A Renwick House Christmas Boxed Set

by Rachel Van Dyken

  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.