A Renwick House Christmas Boxed Set

by Rachel Van Dyken

  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 h
e 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.