by Leah Sanders
However, if she ever wore her hair down in his presence again, he couldn't say for certain that would remain the case.
In the meantime, it would be best to keep their social visits as public as possible. For though he had resolved to treat her as a sister, he knew he couldn't trust his carnal nature if it was given half a chance. As evidence he could still feel her soft lips against his from the night before at Montmouth's ball, and they had been alone for mere minutes.
The butler entered as if on cue. "The earl will see you now, your grace. If you will please follow me."
Baldwyn rose from his place next to Lady Anastasia and bowed slightly in her direction. "It has indeed been a pleasure. If you will please excuse me." He followed the butler toward the door, but stopped just short of leaving with one last thought. "May I ask your father's permission to invite you to this evening's opera, my lady?"
"That would be lovely." She didn't smile at him but seemed to be scrutinizing his intentions through narrowed eyes.
"Until this evening then."
****
"Your grace," Lord Marks greeted him as he entered the older man's study. "A pleasure to see you again."
"The pleasure is mine, sir," Baldwyn replied. He had always admired the earl and enjoyed his company. One more reason to treat the girl with the utmost respect. Baldwyn had no desire to break trust with Lord Marks.
For all her tiresome meddling, his grandmother could not have chosen a more amiable family with whom to align.
"Your grandmother is a fearsome adversary, is she not?" Lord Marks had always been direct. A trait Baldwyn appreciated.
"More so than Napoleon, sir."
Lord Marks chuckled and nodded his agreement. "An apt analogy, Paisley." He poured a glass of brandy and offered it to Baldwyn, who waved it aside. "The dowager approached me with this arrangement several weeks ago. The betrothal arrangement." He scrutinized Baldwyn as though gauging the younger man's response.
Baldwyn nodded. He knew the contract had been made long before his grandmother called him back to London.
"She led me to believe you were in full agreement." With a raised eyebrow, he regarded the duke, perhaps expecting an objection.
Baldwyn said nothing.
"I am an observant man, Paisley. Your behavior last night was of a man taken by surprise."
Still Baldwyn held his peace. Was Lord Marks trying to offer him an out? Or was this a test of his worthiness?
"My daughter was upset." His gaze never left Baldwyn's face. "I love my daughter, your grace. She is all I have left of her mother." He glanced at his empty tumbler and reached for the bottle again. "I realize it is often unheard of in our social circles, but I loved my wife. More than my own life."
Baldwyn swallowed hard, though he'd wager the girl hadn't told her father all that had upset her about the evening. So what was the man trying to tell him?
"Though my… circumstance is… um, unique in regards to placating the dowager, I would not see my daughter hurt for the blunt of the entire British Empire." He swirled the contents of his glass in one hand while staring directly into Baldwyn's soul. "Do you understand?"
"I assure you, Lord Marks, I have only the most honorable intentions where your daughter is concerned. I know where my responsibility lies."
"Excellent. I know I can count on you, Paisley."
"Thank you, sir." Baldwyn stood. "I will take my leave now with your permission, but I would be most honored if you and your daughter would be my guests this evening at the opera."
"That would be most agreeable, your grace."
"Excellent. I will call for you at six."
Chapter Ten
Baldwyn had every intention of playing the perfect gentleman, of making certain Lord Marks saw him as a doting and devoted match for his daughter. The contract had been made, and no matter how he hated not having his own choice, he had always taken his responsibilities seriously.
After seeing Lady Anastasia again that morning, it was ever clearer to him that she was no longer the little girl he remembered with the mousy brown braids, firing mudballs at him from her hiding place in the hedge. She was a grown woman. And a frightfully perfect one at that. Perhaps if he had been given his choice, he would have chosen Anastasia Trent on his own.
For that reason, he knew he would have to be careful. She was an innocent. One who seemed even more so with her wide-eyed admiration of him. As though she had concocted a fairy tale about him, made him into a knight in shining armor. It was far too easy to take advantage of that kind of innocence. It wouldn't be fair. To either of them.
Reality was far less romantic. And inextricably interwoven with reality was his ever-present duty.
His grandmother had defined it for him.
Marry. Produce an heir.
Fine. That was what he would do. In the meantime, there was no reason to cause her father concern. But neither would he play to her fairy tale, because if he did, he might find himself believing it.
****
They entered The King's Hall a few minutes late. Baldwyn seemed overwrought with embarrassment at their tardiness, but Anastasia shrugged off his concern. She hadn't been to the opera in ages and many of her friends had told her wonderful things about Le Nozze Di Figaro. Since her mother's death, her father rarely went out to the theater, but Anastasia recalled how her mother had loved it.
"I was privileged to see this at the Burgtheater in Vienna many years ago," Lord Marks said, as they climbed the staircase to Baldwyn's box. "Mozart himself directed."
"Mozart?" Baldwyn inclined his head toward her father. His blue eyes sparkled with interest, seeming impressed with her father's revelation. He opened the door and guided her to the front row of seats, holding her chair for her like the perfect gentleman.
The performance had already begun, but their late arrival seemed to draw some interest from the boxes around them in the form of a brief commotion of head-turning and gestures to where they sat.
Anastasia was instantly enraptured with the scene unfolding on the stage below. So much so, that when she turned to comment to Baldwyn about the witty banter between Susanna and Marcellina taking place, she was surprised to find him staring at her.
He slowly leaned toward her, his gaze intent on hers. Her heart caught in her throat. Would he kiss her? Here? In front of her father? In the middle of the opera? Her pulse raced as he drew closer, and Anastasia couldn't keep her eyes from wandering to his lips.
The heat of his nearness radiated to her body. The memory of his lips on hers the night before replayed itself in her mind, teasing her heart with possibilities. With a slow, deliberate movement he lifted a hand to gesture across the theater, turned his mouth to her ear, and whispered, "The dowager."
And then he retreated in his chair, sending her hopes careening to the floor. Her stomach felt as though it had fallen into her slippers. A glance across to the box he had indicated revealed not only the dowager, but the Duke of Banbury and Lady Katherine Bourne as well. The dowager fanned herself and nodded acknowledgement in their direction.
Anastasia returned the nod and glanced at the other residents of the box. The Duke of Banbury, dressed in all his finery, was staring at Lady Katherine — of course. The notorious rake had no semblance of propriety. Anastasia's gaze traveled to Lady Katherine to see if she was equally as taken with her escort. But Lady Katherine appeared to be quite entranced and staring at… Baldwyn.
A sudden surge of jealousy swept over her, and she slipped her hand possessively into the crook of Baldwyn's arm.
****
Anastasia's hand on his arm startled Baldwyn, and he looked quickly to her father to gauge if he had noticed. As luck would have it, Lord Marks seemed fully engaged with the interaction on the stage below. Perhaps reliving his experience in Vienna so long ago.
She clutched his arm tighter, and his pulse quickened. Was she frightened? Surely not from the comedy. More likely she was concerned about the love triangle playing out before the
m. Women were frightfully anxious about such things.
The warmth of her touch was both pleasant and frustrating, reminding him of the stolen moments in in Montmouth's study the previous evening. He had resolved to do his duty, to behave the perfect gentleman, but when she touched his arm, it took every ounce of his will to keep his mind on anything else. Thank heavens her father was there with them.
"Is that Lord Evansbrook?" Lord Marks craned his neck to the right and gestured with his mother-of-pearl opera glass.
"It appears so, Papa," Anastasia answered, squinting her eyes to see through the darkness. "I thought he had gone to the country for the holidays."
"He had." Lord Marks handed the opera glass to his daughter and slapped his knee. "I really must speak with him. Will you excuse me, dear? Paisley."
"Right now? Can it not wait until the intermission, Papa?"
"Not at all, sweet girl. If I wait, he'll be overrun by Lord Benchley's supporters. And I have no intention of letting that blighter get to him first." He stood quietly and patted her on the arm. "Don't worry, Anastasia, I'll return shortly. Mind my daughter, Paisley."
Baldwyn stood halfway and offered a curt nod as Lord Marks exited.
"Yes, Paisley, mind his daughter," Anastasia repeated, her voice a mocking laugh. She grasped his arm again and pulled him down into the seat, still clinging to him as though he might disappear at any moment.
The temperature in the box rose ten degrees. Baldwyn squirmed in his seat, making an effort to inch out of Anastasia's reach unnoticed. It was difficult enough controlling his baser urges when her father was chaperoning them. But now, alone with the mud-slinging chit, Baldwyn struggled to master his desire to ravage her. There, in his grandmother's opera box, while below on the stage Marcellina demanded Figaro honor his contract to marry her.
"So what are your thoughts, your grace?"
"M-my thoughts?"
"Yes." She inclined her head. If he was not mistaken, her golden brown eyes were reading his thoughts that very moment. Her lips parted and she waited in patient silence. His pulse throbbed violently in his neck.
"I—I think… um, what was the question?" Baldwyn swallowed the lump in his throat.
"The opera — should Figaro honor his contract with Marcellina? Or should he marry his love?"
"Oh." Baldwyn glanced toward the scene below. "He has made a bit of a cake of things, hasn't he?"
"He has indeed." Her gaze remained firmly fixed on his face.
"On one hand he has a duty to Marcellina."
"On the other, Susanna holds his heart."
The click of the door behind them shattered the thick silence between them.
"Well, we were mistaken, my dear. That was not Lord Evansbrook at all, but his younger brother making use of his box." Marks settled back into the chair on the other side of Lady Anastasia.
"I'm sorry it was a wasted trip, Papa." She handed the opera glass back to him.
"Not entirely wasted, my sweet. I did discover Lord Evansbrook intends to accept the invitation to the Kringle Christmas Eve Ball. So I know he'll be back in Town within a fortnight."
"Lovely! Perhaps you should invite the marquess to dinner upon his return."
"That's a brilliant plan, my dear. And you shall join us, Paisley! I would love to introduce you to Evansbrook. He is a good man to know if you want anything done in Parliament."
"Any excuse to spend more time with Lady Anastasia, my lord."
****
Anastasia glared, not really sure what he meant by that bold statement. If he wanted to spend time with her then he wouldn't react to her touch as if she had the plague!
Spend more time with her? She narrowed her eyes. The man seemed more likely to drown himself in the Thames before he'd choose to spend more time in her presence.
Ignorant boor. Bitterness was an altogether new emotion for her considering she had taken on life in what one could describe as blind optimism, choosing to look at the positive instead of the negative cynicism of the world. Interesting how easily cynicism caught on when one was shackled to a man who'd rather speak to her father than her.
She cleared her throat, a pathetic try for attention. Baldwyn looked at her and flushed, his eyes widening as they flickered across her chest.
"You have, ahem…" He coughed and reddened even more. "That is to say, a tiny piece of…" He closed his eyes and reached out to touch her.
Fearfully she slapped his hand away, which of course, made him lose balance on his chair, which then caused him to grab at whatever he could, which naturally ended up being her. With a squeak she fell on top of him.
Her father rushed to her aid, but not before Anastasia caught a glimpse of the look in Baldwyn's eyes. It was the same look he'd had before he kissed her, only this time it seemed fiercer, predatory as if an extra second in his arms would ruin her for life.
She leveled him with a stare of her own, a challenge, and accepted her father's hand as she sat back in her seat. Fortunately, their fall had happened at the exact moment that the audience had begun to clap.
"Intermission," her father announced. "I'll just run and fetch you some lemonade, your grace. You look positively flushed," he added, and rushed out the door.
Something like a curse escaped the duke's mouth as he managed to right himself back in his seat.
"Apologies," he ground out. "You had a tiny bug on your gown, and I was endeavoring to remove it."
"By falling to your knees no doubt," Anastasia snapped back. "Consider yourself lucky, your grace."
"Lucky? Hardly," he murmured just under his breath. She almost didn't catch it.
"The instant before you fell, I noticed a small bug on your person — your head actually — and I was seconds away from swatting it. Who knows? You might have fallen over the balcony and into the crowds. Would have been an absolute shame."
"Right." His nostrils flared. He leaned toward her, but Anastasia pulled back.
"A favor, your grace?"
"Of course." He swallowed.
"If you feel the need to put on a play for my father, please do so when I'm not around. I believe we both know where your true interest lies."
His lips formed a pained smile. "And where is that?"
"My dowry, no doubt, and an alliance with my father. Nothing more, nothing less. Let us stop pretending it is anything more than an arrangement." Before you break my heart, she wanted to add, but didn't.
"Your dowry and your father?" His scowl burned into her. "Let me make this plain to you, my lady. I have interest in neither your money nor your father's good name. I have an abundance of both. My interest lies only in doing my duty, which I would have been content to remain in Scotland to do, had it not been for the arrangement your father made with my grandmother. As I have told you on more than one occasion, I know where my duty lies, and I know my place in this arrangement. But I would find it to be infinitely easier if you also knew yours."
The sound of the door stopped any reply she might make, and her father re-entered the box carrying a drink for each of them. His sheepish glance told her he had overheard the exchange. Concern was etched in his eyes, but he masked his worry with meaningless chatter.
"The theater is rather crowded tonight. I am surprised there are so many people still in Town."
So went the conversation the rest of the evening — her father prattling on about nothing, Baldwyn answering politely, and Anastasia clenching her fists in her lap.
Chapter Eleven
"Anastasia," her father said the moment they entered the house and she had turned to retire upstairs. "A word?"
She should have known he would want to discuss the evening, but the timing made her wonder how much he had heard of the conversation between Baldwyn and her. "Certainly, Papa."
He closed the study door behind them and gestured to a seat across from his desk. So it was to be one of those types of discussions. She cringed and sat where he indicated.
"The duke seemed… conflicted," he f
inally said after a long silence.
"Conflicted, Papa?" He had seemed rather single-minded to her. If there had been any conflict in him, it was in the decision on how best to deride her — a fierce lecture on her responsibilities or a firm set down on her lack of interest in preserving her reputation.
"You must remember, my dear, Paisley has only just made the discovery that he is attracted to you."
Anastasia's heart leapt into her throat. Her stomach dropped to her toes. Surely her father was mistaken. Baldwyn couldn't stand the thought of her.
"Yes." His answer to her unspoken question took her by surprise. "He is painfully incapable of expressing it to you, of course. But you must give him time. Up until now, you were, in his mind and memory, a little girl who could be trying on a grown man's patience."
Anastasia winced as the image of her younger self taking aim with a sloppy mud ball flashed in her mind. She eyed her father, who seemed to be measuring her reaction to his assessment.
"The duke is a man unfailing in his duty. Everyone among the peerage trusts him to do as he says. And, frankly, that is a rare and inspiring trait." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I believe I have a solution. Something to give Paisley the push he needs to… Well, the push he needs."
It was a lovely sentiment, and she was desperate to believe it. Her own heart had called out for him ever since she could remember — like a mourning turtledove would call for its lost mate. The possibility that his heart might not answer had only now occurred to her, and that thought weighed on her like a pile of stones.
"I have been wanting to spend a few days at Shepherd Hall, a respite before the Kringle Ball. We will make it a house party, invite several guests. Paisley, of course. Perhaps Banbury and his intended, a few of your friends and some suitable gentlemen.. What do you say to that, my dear?"