by Leah Sanders
Anastasia knew, in spite of everything, in spite of all the dowager's ploys, Baldwyn loved his grandmother. And there was nothing he wouldn't do for her.
The betrothal was proof of that.
All the old woman wanted was to see her grandson properly wed, but Anastasia had flung herself at him like a common wanton. No wonder the dowager had taken ill so suddenly. The shock of seeing them…
A thick knot weighed heavy in the pit of Anastasia's stomach. What if Baldwyn blamed her? Furthermore, what if it truly was her fault?
****
The dowager lay motionless on her bed. Her maids had changed her and made her as comfortable as possible. It was silent in the room when Baldwyn entered. Only one servant remained, trying in vain to rouse the old woman with smelling salts. She glanced up at the duke and he excused her with a nod.
His grandmother's face was gray as slate, but her look was peaceful as she slept. Baldwyn slipped the hand mirror from the dresser and held it under her nose, checking for signs of life. The glass clouded with her breath. Relief settled through him. He sat beside her and took her hand.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I don't know what I was thinking." He rubbed his eyes with his free hand and sighed as the guilt washed through him.
She stirred and her eyelids fluttered open halfway.
"You mustn't blame yourself, Baldwyn." Her breath was labored and her voice scratched like pebbles under foot.
But it sounded like music to his ears. Hope surged in him. She was too feisty to simply give up the fight. "And why not, Grandmother? Had I done as I always have, you would be bustling about making demands of the servants even now."
"Had you done as you always have, dear boy, you would be just as miserable as you have always been." She gasped for her next breath.
"You shouldn't tax yourself, Grandmother. Rest."
"I will tax myself! And you will listen to me!" She clutched his hand in a vise-like grip. "The good things in life are always worth the risk. Do you understand me?"
He nodded. Tears burned behind his eyes.
"You have always been the easy one, Baldwyn. So responsible and good. But you don't take risks when you should. Here is a clue — Lady Anastasia is a worthy risk." She gasped again. Her breath caught in her throat, and a fit of coughing racked her frail body. When she found her breath, she added, "Now, leave me. I wish to conserve my strength for the devil duke, and I shall need all I have left for that one." She squeezed his hand and dismissed him with a weak smile.
He motioned to the maid as he stepped into the hallway.
"Stay with her awhile. Make sure she rests," he instructed.
His grandmother was right, of course. He had always been honorable, responsible… and perfectly miserable.
Until now.
The question was what was he going to do about it?
Chapter Twenty
"Anastasia," Lord Marks said as she turned to greet him. "Pardon the intrusion. I — I have some news."
The concern etched on his face sent Anastasia's heart into her throat.
"What is it, Papa?" She hurried to him and rested her hand on his forearm.
"The dowager duchess has passed on. It happened this morning."
She could hear the words. She even understood what they meant. But she didn't believe them. Couldn't believe them. The dowager had been fine just the day before — as cantankerous and meddlesome as ever.
"Paisley is an honorable man." Her father was still speaking, but what he said now wasn't making any sense. "I wouldn't worry about him backing out, my dear."
She hadn't even considered that notion. Until her father spoke of it, and suddenly it seemed like the only logical conclusion.
Her stomach churned as icy fear seemed to shoot through her veins, and a cold sweat broke out all over her.
He could very well decide to up and return to Scotland without a word. What was keeping him here now? There was nothing. No one reminding him of his duty.
True, they had come to an understanding. Their shared moments at the country house — his promise to marry her — but what if… What if with the opportunity to escape, Baldwyn had a change of heart, chose to get out while he had the chance?
Her expression must have betrayed her, because her father lifted his hand and gently patted her cheek. "I wouldn't expect him to call today. But have no fear of his intentions, my sweet. He is a man of his word."
Anastasia wished she could be as certain.
****
Christmas Eve arrived and the house was a bustle of activity in preparation for the Kringle Ball.
It was the winter event everyone looked forward to during the Yuletide season. Lord and Lady Kringle always transformed Holly Hall into the envy of the ton. They were certain to outdo themselves once again that year.
Ordinarily, Anastasia would be positively giddy with her gown, her hair, her escort for the evening — but her usual enjoyment for the event was overshadowed by the apprehension.
She hadn't heard from Baldwyn since his grandmother's death. Not a visit, not a note, not a message of any sort. For all she knew, he could have already packed up and returned to his beloved Scotland.
Her father had tried to reassure her, but the sympathetic looks and hushed voices of the servants when she drew near them gave her a desperate sense of foreboding. What if he didn't come for her?
What if his sense of duty had died with the dowager? What if he fled London and the horrifying prospect of a lifetime shackled to her?
She wrung her gloves in her hands as Trudy fussed over her hair.
"M'lady, you'll ruin yer gloves, fretting that way. Clara just 'ad 'em pressed. She'll be sore if she has to do it again."
"I'm sorry, Trudy. I don't know what has come over me," Anastasia lied.
"Don't fret, Miss, I'm certain the duke will be here—" the maid cut off at the end and clamped her mouth shut as if remember her boundaries, but too late.
Tears stung behind Anastasia's eyes and she fought a losing battle against their threat. Trudy had voiced Anastasia's very heart of fear, and hearing it spoken aloud seemed to make it that much more real.
"I'm so sorry, m'lady!" Trudy cried. Her eyes were wide with worry.
"Never mind, Trudy. Never mind." She shook her head and turned back to the mirror. "Let's just finish my hair." Anastasia bit her lip and closed her eyes. Her father would call for her in a short while, and it wouldn't do to have red puffy eyes just before the ball.
****
Lord Marks made lively conversation during the short trip to Holly Hall. No doubt an effort to bolster Anastasia's spirits. She tried to humor him, to laugh along with his jests, but inside she was in turmoil.
She would know her fate in a matter of minutes, but in the meantime there was nothing she could do but hope.
As the footman announced them, Anastasia scrutinized every face in the ballroom one by one.
Her heart sank when her search returned empty.
Her father offered his arm, whispering in her ear, "It's early yet, my sweet. Chin up. He'll come."
Anastasia braved a weak smile. "Of course, Papa. He'll come." Her throat clenched around the words she desperately wished were true.
Safely deposited among the ladies on the side of the great hall, Anastasia continued her search for Baldwyn's auburn hair and clear blue eyes.
When Lord and Lady Kringle were announced, the music began. There was still no sign of Baldwyn. Anastasia clung to her father's words. It's early yet. Her gaze made its fourth desperate sweep of the ballroom.
Behind her, a familiar masculine voice drifted to her ears, sending waves of chill dancing down her spine all the way to her toes.
"So lovely to see you again, señorita."
Mr. Tenorio. Anastasia cringed as though with his words and his smooth exotic accent he had touched her. And then he stepped even with her, standing far too close. She retreated a step, but found herself against Tristan Markham on the other side, who had closed in w
ithout her notice.
"Mr. Markham. Mr. Tenorio." Anastasia offered a shallow curtsy.
"Please." Mr. Tenorio grasped her hand and lifted it to his lips, pulling her toward him in the same motion. "Allow me to be the first to offer my sympathy, my dear."
"Sympathy, sir?" she asked, regarding him with contempt.
"On the dissolution of your engagement, of course. It must have been a frightful experience, your entanglement with the Scottish duke. I hear he has a terrifying temper," Tenorio crooned.
Had it not been for his possessive grip on her hand and the unsettling words about her betrothal, Anastasia would have laughed out loud then, for the proof of Baldwyn's terrifying temper was still fading from Tenorio's cheekbone, though he had apparently tried to cover it with powder.
"Pardon me?" Anastasia stared at him. On her other side, Tristan bumped her elbow, pushing her into Tenorio's chest.
"Yes, yes, señorita. There is no need to pretend all is well. We are friends, no?" His grasp slid to her elbow and he held her firmly to him, as his other hand reached to caress her cheek. He smoothed her lips with his thumb.
"No," she countered and closed her lips into a stern line, glaring into his soul-less black eyes.
"Aww, you wound me, my lady… and after all we've shared together." He clicked his tongue as if to shame her.
"Let go of me."
Tristan Markham leaned nearer to add, "Come now, Anastasia, Tenorio is only trying to be friendly. Why won't you bestow a favor or two on him as before?" Anastasia's stomach twisted into a tight knot, and she wrenched her arm free of Tenorio's grasp only for Markham to snatch her other one, digging his fingers into the flesh of her forearm.
Was the room so crowded that no one noticed her distress? Two men accosting her in the middle of the great hall?
"Mr. Markham, will you kindly take your hands off me?" Where was her father? Desperately, she tugged free of Markham's grip and backed away quickly, gathering her skirts in both hands. Her frantic gaze scanned the crush for someone to run to.
Lord Rawlings danced with his wife. The Duke of Tempest was engaged in an intense discussion with an elder statesman. Her father had disappeared altogether.
She glanced at the doors to the balcony. Tenorio was right on her heels.
"Looking for a quiet place to tempt me?" he whispered into her ear, taking her arm again. He moved toward the door with Anastasia in tow.
"No!"
"Come now, your precious fiancé has gone back to Scotland. Let me soothe your broken heart." His thick accent trickled through her, drudging up horrible memories of the last time they had met. Her heart cried for Baldwyn.
Out of the corner of her eye Anastasia saw Lord Renwick sipping a hot drink and watching the dancing. He stood directly in the path Tenorio was dragging her. She had only one chance to get his attention.
"How do you know?" she blurted in desperation, louder than etiquette would tolerate. Several heads turned in their direction. But Tenorio avoided their looks, sidestepped Lord Renwick and had her through the doors and on the terrace before anyone could interfere.
"The late dowager's solicitor works also for my father," Markham interjected. "You did know, didn't you? He made preparations to leave immediately after his grandmother's accounts were settled."
A slow, solicitous grin spread over Tenorio's face. His white teeth flashed brilliantly against his dark Mediterranean complexion. "Your expression betrays you, my lady. So you see, amor, you are quite ruined already. And I am the only one who wants you."
He wouldn't have left without a word. Not after all that had happened.
Nausea threatened to spoil her rapidly deteriorating composure.
"Are these gentlemen bothering you, Lady Anastasia?" Lord Renwick asked.
Before she could answer, Tenorio stepped between them. "This is none of your concern, Renwick."
"But it is mine." The sweet familiar sound of Baldwyn's deep tenor sliced through the space, thrilling Anastasia to her toes.
On the other hand, Tenorio whirled around to face him, but still not in time to prepare for Baldwyn's fist sailing through the air to meet his left temple. It was a sickening sound, the blow that landed on the Spaniard's face, yet music to her ears. As he crumpled to the ground in a heap, she threw herself into Baldwyn's arms.
At Markham's weak protests, Lord Renwick grabbed him by the back of his collar and showed him roughly to the door.
"You're here!" Anastasia's legs gave way and she melted into Baldwyn's arms.
"Of course, I'm here. I told you I would be." He smoothed her hair.
"They — they said you were leaving, that you had already gone. I thought… since the dowager was gone… you didn't want, you wouldn't—"
"Anastasia," he said, lifting her chin toward him with a single finger. "Look at me."
She hesitated, not willing to meet his gaze. Her fragile heart could not withstand any more rejection.
"Anastasia." His smooth, comforting voice melted her defenses, and she gave in, slowly allowing him to draw her focus to his perfect clear blue eyes. Eyes that seemed to pierce straight through to her soul.
His fingers traced her jaw line. His thumb swept over her tear-streaked cheek, wiping away the remnants of her despair. "You are mine," he whispered. He bent his head and kissed her cheek, then returned to gaze into her eyes. He released her hand and lifted his left hand to cradle the other side of her face, wiping away the tears from that cheek as well with a tender brush of his thumb.
"I am yours." His voice was barely more than a breath now. He brushed a soft kiss just below her right eye, catching a falling tear.
"Duty, yes." She tensed at the word, but his feather-light caress on her neck lulled her. The glint in his eyes intensified as he continued, "But only in so much as I desire to be duty-bound to you." He drew close once more, pressed his warm lips to the corner of her mouth, and withdrew only a hand-breadth. "To you alone."
Angling his head, he brushed lightly against the other side of her mouth and stepped back again, staring fervently into her eyes, as though he could impart his whole heart with that one deep, penetrating look.
Anastasia was at the end of her restraint and reached for him, but he caught her hands in his and clutched them to his chest. "Marry me," he pleaded. "Not because you must. Not because the dowager willed it. Not even because I asked it of you. Do it because we belong together." His words came out in a torrent, rushing toward her in intense waves, until he came to an abrupt silence.
"You are my turtledove, Anastasia," he whispered finally. "And I… I am lost without you."
Baldwyn dropped her hands and reached to pull her to him, but she met him halfway, throwing her arms around him and sinking into his embrace as his lips crushed to hers at long last.
The mourning sound that had resonated in her soul since the first moment Baldwyn had left England those many years ago, finally stilled. He was home — and now, so was she.
About the Author
Leah Sanders is the middle child in a family of seven children. As a true middle child she went from high school in Alaska to college in Florida, where she earned a Bachelor's degree in secondary education from Southeastern University. She also holds a Master's degree in educational technology from Boise State University.
She makes her home in Idaho with her husband and three children. By day she teaches English in a middle school. But after the kids are in bed, she will most likely be typing away on her laptop while sitting in her favorite spot on the couch.
Also by Leah Sanders:
Sacred Ring
All We See or Seem
The Parting Gift
Waltzing the Wallflower
Beguiling Bridget
Also from Astraea Press:
Chapter One
Salamanca – 22 July 1812
"We've endured some bad storms, have we not Dev, but I misremember one as severe as this."
Lady Beaumont snuggled up to her lord, her head on hi
s shoulder. They'd celebrate three blissful, if unusual, years of marriage in a month's time. Hopefully this time they'd be back in England and she'd throw a party like none before.
"The lightning was so bright at one point I thought it struck our tent."
"At least we had some cover." Honor sighed. "Those poor soldiers have little shelter and Wellington will expect them to perform their duties regardless."
"We are at war, my dear." Lord Beaumont pulled his wife closer. One more day and they'd be on their way home to enjoy three months leave. One more day…
So why did Devlin dread the coming dawn?
Another burst of thunder overhead shook the ground, and lightning lit up the meagre bivouac.
"The intensity of this storm is shocking. It must be all of two hours since it began, and silly as it sounds, I almost feel it is on a personal mission, a vendetta." Honor traced Dev's lips with her finger. "Perhaps we should distract ourselves?"
"And how do you suggest we do that?" Pushing the unidentified dread to the back of his mind, Devlin kissed his wife long and hard.
"That's a good start." She returned his kiss and followed where he led.
* * * *
The growing light of dawn chased the storm away that had left a field of mud in its wake. Honor's even breathing failed to sooth Devlin. The niggling apprehension slithered snake-like through his system. Had his concerns added intensity to their lovemaking, or had they shed every inhibition knowing the thunder would drown out their cries of ecstasy?
Grunts, groans, and cursing outside rose in crescendo as more and more soldiers began the rituals of another day at war. The day before, certain Marshal Marmont would not open an attack, Wellington had ordered the baggage and supply carts to retreat a good way to the rear. Word had spread that they wouldn't break camp today, but would continue to observe the movements of the French divisions.