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’ʹve 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 ma
de 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.
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