A Renwick House Christmas Boxed Set

by Rachel Van Dyken

  “Paisley.” A sigh followed close on the tail of the words.

  “Are you looking for someone?”

  “Something, actually.” She squinted at the floor around her skirts as though to prove her point. Then pointed behind her toward the door. “Banbury… he lost a button.”

  “A—a button?” The mention of Banbury’s name, the note from Lady Katherine, the locked door… Of course. Baldwyn shook his head in disbelief.

  “Yes, he said it was a family heirloom, or something of the sort. Have you seen it?”

  “He sent you in here to look for his button?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I suppose he described it to you? The button?”

  “Well, no. In fact, he didn’t. I have no idea what I’m looking for.”

  “I see.” Baldwyn had to applaud their efforts, if not their execution.

  “And what are you doing in here?” Anastasia tilted her head and took a step away from the door.

  Baldwyn held the note up between his fingers. “The Lady Katherine, desperate to discuss her particular troubles with my cousin, the devil.”

  “I see.” She moved to a chair and sat down. “And locking the door?”

  “Their idea of forcing the issue.”

  “What issue?”

  She stared at him with wide-eyed innocence. Certainly she knew what they were trying to do. He cleared his throat and tugged at his cravat.

  “Perhaps we should light more candles. It is rather dark in here.” He slipped a handkerchief out of his pocket and patted his forehead with it. The fire he’d laid in the grate was making the room very hot indeed. He moved to the other side of the desk and lit the candles there.

  Baldwyn felt rather than saw Anastasia stand and join him behind her father’s desk. When he turned around, she was standing dangerously close to him, tracing his movements with her gaze.

  The scent of lilac bombarded his senses as she sidled closer to him. And he noticed once again how well the pale gold gown accented all her features, and he ached to reach out and pull her into his arms one more time.

  His pulse pounded in his ears. Surely she would hear the slamming of his heart in his chest. Her gaze held his locked in a tight embrace, refusing him the liberty to look away. She leaned closer, only inches away from him now. Baldwyn swallowed hard at the knot lodged in his throat, but his mouth had gone dry, and there was not a drop to be had in the study to aid him in his plight. Then again, he had proven himself untrustworthy in her company when altered by liquor.

  When she reached for him, he tensed and closed his eyes, bracing himself for the effect her warm touch had on his resolve to protect her virtue.

  But her touch never came, and when he opened his eyes, she was reaching beyond him to the shelf just behind his left shoulder. She brought her hand back and took a step away, leaving him to suffer a cold, empty dissatisfaction.

  From her delicate fingers dangled a tarnished brass key on a blue satin ribbon.

  “I suppose your cousin was not counting on the spare key,” she whispered. A mischievous glint danced in her eyes.

  “I… I daresay he hadn’t.” To his surprise, his heart sank in what felt rather like disappointment. “Well played, my lady.”

  “I am not entirely without my uses,” she muttered with a hint of sarcasm and dropped the key into his outstretched palm.

  There was nothing left to do but unlock the door and go their separate ways, though he couldn’t help but wish, even if for just a moment, that the key wouldn’t fit the lock, and she would reach for him one more time.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next day was long and brutal. Baldwyn was cordial.

  Nothing more. Nothing less.

  After an entire day of just enough of his particular attention, Anastasia was quite certain he was making a concerted effort to let her know precisely where he stood on the prospect of their marriage.

  He was not pleased.

  He would never see her as anything other than inconvenient duty.

  Anastasia accepted another glass of claret. Her third. She rarely drank, but somehow the situation seemed to call for it this night.

  The smile Baldwyn offered so freely to Lady Katherine as they shared their confidence made her blood boil. A smile that should be hers alone, yet she rarely saw it. With her, he was ever the stern and tacit suitor.

  Perhaps the rumors were true. It was said Lady Katherine held a secret tender for the Duke of Paisley. He would know the gossip.

  “Are you well, Lady Anastasia?” he asked her suddenly. How he seemed to know the exact moments she was upset when he rarely looked at her was a mystery.

  “I am, your grace,” she replied with a wicked sneer.

  He cocked an eyebrow and stared at her a bit longer before turning back to his partner.

  Lady Katherine lowered her voice and murmured something into his ear. He laughed.

  Chances were it was the claret. Anastasia’s head was positively swimming in it. Whatever it was, every one of her senses was heightened and fully focused on what was transpiring in that moment between her intended and Lady Katherine.

  She knew she was glowering, but she wasn’t about to stop. And when Lady Katherine patted Baldwyn’s forearm,

  Anastasia could no longer ignore her growing rage. And just before she opened her mouth to speak, the thought flashed through her mind — perhaps that third glass of claret had been a mistake.

  “The two of you are rather cozy. And where is Banbury at present, I wonder, Lady Katherine?”

  “You know well, Lady Anastasia, that he has retired in order to prepare for an early morning departure,” she replied. Her clear eyes leveled on Anastasia’s.

  “How fortunate for the Duke of Paisley,” Anastasia snapped. Too much wine or not, she knew she had gone too far with that outburst. But the overwhelming impulse to scratch out the trollop’s eyes frightened even her. She fled from the room, hurrying through her father’s study and out onto his terrace.

  The bitter cold wind seemed to slice right through her as she hit the outside air, but she did not care. She rushed to the farthest corner overlooking the garden, which was covered in a thick blanket of fresh snow and inky darkness. Covering her face with both hands, she allowed the sobs to rack her body until she could cry no more.

  How long had he stood there before Anastasia sensed his presence behind her on the terrace? No doubt he had followed her out to administer the much deserved reproof after the scene he had just witnessed. The anticipation of that event settled in her mind along with the equally unwelcome realization that this was what life would be like with this man. Forever.

  No passion. Only duty.

  Armed with her indignation and infused with liquid courage, she gave voice to her thoughts.

  “What is it about me you find so terribly repulsive?”

  “Repulsive? Whatever do you mean?”

  “You rarely look at me. You never touch me. It’s as if the one stolen kiss put you off forever. Am I that dreadful?”

  “Anastasia, I—” His blue eyes were wide with shock. Her words had taken him quite by surprise. Perhaps he thought she hadn’t noticed his indifference.

  “There are times that you stare at me as though you cannot believe your misfortune to be forever bound to one such as me. Though for the life of me, I cannot comprehend what it is about me that repels you so. Other men find me interesting enough.” She was fighting her own tears now. He looked at her as if she had gone mad, but she couldn’t stop herself from speaking.

  “I’m sorry, your grace, but I do not wish to be someone’s duty. I have no desire to be simply the burden a man must bear. And you do not want me. That much is clear.” Her heart was breaking with the honesty of being laid bare before the duke. She had held it in for far too long. She turned her back on him. His piercing glare was more than she could stand.

  “I have loved you — always. As far back as I can remember, it has only ever been you to whom my heart ha
s called out.” Her voice was no more than a whisper now. “And I always dreamed you would one day sweep me off my feet, carry me off to your castle in Scotland and have your way with—”

  She was interrupted by a strong hand on her elbow, spinning her around before she could resist. And before she could utter a syllable of protest, Baldwyn’s lips were crushing down on hers in earnest.

  He lifted her fully from the ground, pulling her flush against him, stealing her breath away.

  She struggled against him for only an instant. A thick haze descended. Was this really happening? No. It was a dream. Wasn’t it?

  Instinctively, she slid her arms around his neck and pulled him closer still, meeting his searching mouth with her own, coaxing him further. He needed no more invitation, but plunged his warm velvet tongue into her mouth, engaging hers in a slow rhythmic dance.

  From somewhere distant, she understood that he had lifted her into his arms and was carrying her away — to where, she didn’t care. She only hoped he wouldn’t stop kissing her.

  He must stop kissing her. But his prolonged abstinence only increased his appetite for her. The heat of her body pressed against his was like water to a man dying of thirst.

  Baldwyn could thoroughly ruin her. Here. Now. She wanted him to. She had said as much.

  Only one thought stopped him from doing so.

  She was young, and had never before been thoroughly kissed. She wouldn’t know how to stop if she wanted to.

  That left him alone to guard her virtue. No matter how much he hated that responsibility. Now — before her wanton groaning melted all his chivalrous resolve.

  With painful regret he set her on her feet, pried himself from her, and stumbled backward with labored breath.

  Her golden brown eyes, still glazed over in a cloud of desire, accused him of letting go too soon. She leaned toward him, reaching for his face, but he stepped back, dodging her touch, instead grasping her hand in his and kissing her fingers.

  Confusion seemed to mingle with pain of rejection in her dark eyes again. His heart broke at the sight.

  “No. No. Anastasia, listen to me,” he pleaded. “I want you. Heaven knows I do. Every moment in your presence without touching you — without feeling the warmth of your lips on mine — has been pure torture. Torture only the devil himself could devise.” He released her hand and retreated another step, holding up a hand to keep her from approaching him.

  “If I had believed for one instant you thought I didn’t want you, I would have… You must believe me, my love. I thought only to guard your virtue.”

  “I asked you for no such favor,” she interjected.

  “I sought only to protect you. My duty—” He couldn’t keep the tremor from his voice, and no matter what his mind was saying, the rest of his body was still fully aware of how much he desired to throw caution to the wind and take her as his own.

  “Hang your duty, Baldwyn Sinclair,” Anastasia whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “And hang you!”

  Before he knew what had happened, before he realized he had said anything wrong, she spun on her heel and rushed down the stairs into the dark garden, leaving Baldwyn gaping after her in disbelief.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Anastasia didn’t even feel the cold wind slicing through her thin shawl. She stumbled blindly through the snow drifts, heading who knew where. Crystalline flakes began floating around her and the only sound was her heavy breath and the crunch of her feet as she trudged on toward her unknown destination.

  Tears stung her cheeks, streaming unchecked down her face, and the frigid winter breeze burned the remaining wet trail.

  Duty. That’s all she was to him. An unpleasant responsibility put upon him by his ailing grandmother whom he simply couldn’t find it in himself to refuse.

  Where would that leave them when the deed was done and the dowager was dead and buried? He would resent her. Despise her for taking his last shred of freedom and strangling him with it.

  It wasn’t her intention. She had no desire to cause him pain. She had loved him since she was seven. Since he had rescued her from the giant oak and shared an apple with her, speaking of turtledoves and her mourning father. Somewhere deep within him she knew that boy lived still. That knight in shining armor who would save her from all harm.

  But she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t be the thorn in his side.

  The darkness seemed to fall around her like a blanket of coal black ink, muddied only by the flurries which suddenly seemed to be increasing in intensity. She glanced about her but could see nothing. No landmarks of note.

  In her despair Anastasia had wandered haphazardly, not sure which direction she had taken from the house. Not a single star lit the darkness. The clouds were black and thick, concealing the moon and all the stars.

  Fear gripped her chest, stealing her breath. She twirled wildly, eyes widening in search for something, anything, to indicate where she might be.

  Her foot caught on an unmoving obstruction in the path, sending her flailing to the cold, hard ground. She landed with a crunch on her hands and knees. Her hand caught a sharp rock, and she felt the tear of flesh through her glove. A cry wrenched from her throat, piercing the silence of the dark.

  On hands and knees, Anastasia felt the ground all around her until her gloved hand found the rough solid root of an oak tree. Her oak tree. Tracing the root to the trunk, she eased herself into the crook at the base.

  She had been there a thousand times. More times than she could count. Huddling tightly against the trunk, she was able to block the cold wind somewhat. Her thin evening shawl offered little protection, and though she hadn’t felt it when she fled the manor house, the ice was beginning to settle in her veins now, cutting right through the fabric of her bodice and undergarments.

  Perhaps not such a blind stumble after all. Something deep inside her had guided her to the one place she had always felt free and safe.

  The throbbing pain in her left hand drew her attention. Her glove was drenched with warm moisture out of place in the dead of winter. She lifted her hand to the space right in front of her eyes, but the darkness made it impossible to see any more than a silhouette.

  She peeled off her glove and wrapped it tightly around the cut, then clutched the wounded hand to her chest. Anastasia could find her way back to the house blindfolded, but she wasn’t ready. Not ready to face him yet.

  Closing her eyes, she recalled the memory of that afternoon so many years ago. Perhaps she had been far too absorbed in her fantasy. Perhaps she had looked at the man through the eyes of her fancy for too long. He might never be to her everything she imagined him to be.

  But she simply wasn’t ready to give up on him.

  Anastasia huddled closer to the ground and shivered. She should be heading back.

  It was pride. Plain and simple.

  He should have gone after her right away, but he didn’t. Instead he stood nursing his ego on the terrace for several minutes. He had told her how he felt — she had cursed him and run away. A relationship made in Heaven.

  None of that mattered now. Lady Anastasia had been gone far too long.

  Baldwyn paced the hall outside Lord Marks’s chamber door. He would have to go after her, but he hadn’t been to visit the country house in over five years. She could be anywhere on the grounds, and with the snow coming down as it was, there would be no trail to follow.

  Blast him.

  He had waited too long.

  And now she was lost out there in the storm in nothing more than a light shawl.

  Abruptly he approached the door and pounded on it. No answer.

  Baldwyn pounded again, more insistently.

  After what seemed like hours, the door creaked open and Lord Marks peered out through bleary sleep-filled eyes.

  “Your grace? What is it?” Lord Marks blinked several times and concern grew in his eyes.

  “Lady Anastasia. She is missing.” The words barely choked through the knot in his throa
t.

  The door closed in his face. Baldwyn sighed. Was the man still asleep? He slapped his hand against the door frame and spun on his heel. He couldn’t wait for Lord Marks to realize it wasn’t a dream.

  Halfway to the stairs, Baldwyn heard the click of the door behind him.

  “Paisley, wait. We shall need lanterns.”

  Anastasia hadn’t intended to fall asleep. A chill racked through her as she woke. How long had she been out here? Her hand still throbbed, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped.

  The stiffness made it hard to move, but she pushed herself up to stand, stomping her feet briskly against the cold hard ground. Fresh powder flurries blew off her skirts as she shook them out. There was no feeling left in her feet. She stomped them again harder, trying to reclaim sensation. Nothing.

  She had to get back to the manor house. Flurries of snow blurred her vision, making all the trees around her look the same. Which way was it? Her head swam in a haze of confusion. She had been in these woods a hundred thousand times. Whirling around, she glanced all about looking for a clue of what direction she should take to return to the warmth of her father’s fireplace.

  Her heart leapt to her throat when she realized she was hopelessly lost. Lost in a place she should know like the back of her own hand. Frigid tears stung her eyes, and surges of chills swept over her again and again.

  A loud steady rattle split the air around her, and Anastasia studied the shadows for signs to explain the noise. She lowered herself to the ground and slid up against the old oak tree, staring wide-eyed into the darkness. The rhythmic tapping tore through the silence, and she wrapped her arms around herself to keep from shaking.

  Then she realized… her teeth — the ear-splitting clatter was coming from her own chattering teeth.

  Anastasia chuckled, pulled her knees to her chest, and wrapped her arms tightly around them.

  Armed with a lantern, a flask of brandy, and a pile of warm woolen blankets, Baldwyn trudged into the darkness heading toward the fields, while Lord Marks took the trail toward the pond.