by Leah Sanders
"That would be lovely, Papa. When do we leave?"
"I'll send out the invitations in the morning. We can leave as soon as you're ready."
****
"Good morning, Grandmother. How are you feeling?" Baldwyn said as he took his seat at the table beside her.
The dowager looked at him through weary eyes. She seemed remarkably quiet for so early in the morning.
She answered with a brief nod and lifted a sealed envelope to him. Two firsts. Silence and an envelope still sealed. Perhaps she was ill.
He accepted the letter and broke the seal. His grandmother scrutinized him as he skimmed the missive.
"Well?" she asked, apparently unable to wait out the suspense.
"An invitation. To Shepherd Hall for a few days." He tossed the letter onto the table and took up his cup of tea.
"You'll accept, of course." Ah, there she was, the grandmother he knew and loved.
"What else have I to do? As long as I am not at home, it is difficult to conduct my affairs effectively."
Her glower sliced through him. "Perhaps you have forgotten what your business is in Town."
Baldwyn took a long drink of his tea and set the cup back on the table. "I daresay that is impossible, Grandmother. I have such tender reminders from you each moment." He rose and bent to kiss her on the cheek. She inclined her head to accept it, but stared after him with a dour expression as he bowed and left the room.
If nothing else, a few days out from under the dowager's watchful eye would do much to relieve his anxiety.
****
It was nearing late afternoon of the next day when Baldwyn's carriage pulled up to the front of Lord Marks' townhouse. He climbed down and strode to the door. When the butler answered it, there was near silence behind him. As if no one was ready to depart, but they were all still upstairs in their rooms packing.
He was shown to the parlor where he waited for what seemed like an hour. He sat tapping his heel, beating a steady quick rhythm against the marble floor. The sound of the door opening startled him, and he rose immediately.
"Do pardon me, your grace," Lady Anastasia said advancing toward him as if in a rush. "Things have been thrown together so suddenly, I am quite behind this afternoon."
"Is your father ready? I can have my footman see to loading the carriages." He glanced around her, hoping to see someone following close behind.
"No, your grace. I'm sorry. Were you not told?" A look of distress flashed across the lady's face. "My father had to see to the arrangements. He left yesterday and has promised to meet us at Shepherd Hall."
"Your father will not be traveling with us?" Baldwyn stood paralyzed, frozen to the spot. His worst nightmare come true. Why had he consented to accompany the lady to the country house?
"I do apologize, Paisley. I thought you knew." She furrowed her eyebrows in concern and added, "It's only a couple of hours. We are betrothed… I am certain no one will consider it unseemly."
He cleared his throat, hoping to exude some semblance of confidence and control. "That may be. I would be far more comfortable, for your sake, if your lady's maid would travel with us."
Her gaze dropped to her gloved hands. "Of course, your grace. 'Twas my intention." She glanced back at him with sad dark eyes. "We will be ready presently."
"I'll alert the footmen."
****
Her father apparently had great faith in Baldwyn to leave her to travel alone with him. And he thought his little trick would go unnoticed, but Anastasia knew the staff at Shepherd Hall was more than adequate to the task of preparing for a small party on short notice. He had left her alone with Baldwyn on purpose.
But it came as a complete surprise when her maid suddenly bolted from the carriage just as Baldwyn instructed the driver to go.
"Pardon me, your grace — my lady! I forgot the trunk of your unmentionables!" Without waiting for a reply, she leapt from the carriage and scurried back into the house. The driver seemed not to notice and whipped the horses into a brisk trot, jolting the two remaining passengers.
Baldwyn's eyes widened in pure fear. And he pounded on the wall to get the driver's attention.
Anastasia herself sat in shock for several minutes as Baldwyn continued his efforts to get the driver's attention to no avail. Oh, her father was good. A smooth master of engineering the "push" her intended needed.
The moment Baldwyn realized the driver was ignoring him, he sat back in his seat and stared at her with what appeared to be utter disbelief and disgust. When his face grew red, and he began to pull at his cravat as though it was choking him, Anastasia knew she was in for another thorough scolding. She closed her eyes, sighed in resignation, and waited for the inevitable to come.
She waited.
The lecture never came.
She opened one eye and peeked at him.
He looked positively ill and sat staring out the carriage window, twisting the brim of the black silk hat he held in his lap.
Come to think of it, she wasn't feeling all that dapper herself. Traveling backward in a carriage had always affected her stomach in a dreadful fashion. Of course, drawing attention to her weakness now would only serve to support his opinion about her childishness. And it did seem silly. Why should traveling backward cause distress?
She opened her other eye. If she moved to his side of the carriage, he would have something to say about her impropriety, no doubt. What could her reason be?
He did look terribly ill.
She slipped from her side of the carriage to the seat beside him. Baldwyn swung around to face her.
"Are you well, your grace?" she asked, putting a gloved hand to his forehead. "You look rather flushed."
"Do I?"
"Yes. Yes, you do. Perhaps I should stay here beside you… in case you faint."
It was winter, and not overly warm in the carriage, yet he was perspiring.
He shook his head adamantly.
"I think not, my lady. It wouldn't be proper."
"Oh." Her stomach flip-flopped. Was it possible for one to turn green? "Are you certain? After all, we are betrothed, and it would be only for your own health." If he made her go back to the other side Anastasia was certain to revisit her afternoon teacakes. And she did feel as though her own pallor had faded to a ghostly white.
His clear blue eyes looked at her intensely, as though seeing her for the first time that day. He scanned her face and a sudden realization seemed to wash over his features. "Oh… I see." His voice was a mere whisper. "Are you unwell, my lady?"
At first she thought to deny it. He would see it as a silly childish ailment. But the concern in his eyes gave her reason to hope. Perhaps he would understand.
Slowly she nodded and cast her gaze at her skirts. "Yes. I cannot abide traveling backward. I do apologize, your grace."
"No need for apologies, my lady." He smiled then. The first she'd seen since he'd arrived in Town. His straight white teeth, his broad grin, the dimple she had admired since she was seven. If her stomach wasn't twisting into an unseemly knot, she might very well have reached out and touched it.
****
Baldwyn had never seen that shade of green on a lady before. He had felt that color once, however, while sailing for the Continent. It was the most miserable voyage of his life. The sailors had laughed as he hung his head over the side of the ship wishing for death to take him.
If the lady felt anything like that, she would need a distraction. A distraction.
A number of possible solutions leapt to mind. Most of which were not aligned with his promise to guard her virtue.
She moaned in agony and rested her head on his shoulder.
He held his breath, closed his eyes, and thought of his grandmother. This was all. Her. Fault.
"Talk to me, Baldwyn, please." Her eyes were closed, but her face crinkled in tight grimace. "I believe a distraction might help."
"A distraction?" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, taking care to deepen the ti
mbre of his voice.
"Yes. If you don't mind." She slipped her hand around his elbow and relaxed against him.
"Very well. What do you wish to discuss, my lady? Art? Music? Politics?"
"No. No. Do you remember when we were young and you rescued me from being trampled by wild horses?"
"Wild horses? Hardly. It was one old nag moving at a snail's pace." He chuckled at the memory.
"You pulled me out from under the wheels of a racing carriage. Do you not remember?"
"I remember you crawled under an idle coach and muddied your dress. Your mother was very cross. I pulled you out and helped you to your maid, so you could change."
"Hmmm… I remember that rather differently."
"Do you remember, my lady, when you were a little girl and would run through the fields and climb the trees?"
She squirmed and protested. A little frown played at the corners of her mouth.
"I did no such thing."
"Oh, yes, I remember it quite clearly. Hunting for nests, wasn't it?"
"Turtledoves." Her voice sounded as if she was fading into sleep.
"Right. Turtledoves. You thought they were sad."
"And do you remember what you told me? About the turtledoves?"
"They cry for their mates… to remind th—"
"To remind them where they belong," she finished for him.
They fell into a comfortable silence which stretched out minute after minute. Until Baldwyn heard a soft snore coming from the girl leaning against him and promptly started to sweat once again.
Chapter Twelve
By the time the carriage turned onto the long drive towards Shepherd Hall, Baldwyn was drenched with perspiration. The lady had slept against his shoulder the entire way, snoring softly and occasionally snuggling closer to him, accompanied by all manner of ungodly noises.
"Lady Anastasia, we approach the house," he whispered to the angel resting against his arm. When she did not stir, he shook her arm gently. "My lady."
She blinked twice and lifted her groggy gaze to his. He could see the sleepy confusion dissipate into understanding in her dark eyes.
"Are you well?"
"Much recovered, your grace. Thank you." She sat up slowly and eyed him. The smile of a sweet angel crept across her soft pink lips.
The growing need to take her in his arms and make her decidedly his mounted to urgency, and he knew he had to get out of those close quarters immediately.
She leaned across him to look out his window, brushing his chest with her shoulder.
"It's very dark. I wonder if we have missed dinner."
Baldwyn had no voice to respond, so he grunted his agreement.
"No doubt Papa will have informed Cook to set something aside for us." She sat back again and glanced out her own window. "I do hope there are some games this evening. After that splendid rest, I don't think I could retire to bed so soon."
He cringed and wished she wouldn't speak of such things. Another moment in the carriage with her would mean her ruination. And he had made a promise.
Before the horses were at a complete stop, he shifted her away from him and leapt from the carriage, running for the manor house. He completely forgot about helping Lady Anastasia to disembark, his only thought was for the drink he sorely needed.
****
Even the footman who helped her out of the carriage appeared to mirror her shock at the duke's abrupt disappearance. The man was certainly a great puzzle. One moment he was the epitome of manners, duty, and responsibility — the next he was fleeing from all of it.
It seemed he was only a model of restraint where she was concerned. Anastasia watched in silent confusion as he retreated into the house, leaving her to fend for herself among the servants and footmen.
Inside, Baldwyn was nowhere to be seen. Anastasia thought of dinner, but suddenly had little appetite. She wanted only to climb the stairs to her chambers and hide the disappointment from her father. But she knew she must face him. Tell him she had arrived safely then excuse herself to bed, even though sleeping was the last thing on her mind.
As she approached his study, she could hear the sound of low conversation.
"I see you made it safely, Paisley."
"Yes, my lord."
"And how was the journey?"
"It was quite… uneventful."
"Hmmm… that is a pity."
"My lord?"
"Paisley, may I be frank?"
There was a moment of thick silence.
"Of course, my lord."
"I admire and respect you. Of all the peerage, there is none other I find so worthy as you on whom to bestow my only daughter. All I have left of my wife."
Anastasia stood completely still outside the door, listening intently.
"So, please understand I say this with the greatest love and all due respect…" She could hear him pour a glass of something.
"You are, at times, a great lummox."
Baldwyn must have just taken a sip from his glass. He coughed and sputtered and gasped for breath at her father's directness.
"My lord?" he finally choked out.
"Do not misunderstand, your grace. I do appreciate your uncommon sense of duty with regards to protecting my daughter's virtue. And whenever I am in your company, you are a portrait of devotion and attention. Yet she is sad."
Their voices died away once again, and she thought she could hear the creak of the chair as Baldwyn stood, the sound of his glass being set on the desk.
"May I be frank, my lord?"
Anastasia held her breath. What would he confess? He loved another? Or perhaps his intentions toward her had changed? Would he ask to be released from their betrothal?
"Of course, your grace," her father answered. His voice was low and soothing. Did he see anger in Baldwyn's eyes? Was he treading lightly for a purpose?
"I will not say you had any plans to place your daughter in a carriage alone with me, though I am certain she is far too naïve to employ such a strategy. But I will advise you, it would be wise, and indeed in everyone's best interest to avoid such arrangements in the future, until we are married."
She could hear her father's low chuckle. But the indignation burning in her chest overshadowed the rest of their conversation.
Naïve?
Truly?
His opinion of her was indeed low. Perhaps he would never see her as anything other than the little girl who climbed trees and threw mud.
There was no need to continue eavesdropping here. She would simply wish her father good night and retire. She knocked lightly on his door and stepped through unbidden.
"Papa?"
"Anastasia. You've arrived!" He smiled broadly at her with a twinkle in his eyes. How could he be so happy when he had just had such a tragic conversation? A wave of nausea swept through her.
"And how was your journey, my sweet?" he prodded, acting like nothing was wrong in the world.
"It was tolerable." Her gaze wandered to Baldwyn. He sat staring at the full glass in his hand, not bothering even to acknowledge her presence. At least he had the good grace not to try to cover the betrayal that had just transpired. He presented his true colors and gave her the cut direct.
"Have you had dinner? Cook has set something aside for you."
"I find myself with no appetite this evening. Perhaps the wear of the road. I believe I shall retire."
"Very well, my dear. Shall I see you to your room?" Lord Marks suggested.
"No, thank you, Papa. I can find my own way."
He seemed disappointed and cast a glance in Baldwyn's direction. Perhaps expecting him to volunteer to take the task on himself. The duke appeared not to notice and adjusted the cuff of his jacket sleeve.
After a long pause her father rose and kissed her on the forehead. "Pleasant dreams, daughter. We shall speak on the morrow."
"Good night, Papa." With that she turned and left the room, not daring another look at the duke, who seemed already half into his cups.
****
Baldwyn lost track of how much he had consumed somewhere after his third glass of brandy. The silence filling the house told him everyone else had retired for the night. It was a shame he hadn't paid closer attention when Lord Marks explained which room was his.
Vaguely he recalled he would have to go up the stairs to the find it, but after that he was at a loss. He stood and steadied himself before moving toward the door. Why was the room tilting to the left? With a shake of his head he made a slight navigational adjustment and began the arduous quest to find his bed.
He must have had more to drink than he thought, because the trek up the stairs was reminiscent of that tortuous voyage to the Continent so long ago, as if he was fighting the pitch of the sea. Taking a firm grasp on the banister, Baldwyn pulled himself up the stairway to the wing he knew would house the guests.
Back and forth he staggered, trying to find firm ground on which to place his next step, but the floor seemed to give way beneath his feet as he moved. After what seemed like an eternity, he cast a hazy glance about him. Every door looked the same. Could they not have labeled each room with a name? That would have been so convenient. Certainly he was only going in circles now.
Much longer and he would fall to the floor and sleep where he landed.
Out of desperation, he pounded on the door closest. When there was not an immediate answer, he rapped again, louder and longer until a soft click of the latch told him someone was there.
The door opened only a crack. Through it a dark almond-shaped eye peeked out at him, blinking against the candle light in the hall. Such long dewy lashes, batting so invitingly.
Baldwyn blinked and stared back at it.
A soft voice floated out to him, falling on his ears like that much warm molasses, sweetening his clouded mind.