Two Turtledoves (4 page)

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.

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.

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—Ana
shtash
ia," 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.