished eating. It felt as though all eyes were on her when she stepped through the door, as if they knew what had transpired between Anastasia and her betrothed the night before. But how could they?

Across the room Lady Katherine accepted a plate from Baldwyn and smiled at him. She was forever smiling at him. Baldwyn's gaze reached Anastasia. She thought there was a spark behind his eye. A spark that was for her. Undoubtedly a spark of resentment.

He blamed her.

He'd attacked her in her own house, and somehow it was her fault? And after all that duty and responsibility talk. The speeches about guarding her virtue. Give the man a few drinks, and he was an absolute rake.

And he was coming her way.

Warmth spread through her as he approached.

"Good morning, my lady. Did you sleep well?" He reached for her hand and planted a quick kiss on her wrist. It was difficult to read him. His eyes were glassy and his voice was low.

"Not at all, your grace."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Any reason in particular?" He glanced around the room as though he cared little what her answer would be.

"Surely you jest, sir." Anastasia stared at him in disbelief. Was he truly going to pretend nothing had happened? Still he wouldn't meet her gaze.

"Are you—" she began but was abruptly cut off by a sudden commotion amongst the servants.

"Look alive! She is here!" one footman called.

"Quickly, quickly!" another rushed toward a group of maids near the door.

Anastasia glanced around the room to determine the cause. Her father's servants were rarely this upset. Was Casper crying?

Beside her Baldwyn seemed to tense and freeze. She traced his gaze to the door on the other side of the room. There stood the Dowager Duchess of Durbin wearing an icy glare as she looked down her long aristocratic nose at everyone.

"I didn't know my father had invited her." Anastasia's voice was no more than a breath, but it reverberated in the air between them like the clash of a cymbal.

He sighed and turned to Anastasia. "I believe our best course of action is to join the ice skating."

"As you wish, your grace."

Chapter Fourteen

The sky was clear and deep blue as they sat around the frozen pond lacing up their skates. A few feet away, the servants stoked a small fire and heated mulled cider alongside the roasting chestnuts.

A gust of winter wind blew Anastasia's bonnet from her head, and it flapped against her back avoiding her grasp. Beside her, Baldwyn caught the offending article, replaced it on her head, and retied it securely under her chin.

His gaze was intent on the task at hand, though Anastasia couldn't help but search his eyes. They seemed a deeper blue out in the sunshine. His fingers fumbled with the strings of her bonnet, lingering longer than necessary.

"That should hold," he said finally, allowing his hand to brush her chin and glancing to her eyes briefly before abruptly turning away and offering his arm. "Ready?"

"Yes, thank you, your grace." She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and buried the other deep in the fur muff hanging from her neck as they slid onto the ice.

Baldwyn was silent as they made their first pass around the ice. After several minutes Anastasia ventured to speak.

"How is your head, your grace?"

He glanced at her as though startled by the question.

"It is causing me some discomfort, I must admit," he answered at last. "How do you fare this morning?"

"Lovely. Thank you." In truth, she had hardly slept a wink all night and was frightfully tired, but it didn't seem the proper thing to say.

Anastasia allowed the silence to encompass them again for several minutes. When it grew burdensome, she cleared her throat to speak again. She wanted to say something. Anything to clear the air. Perhaps speak of the kiss the night before. Somehow to understand how things stood between them.

"Your grace, I—" she began, but in that moment the Duke of Banbury and Lady Katherine skated up beside them.

"Paisley, you skate like a woman," Banbury baited his cousin with a wicked grin. "I am certain I could make it twice around the pond before you made it halfway to the other side."

A tiny smirk played on the corner of Baldwyn's lips, and he turned to Anastasia. "My dear, I fear a challenge has been made. Shall I accept it?"

The special attention sent a tingle of joy through her heart.

"Most sincerely, your grace. You must defend your family honor."

"Very well. Banbury, I accept." They swung a wide graceful arc and made their way back to the bank. Anastasia fairly floated on his arm as they went.

Katherine and Anastasia settled onto the bench to watch the race.

"May I wear your colors, my lady?" Baldwyn asked with a gallant bow and a wink at her.

"Paisley, you're stalling," Banbury taunted.

Anastasia slipped her handkerchief out of her muff, tied it around his wrist, suppressing a giggle when he kissed her hand and spun around to the starting mark.

This was the Baldwyn she remembered from long ago. The playful knight. Rescuing her from her distress, fighting for her honor, chivalrous to a fault.

Beside her on the bench, Katherine sighed faintly in disappointment. Banbury hadn't asked for her favor.

Baldwyn regarded him a moment, but when he made no move toward Lady Katherine, Baldwyn took it upon himself.

"Lady Katherine, might I wear yours as well?"

The lady's eyes lit up. Anastasia's heart fell.

Chivalrous to a fault. Of course he wouldn't let Lady Katherine be disappointed. Part of Anastasia told her it was thoughtful, but another part wanted to pounce on the lady and tear out her hair in great handfuls. Still another part was fully occupied with restraining the second part from taking over the whole of her.

Lady Katherine tied her own handkerchief around Baldwyn's other wrist, and he kissed her hand and smiled broadly into her eyes.

Banbury's face reddened as he watched the scene unfold, a mirror's reflection of Anastasia's own concealed rage.

At least Lady Katherine had the decency to blush when Baldwyn kissed her hand. Little better than a common strumpet.

"Lady Katherine," the Duke of Banbury said, his voice was a low growl. "On your word."

She clapped her hands and stood. "Ready. Go!" she shouted.

The ice sprayed back onto Anastasia's skirts as the two launched forward, skating furiously for the other side of the pond. The few other guests clapped and cheered as the race went on. Some called out for Paisley. Others cheered for Banbury.

Anastasia herself said nothing, but sat holding her breath, awaiting the outcome with her hands clenched together inside her warm muff.

When the two reached the far side of the pond, they were dead even. The turn was bumpy, but Baldwyn appeared to have the better move and turned on a pin. Banbury stumbled on his turn and lost several strides as he struggled to keep his feet under him.

"Trouble, Ben?" she heard Baldwyn shout back at his cousin.

Banbury answered with an unrepeatable curse, but Baldwyn just laughed and slid to a stop in front of the bench a full five count before his challenger's arrival at the finish line.

A light danced in his blue eyes as he glanced her way. His smile took her breath away, and she imagined it was for her alone.

He bent into a deep mocking bow toward Banbury. "A pleasure, as always, your grace-less."

Banbury smoldered in response — his usual frightening expression. Then as if a light suddenly dawned, he cocked an eyebrow at Baldwyn and an evil grin spread across his dark features. "Speaking of graceless, did any of you happen to hear the commotion in the corridor last evening?"

Anastasia could feel the blood draining from her face and knew she was as white as her fur muff. But Baldwyn didn't even wince. He leveled his gaze at his cousin, still wearing his playful grin, as if not a single word of what Banbury had said struck any chord of remembrance.

"I heard nothing. In fact, I was so exhausted when I found my room, I fell asleep before I got more than three steps in the door. I awoke this morning drooling on the cold floor. What was the matter?"

The smirk remained on Banbury's face, and he considered Baldwyn's reaction. For Anastasia's part, never was she so happy to melt into the background, for she was certain he would read the guilt on her face.

"A broken vase."

"Perhaps one of the servants being careless in his work."

"Generally speaking, housemaids tend to do their work during daylight hours."

"Hmmm… how very odd." Baldwyn turned his attention to Anastasia and Lady Katherine. "I am honored, ladies, to have won the challenge for two such lovely ladies." He loosened the silk favors from his wrists and returned them to their owners.

Anastasia was both mortified at Banbury's insinuation and humiliated by the flirtatious glint in the eyes of her betrothed when he bestowed Lady Katherine's handkerchief. She cleared her throat in disgust.

"Would you be so kind, your grace, as to fetch a mug of hot cider?" she asked Baldwyn.

He nodded. The smile disappeared from his lips. "As you wish, my lady."

She watched him stride away but found herself, in spite of the marvelous view, struggling with the impulse to viciously attack the lady on her left. Glancing back at Lady Katherine, she found the lady's gaze following Baldwyn as well.

Fortunately for everyone, Banbury chose that moment to clear his throat and draw Lady Katherine's attention.

"Care to skate, Kate?" he asked. He stepped between the two ladies and offered his arm to Katherine.

As they glided away arm in arm, Baldwyn returned with Anastasia's cider.

"Is it terrible of me to hope the ice cracks and she falls in?"

Baldwyn chuckled, then thought better of it and took a long draught of the steaming liquid in his own mug. When he brought the cup down, his expression was stern once more. "Quite terrible indeed," he chided. She sighed.

"However," he held up a single finger and arched his eyebrows as though he was to make a vitally important observation, "Lady Katherine does have a frightful propensity towards mishap."

It was Anastasia's turn to stifle a laugh.

They sipped their cider in comfortable silence and watched the skaters for a few moments.

As if in answer to Anastasia's dearest wish, Banbury and Lady Katherine did tangle up their skates somehow and crashed hard onto the solid surface of the pond.

Anastasia gasped. Beside her, Baldwyn tensed and stood from the bench. Was he regretting his jest?

Lady Katherine aided Banbury in returning to the bench. He was whimpering like a wounded pup, though one could tell from looking at him he was milking the perceived injury for all it was worth.

Anastasia stood to make room on the bench. Banbury sank onto the bench and proceeded to beg favors of Lady Katherine, who simply tossed his requests back in his face, drawing a hearty laugh from Baldwyn.

Banbury scowled at Baldwyn, then turned his attention to Lady Katherine, taking her hand and pulling her closer, but her skate found a chunk of broken ice, and the lady reeled forward, her arms flailing. Her overcompensation threw her backward, and she floundered toward the ground.

Much to Anastasia's chagrin, Katherine's fall was interrupted… by Baldwyn, who caught the lady and stopped her from a gloriously humiliating tumble. Anastasia rolled her eyes and resumed her seat.

However, when Baldwyn offered to escort Lady Katherine onto the ice, Anastasia's breath quickened. Short, shallow gasps for air set her head to spinning. She crossed her ankles and thrust both hands into her muff, intertwining her fingers. Her grasp tightened until she could no longer feel her fingers.

Across the ice, Baldwyn laughed at something Katherine said. He faced her and lifted her chin in an intimate gesture.

Anastasia's stomach churned. She was certain she would expend its contents. Her vision grew hazy and she couldn't catch her breath. It was as though Lady Katherine had punched her right in the abdomen with all her might.

"Are you unwell, Lady Anastasia?" The Duke of Banbury's voice floated through the haze to her.

"I'm lovely. Just lovely," she heard her own voice reply.

His hand rested on her arm, and she glanced slowly at it. A foreign warmth on her cold wrist.

"You are quite pale."

"Am I?" Her thoughts milled leisurely through her mind. "Perhaps if your grace is recovered enough, might you consider taking a turn with me around the pond? I believe the cold is settling in my bones."

The thought to use him to bait Baldwyn occurred to her only after she accepted his arm. In truth, the only thought in her head was to move anywhere in order not to watch the two of them lost in intimate conversation, as they floated across the ice in perfect unison.

Her plan was an abject failure on both fronts. Baldwyn didn't so much as cast a glance in her direction, while she herself couldn't pry her gaze from him no matter how she tried.

Banbury led her around the outer edge of the pond, and as they rounded the final turn back toward their bench, the dowager duchess suddenly appeared there, with two bedraggled servants bent over her feet, attaching her skates.

"Crazy old woman," Banbury muttered and shook his head.

Coming from the other direction, Baldwyn guided Katherine toward his grandmother. He glanced in Anastasia's direction and then focused on the dowager.

"Baldwyn! Benedict! Come help me. I wish to skate," the old woman bellowed.

Benedict increased his speed and abruptly deposited Anastasia on the bank without so much as a nod to acknowledge her.

"Aunt Agatha, are you certain this is a good idea?"

The dowager struck him with her cane on the top of his hat. "Don't argue with me, Benedict. Take my arm," she demanded. "Baldwyn! Look alive there, boy. I'm not growing any younger. Take my arm and let's be off!" Baldwyn helped Katherine to the bench, winked at her, and took his grandmother's arm.

With one duke on each arm, the dowager began an unsteady tread across the ice. After an agonizingly long moment, she suddenly yelled, "Stop! I'm cold! Take me back to the house at once."

Baldwyn and Banbury exchanged a knowing look, lifted her in the air and skated full speed back to the edge of the pond. The dowager screamed at the top of her lungs all the way.

When they finally set her down firmly on the bench and reached to help her off with her skates, she grasped her cane in exasperation and thumped each of them firmly on the top of the head in turn.

Anastasia stifled a chuckle and watched with interest. The dowager waggled her finger in Baldwyn's face and gestured back to Anastasia. Baldwyn glanced in her direction and nodded contritely. He stood and with a sheepish grin skated to Anastasia.

"May I help you with your skates, my lady?"

"That would be lovely, thank you, your grace."

Chapter Fifteen

"Anastasia," Lord Marks said as they entered the house. "Might I have a word, my dear?" He stepped back and gestured behind him to his study.

"Of course, Papa." Anastasia glanced at Baldwyn and slipped her hand from his arm. He took her hand and kissed it before releasing her.

"My lady." His gaze held hers for only a moment, then he nodded at her father and disappeared up the stairs.

Her disappointment weighed heavily on her shoulders as she followed her father into his study. The arrangement wasn't working out the way she had hoped. No doubt her father was thinking the same thing. If only she would move past her ridiculous girlish romantic notions and see things differently, perhaps…

"Won't you sit down, my sweet?" Lord Marks swept a hand toward a wingback chair. Anastasia sat on the edge of the seat and folded her hands in her lap. She stared down at her them, waiting anxiously for her father to speak.

"You are unhappy?"

"No, Papa. The trip to the country has been lovely."

Her father smiled at her sadly. "I am glad to hear it. However, that is not what I meant, dear girl." He leaned against the edge of his desk nearest her and took her hand in his.

"Papa…" she began, glancing at her hands and smoothing her skirts. "Everything is fine. Please don't worry." Looking into his eyes, she offered the most reassuring smile she could muster and stood. "I would like to change now. Rest for a bit perhaps. If you will excuse me?"

"Of course. I shall see you at dinner." He rose and escorted her to the door. Anastasia slowly made her way up the stairs to her room. The shards of the broken vase had been cleaned up, leaving no sign that the events of the previous night had ever taken place. No trace except for what lay burned into her memory.

****

The day was spent in an unending cycle of meaningless activity — reading in the library, needlepoint in the salon, card games in the parlor — but Baldwyn made himself scarce the majority of the day. It felt as though he was avoiding her, and it took a valiant effort on Anastasia's part to force the appearance of carefree enjoyment of her short holiday before having to return to the bustle of Town.

When the afternoon faded into evening, she excused herself to dress for dinner. She chose her favorite pale gold dinner gown, the one she knew drew out the flecks of gold in her eyes and emphasized her feminine curves. Trudy swept her hair up in grand fashion, with a few chestnut curls hanging loose, a soft, rich contrasting frame against her creamy, ivory skin.

Baldwyn would be at dinner. She would gain his attention once and for all.

With one last glance in the mirror, Anastasia nodded her approval, smiled confidently at Trudy, and hurried to the dining room.

Somehow, even for all her rush, Anastasia was too late to claim the seat next to her intended. Her stomach curdled as Lady Katherine smiled up at Baldwyn and accepted the chair he held for her on the other side of the table.

Standing near her, Banbury waved her over, and held a chair for her. Anastasia sighed in resignation, nodded her thanks and took the seat he offered, directly across from Baldwyn. His clear blue eyes met her gaze as she sat.

"Good evening, Paisley," she said, refusing to be the first to look away.

"My lady," he muttered, still staring at her, but seeming at a loss for words.

"Doesn't she look lovely, your grace?" Lady Katherine interrupted, resting her hand on his forearm, stealing his attention away. Anastasia's whole body tensed. Beside her, the Duke of Banbury shifted and cleared his throat.

"Yes. Yes, of course," Baldwyn replied, tossing a careless glance back to Anastasia. "My lady, you are quite fetching tonight," he added, then allowed his gaze to dart away to the other end of the table, losing interest in her altogether.

So much for capturing his attention. Her hope deflated, and her heart fell.

Her appetite was gone. Still she had to suffer through the torture of dinner — watching while Lady Katherine kept Baldwyn's rapt attention, and pretending to be interested in Banbury's vain and somewhat vulgar conversation, and even he grew increasingly distracted by the display on the other side of the table.

It did nothing for Anastasia's self-esteem having the particular attention of neither of the dukes, though truth be told, Banbury seemed to be in her very same predicament. So when he approached her just outside the dining room to aid him in finding his lost button, she felt somewhat sympathetic to his plight. And since Baldwyn had already retired with the other gentlemen to drink, smoke, and talk politics, Anastasia no longer felt compelled to keep up appearances.

Banbury had a reputation black as the devil's own, but his request seemed harmless, and his eyes had been for Lady Katherine alone. If there was any unseemly motive behind his request at all, it was that the Devil Duke was using her to make his fiancée jealous. She could understand the sentiment. Taking his offered arm, she allowed him to lead her down the hall toward her father's study.

****

There was only one lit candle in the study, and the fire was mere embers in the grate when Baldwyn had entered. No one was there. He held the note up to the light to take another look. Lady Katherine wished to speak to him about Benedict, and he was to meet her here.

Why had he bothered to come? If Benedict was giving the lady trouble, it should hardly fall to Baldwyn to fix things. And he had trouble of his own. He squatted by the fire and picked up the iron poker. He thrust it into the dying sparks and stirred the smoldering coals, then reached for two good-sized logs to fuel the fire.

Standing again, he rested one hand on the mantle and stared into the growing blaze. The image of Lady Anastasia danced there among the flames, in her pale gold dress and golden brown eyes.

Baldwyn closed his eyes to block out the picture, but she remained there in his mind's eye, tormenting him to his very soul. Her beauty, his desire — it muddled the line where his duty lay. And he was confused about how to proceed.

On one hand, his father had always insisted that personal feelings should never interfere with a man's duty. But never once did the late duke tell him what to do with the feelings that didn't.

His grandmother insisted that marrying Lady Anastasia was his duty. He had been understandably resistant at the initial shock of it. Since then he had accepted what was expected of him, but he never once expected that she would grow on him, that she would pique his interest. It was easier — it was cleaner — when he could see the line between duty and desire. She was blurring that line.

Her milky white skin set against her rich brown tresses, her wide almond eyes, framed with dark, dewy lashes. His self-control grew weaker with every moment in her presence, as he had proven the night before.

And that was the problem. His fear of losing control. Losing control meant to fail in one's duty. And he refused to fail his father's final charge.

Benedict was the one for losing control. Baldwyn simply couldn't afford that kind of recklessness. Look where it had landed Benedict and his lady. Trapped. She had no choice now. In the eyes of Society, Lady Katherine was compromised. If she didn't marry Benedict, she would be ruined.

Lady Anastasia was an innocent girl, with stars in her eyes, believing in the fairy tale. How would she feel when reality smashed her fantasy?

No. Baldwyn wouldn't take her choice from her. And giving into desire would steal that from her.

Light footsteps entered the room through the doorway behind him. He turned to make an excuse to Lady Katherine. He had no wish to discuss relationship troubles with her.

But the lady standing before him wasn't Lady Katherine at all, and her sharp intake of breath at recognizing him said she hadn't expected him either. The door closed behind her and she spun around to grasp the handle, but not before the sound of the lock turning in the latch split the silence in the study.

The click sliced right through Baldwyn's taut nerves.

The lady rattled the handle to no avail. Her head fell forward with a light thud to the back of the locked door. And she waited in silence for a moment before turning around, keeping her hands on the handle behind her. She eyed him carefully.

"Lady Anastasia, I presume?" Baldwyn heard himself say. The cold tone of his voice surprised even him.

"Paisley." A sigh followed close on the tail of the words.

"Are you looking for someone?"

"Something, actually." She squinted at the floor around her skirts as though to prove her point. Then pointed behind her toward the door. "Banbury… he lost a button."

"A—a button?" The mention of Banbury's name, the note from Lady Katherine, the locked door… Of course. Baldwyn shook his head in disbelief.

"Yes, he said it was a family heirloom, or something of the sort. Have you seen it?"

"He sent you in here to look for his button?"

"Yes."

"And I suppose he described it to you? The button?"

"Well, no. In fact, he didn't. I have no idea what I'm looking for."

"I see." Baldwyn had to applaud their efforts, if not their execution.

"And what are you doing in here?" Anastasia tilted her head and took a step away from the door.

Baldwyn held the note up between his fingers. "The Lady Katherine, desperate to discuss her particular troubles with my cousin, the devil."

"I see." She moved to a chair and sat down. "And locking the door?"

"Their idea of forcing the issue."

"What issue?"

She stared at him with wide-eyed innocence. Certainly she knew what they were trying to do. He cleared his throat and tugged at his cravat.

"Perhaps we should light more candles. It is rather dark in here." He slipped a handkerchief out of his pocket and patted his forehead with it. The fire he'd laid in the grate was making the room very hot indeed. He moved to the other side of the desk and lit the candles there.

Baldwyn felt rather than saw Anastasia stand and join him behind her father's desk. When he turned around, she was standing dangerously close to him, tracing his movements with her gaze.

The scent of lilac bombarded his senses as she sidled closer to him. And he noticed once again how well the pale gold gown accented all her features, and he ached to reach out and pull her into his arms one more time.

His pulse pounded in his ears. Surely she would hear the slamming of his heart in his chest. Her gaze held his locked in a tight embrace, refusing him the liberty to look away. She leaned closer, only inches away from him now. Baldwyn swallowed hard at the knot lodged in his throat, but his mouth had gone dry, and there was not a drop to be had in the study to aid him in his plight. Then again, he had proven himself untrustworthy in her company when altered by liquor.

When she reached for him, he tensed and closed his eyes, bracing himself for the effect her warm touch had on his resolve to protect her virtue.

But her touch never came, and when he opened his eyes, she was reaching beyond him to the shelf just behind his left shoulder. She brought her hand back and took a step away, leaving him to suffer a cold, empty dissatisfaction.

From her delicate fingers dangled a tarnished brass key on a blue satin ribbon.

"I suppose your cousin was not counting on the spare key," she whispered. A mischievous glint danced in her eyes.

"I… I daresay he hadn't." To his surprise, his heart sank in what felt rather like disappointment. "Well played, my lady."

"I am not entirely without my uses," she muttered with a hint of sarcasm and dropped the key into his outstretched palm.

There was nothing left to do but unlock the door and go their separate ways, though he couldn't help but wish, even if for just a moment, that the key wouldn't fit the lock, and she would reach for him one more time.

Chapter Sixteen

The next day was long and brutal.

Baldwyn was cordial.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

After an entire day of just enough of his particular attention, Anastasia was quite certain he was making a concerted effort to let her know precisely where he stood on the prospect of their marriage.

He was not pleased.

He would never see her as anything other than inconvenient duty.

Anastasia accepted another glass of claret. Her third. She rarely drank, but somehow the situation seemed to call for it this night.

The smile Baldwyn offered so freely to Lady Katherine as they shared their confidence made her blood boil. A smile that should be hers alone, yet she rarely saw it. With her, he was ever the stern and tacit suitor.

Perhaps the rumors were true. It was said Lady Katherine held a secret tender for the Duke of Paisley. He would know the gossip.

"Are you well, Lady Anastasia?" he asked her suddenly. How he seemed to know the exact moments she was upset when he rarely looked at her was a mystery.

"I am, your grace," she replied with a wicked sneer.

He cocked an eyebrow and stared at her a bit longer before turning back to his partner.

Lady Katherine lowered her voice and murmured something into his ear. He laughed.

Chances were it was the claret. Anastasia's head was positively swimming in it. Whatever it was, every one of her senses was heightened and fully focused on what was transpiring in that moment between her intended and Lady Katherine.

She knew she was glowering, but she wasn't about to stop.

And when Lady Katherine patted Baldwyn's forearm, Anastasia could no longer ignore her growing rage. And just before she opened her mouth to speak, the thought flashed through her mind — perhaps that third glass of claret had been a mistake.

"The two of you are rather cozy. And where is Banbury at present, I wonder, Lady Katherine?"

"You know well, Lady Anastasia, that he has retired in order to prepare for an early morning departure," she replied. Her clear eyes leveled on Anastasia's.

"How fortunate for the Duke of Paisley," Anastasia snapped. Too much wine or not, she knew she had gone too far with that outburst. But the overwhelming impulse to scratch out the trollop's eyes frightened even her. She fled from the room, hurrying through her father's study and out onto his terrace.

The bitter cold wind seemed to slice right through her as she hit the outside air, but she did not care. She rushed to the farthest corner overlooking the garden, which was covered in a thick blanket of fresh snow and inky darkness. Covering her face with both hands, she allowed the sobs to rack her body until she could cry no more.

How long had he stood there before Anastasia sensed his presence behind her on the terrace? No doubt he had followed her out to administer the much deserved reproof after the scene he had just witnessed. The anticipation of that event settled in her mind along with the equally unwelcome realization that this was what life would be like with this man. Forever.

No passion. Only duty.

Armed with her indignation and infused with liquid courage, she gave voice to her thoughts.

"What is it about me you find so terribly repulsive?"

"Repulsive? Whatever do you mean?"

"You rarely look at me. You never touch me. It's as if the one stolen kiss put you off forever. Am I that dreadful?"

"Anastasia, I—" His blue eyes were wide with shock. Her words had taken him quite by surprise. Perhaps he thought she hadn't noticed his indifference.

"There are times that you stare at me as though you cannot believe your misfortune to be forever bound to one such as me. Though for the life of me, I cannot comprehend what it is about me that repels you so. Other men find me interesting enough." She was fighting her own tears now. He looked at her as if she had gone mad, but she couldn't stop herself from speaking.

"I'm sorry, your grace, but I do not wish to be someone's duty. I have no desire to be simply the burden a man must bear. And you do not want me. That much is clear." Her heart was breaking with the honesty of being laid bare before the duke. She had held it in for far too long. She turned her back on him. His piercing glare was more than she could stand.

"I have loved you — always. As far back as I can remember, it has only ever been you to whom my heart has called out." Her voice was no more than a whisper now. "And I always dreamed you would one day sweep me off my feet, carry me off to your castle in Scotland and have your way with—"

She was interrupted by a strong hand on her elbow, spinning her around before she could resist. And before she could utter a syllable of protest, Baldwyn's lips were crushing down on hers in earnest.

He lifted her fully from the ground, pulling her flush against him, stealing her breath away.

She struggled against him for only an instant. A thick haze descended. Was this really happening? No. It was a dream. Wasn't it?

Instinctively, she slid her arms around his neck and pulled him closer still, meeting his searching mouth with her own, coaxing him further. He needed no more invitation, but plunged his warm velvet tongue into her mouth, engaging hers in a slow rhythmic dance.

From somewhere distant, she understood that he had lifted her into his arms and was carrying her away — to where, she didn't care. She only hoped he wouldn't stop kissing her.

****

He must stop kissing her. But his prolonged abstinence only increased his appetite for her. The heat of her body pressed against his was like water to a man dying of thirst.

Baldwyn could thoroughly ruin her. Here. Now.

She wanted him to. She had said as much.

Only one thought stopped him from doing so.

She was young, and had never before been thoroughly kissed. She wouldn't know how to stop if she wanted to.

That left him alone to guard her virtue. No matter how much he hated that responsibility. Now — before her wanton groaning melted all his chivalrous resolve.

With painful regret he set her on her feet, pried himself from her, and stumbled backward with labored breath.

Her golden brown eyes, still glazed over in a cloud of desire, accused him of letting go too soon. She leaned toward him, reaching for his face, but he stepped back, dodging her touch, instead grasping her hand in his and kissing her fingers.

Confusion seemed to mingle with pain of rejection in her dark eyes again. His heart broke at the sight.

"No. No. Anastasia, listen to me," he pleaded. "I want you. Heaven knows I do. Every moment in your presence without touching you — without feeling the warmth of your lips on mine — has been pure torture. Torture only the devil himself could devise." He released her hand and retreated another step, holding up a hand to keep her from approaching him.

"If I had believed for one instant you thought I didn't want you, I would have… You must believe me, my love. I thought only to guard your virtue."

"I asked you for no such favor," she interjected.

"I sought only to protect you. My duty—" He couldn't keep the tremor from his voice, and no matter what his mind was saying, the rest of his body was still fully aware of how much he desired to throw caution to the wind and take her as his own.

"Hang your duty, Baldwyn Sinclair," Anastasia whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "And hang you!"

Before he knew what had happened, before he realized he had said anything wrong, she spun on her heel and rushed down the stairs into the dark garden, leaving Baldwyn gaping after her in disbelief.

Chapter Seventeen

Anastasia didn't even feel the cold wind slicing through her thin shawl. She stumbled blindly through the snow drifts, heading who knew where. Crystalline flakes began floating around her and the only sound was her heavy breath and the crunch of her feet as she trudged on toward her unknown destination.

Tears stung her cheeks, streaming unchecked down her face, and the frigid winter breeze burned the remaining wet trail.

Duty. That's all she was to him. An unpleasant responsibility put upon him by his ailing grandmother whom he simply couldn't find it in himself to refuse.

Where would that leave them when the deed was done and the dowager was dead and buried? He would resent her. Despise her for taking his last shred of freedom and strangling him with it.

It wasn't her intention. She had no desire to cause him pain. She had loved him since she was seven. Since he had rescued her from the giant oak and shared an apple with her, speaking of turtledoves and her mourning father. Somewhere deep within him she knew that boy lived still. That knight in shining armor who would save her from all harm.

But she couldn't do it. She couldn't be the thorn in his side.

The darkness seemed to fall around her like a blanket of coal black ink, muddied only by the flurries which suddenly seemed to be increasing in intensity. She glanced about her but could see nothing. No landmarks of note.

In her despair Anastasia had wandered haphazardly, not sure which direction she had taken from the house. Not a single star lit the darkness. The clouds were black and thick, concealing the moon and all the stars.

Fear gripped her chest, stealing her breath. She twirled wildly, eyes widening in search for something, anything, to indicate where she might be.

Her foot caught on an unmoving obstruction in the path, sending her flailing to the cold, hard ground. She landed with a crunch on her hands and knees. Her hand caught a sharp rock, and she felt the tear of flesh through her glove. A cry wrenched from her throat, piercing the silence of the dark.

On hands and knees, Anastasia felt the ground all around her until her gloved hand found the rough solid root of an oak tree. Her oak tree. Tracing the root to the trunk, she eased herself into the crook at the base.

She had been there a thousand times. More times than she could count. Huddling tightly against the trunk, she was able to block the cold wind somewhat. Her thin evening shawl offered little protection, and though she hadn't felt it when she fled the manor house, the ice was beginning to settle in her veins now, cutting right through the fabric of her bodice and undergarments.

Perhaps not such a blind stumble after all. Something deep inside her had guided her to the one place she had always felt free and safe.

The throbbing pain in her left hand drew her attention. Her glove was drenched with warm moisture out of place in the dead of winter. She lifted her hand to the space right in front of her eyes, but the darkness made it impossible to see any more than a silhouette.

She peeled off her glove and wrapped it tightly around the cut, then clutched the wounded hand to her chest. Anastasia could find her way back to the house blindfolded, but she wasn't ready. Not ready to face him yet.

Closing her eyes, she recalled the memory of that afternoon so many years ago. Perhaps she had been far too absorbed in her fantasy. Perhaps she had looked at the man through the eyes of her fancy for too long. He might never be to her everything she imagined him to be.

But she simply wasn't ready to give up on him.

Anastasia huddled closer to the ground and shivered. She should be heading back.

****

It was pride. Plain and simple.

He should have gone after her right away, but he didn't. Instead he stood nursing his ego on the terrace for several minutes. He had told her how he felt — she had cursed him and run away. A relationship made in Heaven.

None of that mattered now. Lady Anastasia had been gone far too long.

Baldwyn paced the hall outside Lord Marks's chamber door.

He would have to go after her, but he hadn't been to visit the country house in over five years. She could be anywhere on the grounds, and with the snow coming down as it was, there would be no trail to follow.

Blast him.

He had waited too long.

And now she was lost out there in the storm in nothing more than a light shawl.

Abruptly he approached the door and pounded on it.

No answer.

Baldwyn pounded again, more insistently.

After what seemed like hours, the door creaked open and Lord Marks peered out through bleary sleep-filled eyes.

"Your grace? What is it?" Lord Marks blinked several times and concern grew in his eyes.

"Lady Anastasia. She is missing." The words barely choked through the knot in his throat.

The door closed in his face. Baldwyn sighed. Was the man still asleep? He slapped his hand against the door frame and spun on his heel. He couldn't wait for Lord Marks to realize it wasn't a dream.

Halfway to the stairs, Baldwyn heard the click of the door behind him.

"Paisley, wait. We shall need lanterns."

****

Anastasia hadn't intended to fall asleep. A chill racked through her as she woke. How long had she been out here? Her hand still throbbed, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped.

The stiffness made it hard to move, but she pushed herself up to stand, stomping her feet briskly against the cold hard ground. Fresh powder flurries blew off her skirts as she shook them out. There was no feeling left in her feet. She stomped them again harder, trying to reclaim sensation. Nothing.

She had to get back to the manor house. Flurries of snow blurred her vision, making all the trees around her look the same. Which way was it? Her head swam in a haze of confusion. She had been in these woods a hundred thousand times. Whirling around, she glanced all about looking for a clue of what direction she should take to return to the warmth of her father's fireplace.

Her heart leapt to her throat when she realized she was hopelessly lost. Lost in a place she should know like the back of her own hand. Frigid tears stung her eyes, and surges of chills swept over her again and again.

A loud steady rattle split the air around her, and Anastasia studied the shadows for signs to explain the noise. She lowered herself to the ground and slid up against the old oak tree, staring wide-eyed into the darkness. The rhythmic tapping tore through the silence, and she wrapped her arms around herself to keep from shaking.

Then she realized… her teeth — the ear-splitting clatter was coming from her own chattering teeth.

Anastasia chuckled, pulled her knees to her chest, and wrapped her arms tightly around them.

****

Armed with a lantern, a flask of brandy, and a pile of warm woolen blankets, Baldwyn trudged into the darkness heading toward the fields, while Lord Marks took the trail toward the pond.

The bitter wind whipped the flame within the glass, casting a flickering curtain of light against the freshly fallen snow.

He followed his feet, not certain exactly where they were taking him, but trusting they knew something he didn't. The only sound was the frantic icy crunch beneath his boots as he broke into a trot.

"Anastasia!" he belted out. His voice echoed back at him.

He listened and heard nothing in return but the sound of his feet pounding the ground.

Again and again he yelled her name, growing more anxious with each unanswered call. It was only a little over an hour she had been gone, but it was so cold, and she had only a light shawl. What if she was injured, lying somewhere unconscious in the snow? Baldwyn's chest constricted around his lungs, and he struggled for enough breath to call her name again.

"Anastasia!" he forced out with a mournful gasp.

****

Anastasia lifted her head. The cold air was a shocking slap in her face, stinging her cheeks and nose. What was that sad wail floating toward her through the darkness? It rang in the tree branches overhead — the call of the turtledoves flittering from tree to tree high above her.

They called to each other over and over. They must be lost in the cold and the dark as well. Somewhere in the frosty haze of her mind she recognized the faulty naturalism. Turtledoves didn't muddle about in the English countryside in the winter, but her ears told her it was the same sad cry, the resounding despair of a turtledove searching for its lost mate.

"Anastasia!" The doleful moan hovered in the branches overhead. Was the turtledove calling her name? She blinked and looked up, scouring the inky black sky for signs of the unseasonable birds.

"I'm here, little turtledove… I'm down here on the ground," she crooned in a sing-song voice, hardly more than a whisper.

"Anastasia!" Her name drifted to her ears again, growing closer and closer, like a bird spiraling down to alight by her feet.

She closed her eyes tight and rested her head against the trunk of the tree. This must be what death was like. And now the light shining all around, so brightly she could see it through her closed lids. Any moment she would feel the warmth of the angel's arms encircling her, carrying her on to Glory.

"Anastasia," the angel's voice cracked. Nothing like she would imagine an angel to sound. "Anastasia, are you hurt?" An odd question for an angel to ask.

She struggled to open her eyes, finally earning a squinting glance. The bright halo trimmed an angelic face with eyes blue as cornflowers.

Warmth spread from her shoulders, as two strong hands grasped her and pulled her slightly forward, and then draped a thick blanket of heaven around her, wrapping her tightly.

"Your lips are blue, Princess." The deep voice found its smooth timbre and ran over her like warm honey, heating her from the top of her head to the bottom of her toes.

"Is it you?" she whispered.

The angel nodded. "It's me, Princess. Your loyal knight." His hand smoothed her cold cheek in a slow, deliberate stroke. "I've come to rescue you."

She smiled dreamily as he lifted a shiny flask to her lips. "Drink this. It will warm you."

The liquid slipped down her throat, radiating heat all the way down.

Anastasia gazed at her rescuer. "Are you my turtledove?"

"Yes, yes!" He laughed and scooped her up in his warm, protective arms, bestowing a light kiss on her forehead. "Your turtledove… and I've been calling for you, my lost love," he crooned against her ear.

"And you have found me?"

"Yes, at long last, I have found you."

She nestled her head against his broad shoulder and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Then… take me home. Take me home where I belong."

Chapter Eighteen

Baldwyn wound the blankets tightly around Anastasia and poured her another tumbler of brandy. Hot tea was coming, but he was anxious for her color to return.

She lay against the divan peacefully, never taking her eyes from him as he worked. He lifted her hands gently, freeing them from the entanglements of the blanket, and examined them.

A deep cut creased one of her palms. She had wrapped one glove around it to staunch the bleeding, which was now congealed. He would have to soak it to dislodge the glove without reopening the wound.

Two or three maids hovered about, stoking the fire and such other fidgety tasks.

"Bring me a basin of warm water and some clean bandages," he ordered the nearest one, startling her with the sternness of his voice. She scurried out of the room to do his bidding.

He carefully removed the glove from her uninjured hand and held her red fingers in his warm grasp.

Her brown eyes scrutinized his face, but she didn't speak.

This was all his fault. Baldwyn knew it. He could feel her accusation assail him, though she neither frowned nor smiled.

"Can you feel your toes yet?" he asked, turning his attention abruptly to her thin shoes. He knelt beside her and one by one, slipped them off and warmed her feet with his hands. They were so cold, almost blue even now.

She shook her head and dropped her gaze to her feet propped on the divan, watching his hands knead the color back into them.

A clatter of excitement erupted just outside the door, and Lord Marks burst into the room, his eyes bright with both relief and concern.

"You found her!" The earl strode to his daughter's side and knelt beside her. Tenderly he brushed a wayward curl of hair from her face and smiled.

"Is she…?" he began and turned to Baldwyn.

"Intact, my lord. Half-frozen, but all will be well again soon."

Anastasia's deep brown eyes cut to her father. Her expression remained unchanged.

"Hmm…" Lord Marks observed. "Still in shock I'd wager. What has been done for her?"

"Brandy, blankets, the fire… I've been trying to rub the sensation back into her fingers and toes, and I sent someone for dry clothes and warm water." He gestured to her wounded hand, which lay atop the blanket, still wrapped with the blood-matted glove.

"Very good, very good." Lord Marks smoothed Anastasia's hair another moment. They stared at each other so intently, Baldwyn was certain they were communicating some deep message that words failed to express.

After a long marked silence, Lord Marks spoke to Baldwyn. "You seem to have this well in hand, Paisley. If there are any developments, send Bernard."

"Of course."

Marks rested a reassuring hand on Baldwyn's shoulder before moving to the door. "I'm counting on you to take care of my little girl."

"Not to worry, my lord. The lady is in good hands."

"I know she is." Lord Marks drew in a deep breath and set his jaw in resolute determination, and with one more pat on the shoulder, he turned and left Anastasia in Baldwyn's care.

The servants arrived with a change of clothes and the basin of warm water. He would have to leave while they helped her out of her wet things, but he dreaded leaving her for even the short time that would take.

"Can you sit up, m'lady?" the maid asked. Baldwyn knelt beside the divan and slipped his arm around her, shifting her into an upright position.

"Your grace?" the servant prodded. She cast her gaze toward the door to indicate his place.

Grudgingly, he rose and whispered to Anastasia, "I'll be right outside."

She nodded in silence and forced a weary smile.

When he returned several minutes later, she lay across the divan once again, looking much more comfortable in her heavy winter housecoat. Someone had tucked her feet under several blankets along with a bed warmer.

"Well, then, shall we see to that hand, my lady?" He situated the basin of warm water on a stool beside her and knelt near her head. Gently he lifted her injured hand then submerged it in the basin, allowing the glove to soak until it was loose enough to pull away.

He struggled to focus on the task at hand, but his patient focused only on him. With careful strokes, he cleaned the deep gash and patted it dry with a towel, then he wrapped it in fresh bandages and laid it back on her chest, pulling the blanket up around Anastasia's chin to cover her thawing extremities.

"Now that is done. Are you warm enough?"

A full-body tremor followed her unconvincing nod.

"Liar." Baldwyn allowed the hint of a smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. Everything he knew to do for her had been done.

All but one thing.

He glanced around the room nervously. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he wiped his clammy palms on the sides of his breeches.

"Your grace? Is something wrong?" Bernard stood a few feet away from him, studying him with concern.

Baldwyn shook his head. "The lady. She's still trembling. She needs… that is, I shall have to…" He swiped his hands down his thighs once more.

Bernard followed Baldwyn's gaze to Anastasia who was racked with chill. "It is necessary, your grace," he reassured the duke.

Baldwyn nodded.

The old butler stepped behind him to help him slip out of his fitted jacket.

"Ring if you need anything. I'll be outside the door," Bernard said softly enough for only Baldwyn to hear, then he raised his voice for the others. "That will be all. You are all dismissed to your regular duties." He herded them out quickly and closed the doors behind him, leaving Baldwyn alone with Anastasia.

"Anastasia…" He laid his jacket over the back of a chair. She glanced at him, seemingly unaffected by the sight of him in his shirtsleeves. Her body trembled in time to the steady rhythm of her chattering teeth.

"Anastasia, you are quite frozen yet, and there is no time to lose. You shall have to share my warmth. Do you understand?" She stared at him for a moment without an expression, then slowly nodded her head.

Baldwyn fumbled with the buttons of his shirt as if he had ten thumbs. Finally succeeding, he slipped his shirt off and dropped it on the chair.

This was necessary. She was his betrothed, and Baldwyn was duty-bound to do all he could for her. Her own father charged him with her care. He took a deep breath, dried his hands on his wool breeches again, and slipped under the blanket beside her, pulling her against his chest.

"I'm sorry," he whispered against her hair as he wrapped his bare arms around her shivering form. She trembled against him, and he pulled her tighter, trying to infuse his heat into her body. Anastasia nestled against him, resting her cheek on his chest, buried up to her nose in the pile of heavy blankets.

When she placed her hand on his chest just below his collarbone, Baldwyn's heart raced. Her light touch, the warmth of her breath on his skin, the fragrance of lilacs drifting from her hair — he was producing more than enough heat for both of them.

To think that here in his arms lay the same girl who had thrown mud balls at him to gain his attention all those years ago, the same girl who climbed up in a tall oak and needed him to rescue her. And here they were again. As if his path had always been directing him here, to this moment he wished would never end.

Perhaps it was true. Had been true all along.

She was his turtledove, and her heart has been calling out to his all this time, guiding him back where he belonged.

Baldwyn exhaled a slow breath of relief and rested his cheek against the top of her head, planting a soft kiss in her hair.

He would have been content to lie there forever, feeling the warmth gradually returning to her. But when her cold hand found its way to his face, and her gentle whisper floated to his ears — "Thank you" — that simple touch dissolved the last shred of self-control he possessed. Her mouth was only a breath away, and she closed her eyes the moment he leaned forward. Her lips were frozen, but he pulled her flush against him and breathed warmth across her lips through his own.

****

"We might stay another day. Perhaps you're not up for traveling yet," Baldwyn suggested when Anastasia approached the carriage dressed in her traveling dress. Her color was better, but she was still rather pale.

Her sweet smile warmed him. She rested her hand on his forearm, and her golden brown eyes melted his misgivings. What he wouldn't do to spend the entire trip back to Town with her alone in the carriage.

Baldwyn covered her hand with his own and allowed his gaze to wander to her pale pink lips. Anastasia smoothed his cheek with her soft kid glove.

"If you think I'm letting you out of my sight now, Baldwyn Sinclair, you are sorely mistaken," she answered.

Baldwyn raised an eyebrow and regarded her with amusement.

"In that case, Anastasia Trent, if you wish to travel in my carriage, you shall have to buy a seat."

"Is that so? And what is the going rate for passage in such a broken down third-rate conveyance?"

"It is quite expensive, my dear. I fear you cannot afford it."

"Then you have grossly misjudged me, your grace, for I am a lady of some means." The sparkle in her eyes spelled mischief and mirth. How he loved her. What had taken him so long to realize it? "Name your price, good man. For I am in desperate need to arrive in London today."

"Desperate need?" Baldwyn put his arms around her waist and pulled her close. "Very well. The cost for passage to London this day is one kiss. Payable in advance." He lowered his head to hers, but she slipped one finger in front of his lips, stopping his forward motion inches from her mouth.

"I have not yet consented to your terms, sir." A wry smile played on her lips. "I wish to offer a counter."

"Anastasia," Baldwyn whispered against her finger. "One does not say she is desperate and then expect to have bargaining power."

She giggled. "No. No, I suppose not. But will you not hear me out?"

"What is your offer, Princess?" He placed a lingering kiss on the finger that blocked his path to her lips.

She brought her hand down to rest on his chest. "Two. One now…" She rose onto her tiptoes, meeting his lips with her own in a slow, warm caress that he could feel all the way through him. Baldwyn was breathless when she pulled away. "…And the second payable upon safe delivery."

He rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. "Sweet Anastasia," he whispered hoarsely. "You have much to learn about bargaining."

"Perhaps so. Do we have a deal?"

"Heavens, yes." He lowered his mouth toward hers again, but she retreated suddenly, setting him off balance so that he stumbled a step forward with a jolt.

"Oh, no you don't! Upon safe delivery, your grace. Try that again, and I'll have you arrested as a charlatan." The devilish glint danced in the golden hue of her brown eyes once more.

"Baldwyn!" A sharp pain landed on the back of his legs, and he turned in shock to find his grandmother standing behind him wielding her brass handled cane. "Mind yourself, boy! You're standing in broad daylight! Now, be a gentleman and help an old lady into the carriage." She lifted her hand into the air beside him, expecting him to take it and do as she bid.

"Ah, Grandmother, I'm delighted you'll be making the trip with us today." It was a bald-faced lie, but now he had two excellent reasons for this to be the swiftest trip to London ever recorded.

Chapter Nineteen

The trip was torturous. Reminiscent of Dante's Seventh Circle.

The first hour was spent listening to the dowager drone on about the virtues of needlepoint until abruptly falling asleep and promptly adopting a steady cadence at an unearthly volume, making any conversation impossible. Next to her sat Lady Anastasia, stifling a laugh at his expense.

Baldwyn slid to the side directly across from Anastasia and held out his hand to her without saying a word. She studied him suspiciously, a single eyebrow raised in question, then shrugged and took his hand.

With a firm grasp on her wrist, he tugged her to his side of the carriage in one fluid motion, depositing her on the seat beside him.

"Really, your grace, it isn't proper," she whispered, a mock derision playing in her voice.

"To blazes with proper." He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her closer.

"Whatever will the dowager say?"

"I don't care." He kissed her neck.

"That doesn't sound like you. Are you ill?" She slipped a glove off one hand and felt his forehead, then slid her soft hand down to his cheek.

Baldwyn grasped it in his and pressed it to his lips. "No. No, I am well. And the dowager is fast asleep." He laid another kiss on her neck. Her nearness made him dizzy — her fragrance, her velvet touch, the taste of her skin — and he was drowning in the haze of desire descending on him.

Raining light kisses along her jaw line, he blazed a hot trail toward her mouth. Her pulse raced beneath the touch of his lips.

Breathlessly, she whispered, turning reluctantly away from his advance, "Remember our bargain, your grace. Upon safe arrival."

"Hang the bargain." He gasped for breath against her neck and gingerly laid a hand on her cheek, drawing her face toward his. Angling his own head, he closed the gap between them with fervent passion. Her hesitation alarmed him, but he persisted, brushing her mouth once, twice, a third time, coaxing her lips apart until she indulged him. Her bare hand slid to the back of his neck and tangled in his hair, driving him deeper into the fog where Anastasia was his only focus, more of her his only goal.

A distant rumbling raked his brain, and he felt Anastasia tense in his arms. He tried to ignore the persistent interference, tried to draw her back into the trance with him, but she pushed at his chest, and the rumbling grew more insistent. Then he heard it.

Not the constant rhythm of his grandmother's snore, but the erratic cough of the dowager clearing her throat in disgust.

He slowly released his hold on the lady next to him and sat back, allowing his gaze to take in Anastasia's mortified look before turning to the old woman who traveled with them.

The dowager's lips were set in a stern line. She clicked her tongue to shame him and with a voice laced with consternation said, "Can't a woman take a few moments' rest without worry that you will accost the maiden under your protection?" Beside him, Anastasia struggled to compose herself, steadying her breathing and fighting with the fingers of her glove to tug them back into place on her right hand.

"I believe an apology is in order, Baldwyn."

"I apologize, Grandmother."

"Not to me, you dolt." She cast a nod in Anastasia's direction.

Baldwyn glanced at her. He could think of several ways to apologize, but none of them involved speaking.

"Oh dear, for being such a responsible fellow, you do fail in so many areas. What would have happened, I shudder to think, had I not been present?"

"I daresay a great many things would be different were it not for your presence, Grandmother."

From the corner of his eye, he caught Anastasia's quick look at him. He turned to make the necessary amends, but an inhuman gasp interrupted him.

The dowager clutched at her chest and her face drained of all color, leaving a ghostly pallor. Baldwyn's heart leapt to his throat, and he knelt in the moving carriage, grasping at his grandmother's shoulders. She reached for his arm and fell forward into his chest. He caught her and lifted her back into the seat, sliding in next to her.

"Grandmother! Are you ill?" When she did not respond, he shouted it louder, closer to her face. "Grandmother! What is it?" Her eyes seemed to roll back in her head — her skin was ashen.

"Your grace!" Anastasia pleaded, grasping one of the old woman's hands. Her eyes were wide with fear. "Oh, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to—"

Baldwyn twisted in his seat, still clutching the dowager in his left arm, and pounded the wall of the carriage with his right. "Faster, Michaels! Faster! Do not spare the horses!" He knew they weren't far out of London now, but she was languishing.

Anastasia sat shaking her head and crying, patting the dowager's hand vigorously. "Wake up, your grace," she whimpered.

The carriage sped recklessly down the primitive road, jolting in the ruts and finding every pothole. And yet the trip seemed interminable.

"Faster, Michaels! The dowager is failing!" he bellowed again, but he knew the driver wouldn't hear him over the din of the rattling carriage. This was his fault. All his fault. This was what came of choosing desire over duty. Why could he not have waited until they were safe at home?

After what seemed like an eternity, though in truth it was only minutes, the carriage clattered to a halt in front of the Durbin residence. Baldwyn bolted from the carriage and called to the gathering servants. "Send for the doctor! The dowager — help me!"

Anastasia sat frozen in her seat, but he had no time to deal with her. Three footmen retrieved his grandmother and hurried her up the stairs to the house.

"See the lady home, Michaels!" Baldwyn shouted and turned without another word. His only thought was to see to his grandmother.

One of his cousin's men stood near the door in apparent shock. "Go! Fetch his grace! Tell him to make haste!" Baldwyn commanded, then charged through the front door and up the stairs to the dowager's room.

****

As the carriage jolted forward, away from the dowager's house, Anastasia stared out the window at the scene in their wake. Baldwyn tore up the steps to the front door without so much as a glance back. But it was selfish of her to wish it. He was worried for his grandmother.

The grandmother who'd raised him, who had taken him under her wing as a boy. Yes, she was a surly demanding woman — a woman full of machinations and schemes… her conniving, manipulative, wonderful schemes.

Anastasia knew, in spite of everything, in spite of all the dowager's ploys, Baldwyn loved his grandmother. And there was nothing he wouldn't do for her.

The betrothal was proof of that.

All the old woman wanted was to see her grandson properly wed, but Anastasia had flung herself at him like a common wanton. No wonder the dowager had taken ill so suddenly. The shock of seeing them…

A thick knot weighed heavy in the pit of Anastasia's stomach. What if Baldwyn blamed her? Furthermore, what if it truly was her fault?

****

The dowager lay motionless on her bed. Her maids had changed her and made her as comfortable as possible. It was silent in the room when Baldwyn entered. Only one servant remained, trying in vain to rouse the old woman with smelling salts. She glanced up at the duke and he excused her with a nod.

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?

Chapter Twenty

"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.

Anastasia was at the end of her restraint and reached for him, but he caught her hands in his and clutched them to his chest. "Marry me," he pleaded. "Not because you must. Not because the dowager willed it. Not even because I asked it of you. Do it because we belong together." His words came out in a torrent, rushing toward her in intense waves, until he came to an abrupt silence.

"You are my turtledove, Anastasia," he whispered finally. "And I… I am lost without you."

Baldwyn dropped her hands and reached to pull her to him, but she met him halfway, throwing her arms around him and sinking into his embrace as his lips crushed to hers at long last.

The mourning sound that had resonated in her soul since the first moment Baldwyn had left England those many years ago, finally stilled. He was home — and now, so was she.

About the Author

Leah Sanders is the middle child in a family of seven children. As a true middle child she went from high school in Alaska to college in Florida, where she earned a Bachelor's degree in secondary education from Southeastern University. She also holds a Master's degree in educational technology from Boise State University.

She makes her home in Idaho with her husband and three children. By day she teaches English in a middle school. But after the kids are in bed, she will most likely be typing away on her laptop while sitting in her favorite spot on the couch.

Also by Leah Sanders:

Sacred Ring

All We See or Seem

The Parting Gift

Waltzing the Wallflower

Beguiling Bridget

Also from Astraea Press:

Chapter One

Salamanca – 22 July 1812

"We've endured some bad storms, have we not Dev, but I misremember one as severe as this."

Lady Beaumont snuggled up to her lord, her head on his shoulder. They'd celebrate three blissful, if unusual, years of marriage in a month's time. Hopefully this time they'd be back in England and she'd throw a party like none before.

"The lightning was so bright at one point I thought it struck our tent."

"At least we had some cover." Honor sighed. "Those poor soldiers have little shelter and Wellington will expect them to perform their duties regardless."

"We are at war, my dear." Lord Beaumont pulled his wife closer. One more day and they'd be on their way home to enjoy three months leave. One more day…

So why did Devlin dread the coming dawn?

Another burst of thunder overhead shook the ground, and lightning lit up the meagre bivouac.

"The intensity of this storm is shocking. It must be all of two hours since it began, and silly as it sounds, I almost feel it is on a personal mission, a vendetta." Honor traced Dev's lips with her finger. "Perhaps we should distract ourselves?"

"And how do you suggest we do that?" Pushing the unidentified dread to the back of his mind, Devlin kissed his wife long and hard.

"That's a good start." She returned his kiss and followed where he led.

* * * *

The growing light of dawn chased the storm away that had left a field of mud in its wake. Honor's even breathing failed to sooth Devlin. The niggling apprehension slithered snake-like through his system. Had his concerns added intensity to their lovemaking, or had they shed every inhibition knowing the thunder would drown out their cries of ecstasy?

Grunts, groans, and cursing outside rose in crescendo as more and more soldiers began the rituals of another day at war. The day before, certain Marshal Marmont would not open an attack, Wellington had ordered the baggage and supply carts to retreat a good way to the rear. Word had spread that they wouldn't break camp today, but would continue to observe the movements of the French divisions.

"Bonaparte's sent them to stop us from marching upon Madrid," Wellington told a select few the previous day. "I admit they may equal us in numbers and they've taken the Grand Arapiles and the woods behind. I do not wish to fight an action, unless it is to our advantage, or becomes essential."

So, Dev asked himself again as he slipped out of Honor's embrace, why did this sense of foreboding not only stalk him, but increase in strength? For the few hours in her arms during the night he'd managed to push it away. Tonight they would set out for home. The beginning of three months' leave. He searched for his clothing and carefully folded Honor's and laid them at the end of the cot. They may have been under cover for the night, but the rain had seeped through the repaired tears and soaked everything in the way; those that missed the downpour were damp anyway.

He shrugged into his bright red jacket and reached for his watch. Six o'clock. In the distance, the cooks struggled to light the rain-sodden wood. Another cold meal to start the day, but happily for him and Honor, it would be their last army breakfast for several months.

With care, he let the tent flap drop behind him and made his way to Wellington's quarters.

* * * *

Honor woke with a smile on her lips. The storm, now gone, had become their audience, roaring applause when she and Dev rose to new heights together. She reached out and sighed upon discovering his side of the cot was empty.

One more day. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and inhaled the dank after-storm mugginess. With a groan, she wriggled into her under-garments, shuddering at the cold dampness of the material against the warmth of her skin. How like Dev to gather up the clothes they'd scattered about the place, and fold them neatly for her.

The day before, Wellington had sent all the other women who followed the drum to the rear with the baggage and supply carts. "If I thought you would obey my orders, I'd pack you off with them," the earl told her at supper later.

"I'm so pleased you did not." She knew Wellington liked to have pretty women around him, and while he never dallied with married ladies, he'd let her remain as much for his own pleasure and hers. "You are a level-headed woman, my dear," he'd told her a few months after her arrival in Spain. "I didn't approve of your husband's insistence you join us, but there…" He patted her hand. "You have made yourself indispensible and I am glad Dev wore me down."

She'd soon understood how overworked the army medics were and she'd set about learning how to assist them in their work. From the women following the drum, she'd learned about the power and various uses of local herbs to help aid the sick and wounded men. No more did the doctors insist upon amputation as the only solution to a shattered arm or leg. To begin with they'd looked askance when she'd applied lotions to clean and draw out putrefaction from the wounds and ease the boils so often suffered by the soldiers.

It didn't take long for word to spread that chopping off a limb wasn't the only option and men sought her out for treatment, and as their trust grew she soon got to know many of them well.

A double-edged sword, she thought now. The pain of loss never lessened, and she took it upon herself to write to the families of each man lost. A small thing, she had thought, until she received letters of gratitude from the grieving relatives.

She'd set about learning from the doctors how to treat the wounded and had attended so many operations she often felt she could do one in her sleep. Honor smiled. Of course she couldn't, and she hoped no one would ever ask her to. But army surgeons became victims of enemy fire as easily as their fighting companions.

Only the day before, too fatigued and starved to hold onto his reins, a medic had fallen from his horse and broken his neck. On the same day another took a sniper's bullet in the forehead during one of the regular skirmishes with the French troops.

Covering her head with her shawl, Honor lifted the flap and searched the camp for any sight of her husband.

Phillipe, his batman, hovered close to Wellington's large tent. Was it her imagination, or were Dev's orders more detailed today?

She thought about his question last night. Was she looking forward to returning home?

In truth, Honor couldn't say. Since her arrival in Spain as a new bride she'd witnessed sights no gently bred woman should. She had experienced situations even the hardened "baggages," as the troops called the women who followed the drum, found hard to deal with.

Honor shifted uneasily. A light breeze whispered across her face, lifting stray tendrils of hair into her eyes, and she brushed them away while watching the men working methodically through the morning routines. Unlike her and Dev, most of them slept in the open. And now, tired and cold, their clothes plastered to the skin, the sight always reminded her of a macabre kind of ballet. She sensed the excited unease that tinged the men's normal battle awareness, hovering over them like a lingering storm cloud left over from the previous night. It filled the air and emphasised the soldiers' movements.

Since none of them were attempting to break camp, Honor assumed they intended to stay put for the day and their leader did not anticipate any confrontation with the ever-moving French divisions occupying the larger of the two land rises on each side of the village of Arapiles.

Would Wellington send Dev out to scout the French movements before his leave began? Or would the earl order Devlin to report to Whitehall when they arrived home?

"I am not breaking a trust when I tell you word has come from London about a French agent within our midst," Dev had told her in confidence a couple of days earlier. "I tell you this, my dear, for you own safety. You must keep this to yourself and maintain vigilance at all times."

Would Wellington charge her husband to carry the information back to London if they'd uncovered the spy's identity?

It was less than a week since they'd last fallen back at Toro, only for the enemy to seize the advantage and cross the Bridge of Tordesillas two days later. The movements of the two armies reminded her of chess players summing each other up. Watching… waiting… anticipating before combat resumed.

"Why is it we always go into battle the morning following storms such as this one?" When the resigned mutter of someone nearby reached her, she silently agreed, as she crossed the camp towards Wellington's headquarters.

"Is it my imagination or are they —" Honor cast a glance at the tent, "— or are they taking longer in there than usual?" she asked, when Phillipe headed towards her.

Phillipe, too, stared in the same direction, Honor noticed. Not the interest of a man waiting for instructions, she thought, and failed to define the expression in the man's eyes.

"You are correct, my lady." Phillipe took her arm and led her away.

"What is it?" Tension flowed off her husband's batman. Had he heard something? He'd certainly been close enough to hear the conversation within the tent.

The sound of distant cannonading impinged on her growing unease. Would Wellington hold his position or move against the French? With one more day to go before they left for home, she didn't know, and wasn't sure she cared. This morning something nibbled at her usual ability to cope with the daily demand of following an army. What was keeping Dev?

* * * *

Why hadn't he insisted Honor join the other women when Wellington sent them and the baggage to the rear of the lines? Marmont was already moving his armies in an attempt to outflank them. It wouldn't work of course, couldn't work, simply because in doing so he'd overextend his army, leaving them open to attack from Wellington's different divisions. No way would Old Nosey sit back and let that happen without going into action. And Honor would be right there in the middle of it all while he would be too far away to provide her with protection.

To avoid meeting Honor before he was ready, Dev slipped through an aperture at the rear of the tent and sought out his friend, and batman, Phillipe. They'd been together through many conflicts — since long before he'd married Honor — and now he needed Phillipe's word to see his wife safely away from Salamanca.

Today.

It wouldn't take Phillipe long to reunite Honor with the wagons and get back to camp before he completed his mission, Dev thought.

If he returned.

And if he returned, Dev promised himself, he'd make his own way home to rejoin his beloved Honor.

Dev observed the despondency in his leader's eyes, heard the false encouragement in his words, and the previous night's niggling sense of foreboding exploded into life as the Earl revealed plans and issued orders.

It looked like "one more day" had just become "one day too long."

For a moment, Dev wondered whether Honor would be safer within the ranks of his comrades, then dismissed the notion. Nor would taking Honor to join the retreating wagons keep her secure if anything happened to him.

He'd hand Honor into his batman's protection before he left camp this morning. As a local man, Phillipe's vast organisation of contacts could arrange for Honor's safe passage across Spain and into France. Not an easy journey under any circumstances. Add in the combination of Napoleon and Joseph Bonapartes' armies plus rogue or deserting soldiers filling the roads or trying to escape, it would be fraught with even more danger.

* * * *

"There you are, Dev." Keeping her tone light and carefree, she held out her hands when he joined her. The way Dev's gaze slid away confirmed her instinct that it wasn't going to be a normal day.

Just one day…

A shiver ran down her spine.

He revealed his soul in his eyes, and as she looked into them now, Honor detected the tumult of emotions stirring within them.

His face lit up when he saw her coming, and he opened his arms to welcome her, wrapping them around her tightly. For a moment he rested his forehead on hers, inhaling the scent of her, enjoying her warmth and softness before stepping back.

"What an age you have been. I do declare I began to wonder if Wellington sent you off without giving you a chance to say 'goodbye'." She angled her head for his kiss, letting it fall on her cheek. She wanted to grab hold of Dev and drag him back to their little tent.

His smile vanished. He glanced round at the general mêlée of movement and pulled her to one side.

Taking her hand he kissed her palm before holding her gaze. Without preamble he held her still when she went to embrace him. "Listen to me, Honor."

She wanted to reach up and trace her finger over his lips. Instead she fisted her free hand at her side to prevent herself giving in to temptation.

"When I agreed to let you come with me to Europe you gave me a promise. Do you remember?"

All desire to caress Devlin vanished. Unable to get any words passed the constriction in her throat, she nodded.

"It is time."

"But—" they came thick and fast now. "You said… we're going home… you said…" Her words fell off her personal cliff of fear and tumbled to the ground between them, along with hope. What was that saying? Tomorrow never comes. Was Dev implying their future was an illusion? Her heart plummeted, and the pain in her chest was sharp as a knife.

"I will join you tomorrow," he said.

The look in his eyes stopped her protest from tumbling out. She'd promised to be strong. For him, for her.

Now, it seemed, the moment had arrived to make good on that promise.

This time she didn't resist her urge to touch him. She caught the lapels of his red jacket and pulled him to her. She stood on tip toe and pressed her lips to his.

"I love you, Dev."

His eyes darkened, and for a second she wondered whether she'd made a mistake, added to his emotional burden. He needed a clear mind free from a sense of personal obligation to do his work, but the words slipped out before she could check them.

His hand came up to cover one of hers. "I know, and I love you too. You are my life." He leaned down and deepened the kiss, then stepped back with a sigh.

"I will take you to Phillipe. In the name of your promise to me, do what he says without question. Your safety, and his, will depend upon it."

Once more words failed her; once more a nod was all she could give him.

He took her hand and kept it close to his heart for several seconds. When he pulled on it she followed him as they made their way to the perimeter of the camp beyond the commander's tent. A minute later Dev placed it in Phillipe's; she recognised the understanding in the Spaniard's eyes, saw the gleam of admiration when she nodded to him and stepped away from Dev.

It was the hardest thing she'd ever done.

"I have to go." He looked over to where a soldier stood beside his waiting horse.

"I have to go," he said again, then placed his hands on her face and pulled her close. To Honor, his kiss stopped time. Whether it lasted a second or a lifetime, she didn't know. The cool air on her cheeks brought her back to the present. To a separation she feared might last forever.

The next hardest thing was to keep a smile on her lips when Dev stole another brief kiss before striding away.

"Phillipe, I promised Dev I would follow your instructions without question, and I will, but please just this once, may I stay here until Dev leaves?" If he agreed she vowed she'd never ask him for any more favours.

She held her breath when he hesitated and released it with a whoosh when he acquiesced.

They stood side by side in the brightening daylight as Dev strode over to another officer, nodded after a moment's discussion, then mounted his waiting horse. He didn't look back. Had she expected him to? At a gentle trot, Dev headed for the outskirts of the camp where he was joined by three other soldiers.

When Phillipe gripped her arm, she cast a puzzled glance at him. She read the horror in his eyes and swung round in time to witness one of the men swing his sword in an arc and bring it down on Dev's head, then the others closed in to haul his unconscious body from the horse. She wanted to scream, but Phillipe's hand over her mouth prevented any sound from escaping. She wanted to rush to Dev's rescue, and found herself restrained by the Spaniard's other arm clamped her waist.

She wanted to deny what she seen but couldn't take her eyes of the unfolding horror.

Where were his friends? She fought Phillipe's insistence they move away until the men, with Dev, disappeared from view. Where were the men taking her husband? Who were they and why hadn't anyone gone to her husband's rescue?

"What's going on?" she demanded when Phillipe remove his hand from her mouth. "I want to go to him," she insisted, but Phillipe shook his head and began dragging her in the opposite direction. She wanted to curl up and die.

"I don't understand. Why have our own men attacked him, and why did no one go to his aid?"

"Those men are not members of Wellington's army."

Phillipe's certainty had her spinning round. "Not our soldiers? They wear our uniforms."

"Not correctly, which means they are from either one of Marmont's divisions or partisans in captured uniforms."

When Phillipe tugged on her arm, she wrenched out of his grip. Why go anywhere with anyone if she'd never see Dev again, and then his words came back to her. "Remember your promise…"

She remembered, and straightening her shoulders, nodded at Phillipe before following him when he walked them through the mud at a steady pace and in the opposite direction.

Also from Astraea Press:

Chapter One

Henry Westmoreland, the new Duke of Salle, had returned to England.

The servants had whispered about it all day. Emma tried to ignore them, but the guilty way they jumped apart from each other every time she happened upon a group of them didn't make it easy. After running into gossiping servants in the kitchen, the dining room, and the drawing room, she finally took a novel and found a quiet corner in the library.

However, she soon found that while she could escape the household's mutterings, she could not escape her own thoughts.

"Foolishness," she admonished herself. "He didn't return for you. You wouldn't want him if he did."

With a self-satisfied nod of her head, she turned her attention back to her book, and reread the page in front of her for the eighth time. After the tenth time, she put the novel aside with a heavy sigh. Perhaps she should go for a walk.

"Lady Emmaline," the butler said from the doorway. "You have a caller."

A caller? She hadn't had a caller in over five years. Not since he left.

She stood and tried to cover her excitement. "Who is it?"

"His grace, the Duke of Salle."

Her knees grew weak. Henry? Here? At her home? Her heart raced as she imagined what he wanted.

From the doorway, the servant watched her with barely concealed curiosity. Summoning all the inner strength she had, Emma sat back down.

"Oh." She took her book off the table and opened it to a random page. "Please inform his grace I am indisposed."

"My humblest apologies, my lady, but he has already conversed with your mother."

"Of course he has," she muttered under her breath. Whatever he was, Henry wasn't a fool. He knew the quickest way to a single woman was through a desperate mother. Looking up at the butler, she replied, "Very well. Tell his grace I will be in shortly."

She walked to the morning room, her mind occupied with deciding upon a plan. She would welcome him back to England. She would murmur niceties about the weather and how delighted she was to see him again. Then she would be overcome with a headache and excuse herself. She would not stare at him. She would not let his smile wipe every bit of sense out of her head. Most importantly, she would not forgive him.

He was talking with her mother, his back to the door, when she entered. Her presence remained unnoticed until her mother spied her over his shoulder.

"Emmaline. Do come in."

Henry turned and their eyes met for the first time in over five years. Those years had been kind to him. He had grown into a man. Gone was the gangly boyishness she remembered. His eyes searched hers and she wondered what he saw. How she appeared to him since the last time they were in each other's company.

He approached her, running a hand through his tousled blond hair, and an unsure smile on his face. His voice was thick and coarse when he spoke, nothing at all as she remembered him sounding. "Lady Emmaline."

She dropped into a curtsy. "Your grace." Her voice sounded calm to her ears and she lifted a silent prayer of thanks. She waved in the general direction of the couches. "Would you care to sit?"

"Yes, thank you."

He followed and sat down once she did. Emma saw from the corner of her eye that her mother had taken a seat near the door to sew.

"Welcome back to England, your grace," Emma said.

Over the last five years, she had played over and over in her mind what would happen if Henry ever returned from the Continent and they found themselves together. Now that it was actually happening, all her memorized lines flew straight out of her head. The only things remaining were nonsensical pleasantries.

"Thank you. It's nice to be back."

He had grown into an imposing man. Now that she saw him more fully, she could tell. With broad shoulders, wide chest, and head held high, he was every inch a duke.

"I was sorry to hear of your father's passing." She felt certain if his father hadn't died, Henry would have remained far away from England.

"He lived a full life."

They had become strangers over the last five years. She no longer knew him. This man who had once been her close confidant, and later her downfall, was now a stranger. It was rather sad if she thought about it long enough.

"Pleasant weather today," she said.

"Yes, quite."

A silence followed, so complete she thought if she listened hard enough, she could hear her mother's needle push through the cloth.

It wasn't just sad, though, it was painful. Sitting with him, so close yet so distant, was a mockery of all she had lost.

They spoke at the same time.

"Your grace–"

"Emmaline–"

She waved at him. "You go."

Uncertainty crossed his expression and she wondered if he felt guilty. "I wanted to… I suppose 'apologize' is an understatement. I came to see how you fared. How life has been for you."

She narrowed her eyes. The ever-present anger at her situation, the anger she usually kept under lock and key, buried deep inside her soul, started to boil.

"How do you think I fared? Was there any doubt in your mind how life has been for me?" She leaned closer, spoke low so her mother wouldn't hear. "I am most well, your grace. As you noticed when you entered this morning, I am not sure what to do with myself, what with all these suitors hanging around. I receive so many party and ball invitations, I'm busy every night of the week. Of course, once there, my dance card is always filled. You mustn't concern yourself with how I've been."

"Emma, I–"

"Lady Emmaline. To call me anything else would be gravely inappropriate. I wouldn't know what to do if my reputation were to be sullied."

"Emma. There is nothing I can do to come close to making up for what I did all those years ago. If you would allow it, though, I would like to try."

"What would be the reason? So you can feel better about yourself? I will not allow you to use me like that."

"I don't wish to use you. I wish–"

"I don't care to hear what you wish." The anger coursed through her now.

Her mother glanced up from her sewing.

Emma took a deep breath and lowered her voice. "You may go back to your townhouse knowing I am quite well. I have accepted my place and station as a disgraced spinster. You should do the same."

"Will you go for a ride with me tomorrow?"

She blinked several times. "What?"

"You. Me. Ride. Tomorrow." The hint of a smile played on his mouth.

"I heard you."

"Then why did you ask 'what?'"

"No."

"No, you didn't ask me what I said?" His smile was bigger, reaching his eyes and brightening his entire face. This, this was the Henry she remembered. The light-hearted teasing one. The one she had fallen in love with.

The one who had broken her heart.

She would not allow it to happen again.

"No, I won't go on a ride with you tomorrow." To do so would be to open herself up, to allow herself to be vulnerable. She had done that once and look how it turned out. She was two and twenty, alone, and disgraced.

"I want to explain myself." His eyes were still that odd combination of blue and green. She had never seen anyone else with eyes quite that color.

"Yes, well, if I've learned anything over the last five years, it's that we rarely get what we want." When he opened his mouth to talk again, she continued, "Truly, your grace, I am very much content. Please leave me be."

He didn't say anything, but she remembered well the look in his eyes. He was running through various ways to move forward and listing in his head the potential outcomes of each one.

When he stood, she assumed he had taken her word concerning her contentment. She stood as well, not knowing whether to be happy or sad.

It surprised her when he asked, "A deal then?"

"What kind of deal?"

He took a step closer and she inhaled the scent of him. Pine and musk, just like always.

"You ride with me tomorrow and if you wish for me to leave you be after, I will do so."

She straightened her shoulders, recognizing it was as good a deal as she would get. "Very well. I'll see you tomorrow."

****

When her mother heard the news, she clutched her chest and muttered assorted thanks to God.

"It's only a carriage ride, Mother."

Five years ago, her mother had been distraught at the scandal that ended with Henry leaving for the Continent and Emma's fall from society. Putting her own feelings about the afternoon aside, Emma feared her mother would once again sink into despair by the time this business with Henry ended.

"Yes," her mother said. "But his grace has just been in town for three days. He hasn't been seen around at all, and you are the only one he has paid a visit to."

That her mother knew so much of the duke's comings and goings shouldn't have come as a surprise. As a countess, even one whose daughter was not viewed well in polite society, she was part of a large social network. A network that spent most of its time gossiping and match-making.

"Your father will be so happy."

Her father spent most of his time at his favorite men's club. She rarely saw him and when she did, she could never tell if he was happy or sad.

She started to walk back to the library, but her mother's hand stopped her.

"Maybe he'll ask you to the Kringles' Christmas Eve Ball."

With a sigh, she turned around and tried to gently let her mother down. "It is but a carriage ride. I am settled. I have no expectations of marriage or even attending the Kringles' Christmas Eve Ball. Please, please, don't wrap your hopes up in this."

If she could only convince her heart of the same.

****

Living on the edge of society as she had for the last five years, Emma had not been on a carriage ride with any single man. Though she told herself over and over it was just a ride, the truth was it was a ride and it was a ride with Henry. Henry, who for all her statements to the contrary, still held a special place in her heart.

She dressed in her warmest pelisse, of a periwinkle color she liked to think matched the blue in her eyes. Peering out the upstairs window, she sighed. Likely as not, Henry wanted to explain his side of the story, to unburden his heart. She steeled herself for it, mentally repeating that she was happy in her station.

In the distance she saw the Salle carriage approaching. Henry looked particularly handsome. Breathtakingly handsome, if she was honest with herself. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cool window. What was she doing? Why had she agreed to open a wound thought long since healed?

One day, she told herself, it was only one day. A few hours. Then he would be gone. Forever this time.

She strolled down the stairs.

"Lady Emmaline," Henry said with a bow when she appeared. "You look divine."

She curtsied. "Your words are particularly sugary today, your grace. Any more so and I fear I would faint of their sweetness."

"You wound me." He clutched his heart. "Right here."

She took her gloves from a side table and pulled them on. "From what I heard of your exploits on the Continent, most women were overtaken with your fine words."

He held out his arm and she took it with a cautious hand. How strange to be touching him. Even now, after all this time, her belly fluttered at his nearness.

I'm not sure I can do this.

She glanced at him and saw he appeared unaffected by her touch. Very well, two could go at that. But her stomach continued to flutter, even as he helped her into the carriage. He went about checking the foot warmer and adjusting the blankets around them.

"Are you warm enough?" he asked.

How could she not be with him so near? She tried to look bored. "Yes, your grace. I'm quite comfortable."

A look of irritation crossed his face but was quickly replaced with his typical easy smile. "Good to hear. Let me know if you get cold." With that, he gave a click of his tongue and a snap of the reins.

They drove to the park. Henry waved to passing couples, presumably also out for a midday drive. Emma sat stiffly. She knew, with Henry by her side, that society would welcome her. But once he left, she would go back to being invisible. It would be for the best if she didn't grow accustomed to receiving anyone's approval.

The events of years past were like a wall between them, keeping them separate. Though he sat next to her, he might as well still be on the Continent. Yet he had been the one to ask her on a ride, so she would wait for him to make the first move at knocking the wall down.

It didn't take long for him to try.

"Emma," he said when they had driven past the park's center. "My actions toward you were wrong all those years ago. I acted irresponsibly, not thinking what the result would be for you."

She couldn't stand to look at him while he said such things. Instead, she focused her attention on the evergreens, the other carriages out, anything but him. "I told you, I am content."

"You deserve more than mere contentment."

She shrugged, but doubted the movement noticeable with the bulk of her outfit. "I am better off than many in my position."

It was nothing more than what she'd told herself numerous times over the last five years. Why did the words sound empty when she said them to him?

"Let me improve your position. Marry me, Emma."

The shock of his suggestion caused her to forget the passing evergreens and swing her head to him. "What?"

His smile appeared genuine. "Allow me to do what I should have done years ago. Marry me, Emma."

It was possibly the very last thing she expected him to say. For two years after he'd left, she had imagined him saying those very words. She'd dreamed of him coming back to rescue her, to redeem her in the eyes of society. He would marry her, she would become a duchess, and together they would show the ton she was worthy.

Little by little, though, those dreams had died. Slipped away, packed in the attic space of her mind, and never cast again into the bright light of day.

So, unlike her dreams, she answered, "No."

"Emma, please."

"Don't 'please' me, your grace –"

"Stop 'your gracing' me."

"No. It's your title and the accepted way to address you. I will not marry you just so you can feel better about yourself. I deserve better. As do you." Her words sounded weak to her ears. She hoped they sounded more determined to him.

He pulled the horses to a stop. They were at the far end of the park. Not in the direct line of traffic, but not secluded either.

He searched her eyes. "I remember a girl who used to call me Henry. Where is that girl?"

She couldn't endure the scrutiny. Not from him. Emma turned her head away. "She no longer exists. She is ruined. An outcast."

"Emma," his voice was soft and pleading.

She blinked against the hot tears filling her eyes. "She heard you had a delightful time on the Continent and hopes your exploits were worth the price of her rightful future."

"Emma, look at me." He placed a hand on her shoulder and gently turned her to face him. "I was wrong. I was foolish and irresponsible. I hurt you and your family. Not a day went by I didn't hate myself for what I did to you."

Her heart threatened to soften, but she held firm. "And yet you only returned when your father died and you had a dukedom to inherit."

"I was a coward. But I am ready to face my mistakes. To try and correct them, if you will allow it."

He was always too charming for his own good. To have that on top of being wealthy and good looking left a girl with no defenses. She felt her own start to crumble.

"Why?" she asked. "You could have any number of eligible girls. Why me?"

"Because you are the only one who knew me when I stood knee high and wore gowns."

"That is a poor excuse."

"I would say more, but I don't want to be accused of sugary words again."

This time, she was the one searching his eyes. "I'm not agreeing to marry you." She wasn't ready for that, wasn't sure if she would ever be ready for that. Not after all this time. "I am a spinster and, until you showed up, a content one."

"Shall we agree to a courtship?"

"I'm not sure I'm ready for that either, but you may call on me."

"I'll win you over yet, Emma."

With a playful tilt of her head, she smiled back at him. "I'm a most stubborn woman, your grace."

"Henry."

A raised eyebrow was the only answer she gave him.

Astraea Press

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