by Leah Sanders
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 ni
ght. 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.
