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  “Are you well, Lady Anastasia?” Lady Tempest asked. “Yes, your grace. Perhaps it is the excitement of the evening.

  I have been so looking forward to the Montmouth Winter Ball for some time.”

  The duchess smiled as though she knew what the night meant to Anastasia. She was a lovely woman. Certainly kinder than many of the ladies of the ton. With just one short summer Season of experience, Anastasia already knew it was not a characteristic common among polite society.

  Baldwyn and the Duke of Banbury were drawing nearer now. Anastasia could no longer focus on the conversation with the duke and duchess. She longed for an easy and yet polite way out of their company, for she did not wish to offend them.

  The Angel Duke himself came to her rescue. He glanced over his shoulder, perhaps having followed the line of her gaze.

  “Banbury! Just the man I have been searching for!” His pronouncement broke up the camaraderie between Baldwyn and his cousin. “Please excuse us, Lady Anastasia. We must speak with this gentleman.”

  “Of course,” she said with another polite curtsy. “It was lovely meeting you, your grace.”

  The duke and duchess nodded and turned to address the Duke of Banbury. Anastasia slipped into position by the refreshment table, awaiting Baldwyn’s acknowledgement. The moment she had been waiting for all her life.

  Baldwyn greeted the duke and duchess for a brief moment, then excused himself from their company and stepped to the food table.

  He looked exactly as she had remembered him. Taller perhaps. His hair a darker auburn. The navy blue coat strained against the cut of his broad shoulders and solid muscular arms.

  When he glanced at her, she beamed in expectation of his recognition, but his piercing crystal blue eyes swept over her only briefly before returning to the table piled high with tasty delicacies.

  Disappointment threatened to overtake her, but she shoved it aside. Likely he was simply too hungry to concern himself with a closer look. In a moment he would recognize her, and then his gaze would turn longingly upon her, and they would dance.

  It was inevitable. So she waited.

  But when she had waited longer than one could expect of her, she had to say something. Something to make him notice her.

  “Good evening, your grace. It is a lovely party, don’t you agree?” The lady’s melodic voice floated through the haze his brain seemed to be wading through. Did she know him? He vaguely recollected that one did not to speak to a gentleman of polite society unless they had first been introduced.

  She could not be more than twenty, and therefore would not have been introduced into society before he had left for Scotland. It was impossible that she knew him, so perhaps he had been so long in Scotland, the rules had changed.

  “I suppose it is, if you enjoy these sorts of things,” he managed to say without slurring.

  “Do you mean to say you do not like to dance?” she asked, and her expression seemed more than a little crestfallen.

  “Oh, no. I enjoy dancing. It is just that this evening in particular…” How should he explain it? He allowed his gaze to sweep over her as he weighed his response. She was a sweet beauty. Her chestnut tresses were swept up in a becoming fashion, with only a few rebellious tendrils teasing at the back of her slender ivory neck. Her eyes were dreamy dark almonds, fixed in anticipation upon his lips, as though waiting for something — some pearls of wisdom to drip from them.

  “Yes, your grace?” she prompted. Baldwyn noted her full soft pink lips.

  He cleared his throat. And his eyes traced the length of her light gold dress which clung to her every curve — curves in all the right places. Why couldn’t his grandmother have chosen someone who looked like this? Instead, he would be forever chained to a straight-framed girl in pigtails who flung mud balls in order to get his attention.

  The thought brought him sailing back to the present conversation. And he remembered his indignation at the prospect of the impending announcement of his engagement.

  “This particular evening is the beginning of my destruction,” he finally answered. “My grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Durbin and Evil Incarnate, has — with neither my knowledge nor my consent, mind you — struck a betrothal contract on my behalf with a wretched little wench boasting a wiry frame and mousy brown hair. No more than a child she is!” It gushed out of him before he knew it was coming.

  The lady stared at him with wide dark eyes as though she had been struck. Baldwyn supposed it did sound shocking, coming out with so little concern for proper conversation. He was perhaps more than a little foxed.

  “Pardon me, my lady. It’s just that the horrid woman called me back from Scotland rather suddenly, and announced the news to me just this afternoon. I mean, I hardly know the chit, but what I do know of her, I can tell you, is enough to cause a gentleman to do himself in.”

  “I s-see. She… She sounds perfectly dreadful, I’m sure,” the lady said, her voice almost a whisper. She seemed to be recoiling for some reason. Had what he said truly been that shocking?

  Baldwyn bit into something gooey spread over a piece of bread and eyed his companion with concern.

  “She threw mud balls at me,” he added after a moment.

  Her face grew pale in an instant, and she shook her head in horror. Here was a woman who understood exactly how appalling that act had been! He smiled at her to offer some comfort. “It was several years ago, of course. Both my horse and I have since recovered from the trauma,” he said with a hint at humor in his voice, hoping to lighten her burden on his behalf.

  The lady did not seem comforted, so he made up his mind to ask her to dance. As he turned to offer his services to her, however, the music stopped and he heard the unmistakable voice of the dowager shatter the peace of the room.

  “Lords and ladies…” she began.

  Baldwyn’s stomach clenched into a tiny knot, and he regretted eating anything. He glanced at the lady, whose eyes seemed to be scrutinizing his every move.

  “It is my pleasure to welcome my grandson, the Duke of Paisley, back to London, and…” She seemed to be drawing the announcement out as long as possible. Probably hoping to prolong his agony. “…to announce his engagement to the lovely Lady Anastasia, daughter of Lord Marks.”

  He could feel the blood rushing from his face and pooling in his feet, making them feel like his boots were full of millstones. His ears felt as though they had burst into flame at his grandmother’s announcement.

  “Your grace,” the melodic voice floated to him once more.

  Baldwyn glanced toward her. “I believe that’s our cue.”

  She slipped her slender gloved hand around his arm and smiled weakly. The reality of what she said sank in slowly, weaving its way past the whiskey and the brandy and the indignation. Even then his disbelief blinded him, but she forced him to move forward.

  Forward to the dreaded fate of being forever fettered to the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  Chapter Four

  The sinking feeling in the pit of Anastasia’s stomach didn’t go away. Not even when Baldwyn asked her to dance. It was perfunctory. She realized that now. The moment he had let slip that he was forced into the betrothal, that he hadn’t forgotten her mud ball flinging incident, and that he had no interest in marrying her whatsoever, her heart felt as though a two-ton weight had crashed down upon it, dashing her hopes and dreams into a million pieces.

  The fantasy she had so carefully constructed dissipated in an instant, and Anastasia was left reeling from the crushing blow. Within, her spirit wailed its death cry, but outwardly she had to maintain appearances. They were still at the ball, after all. And the engagement had just been announced. There was no turning back now. Not now.

  She should have insisted they meet ahead of time. Become reacquainted. Made certain the betrothal was right. Instead she had been so enamored with the idea of Baldwyn as her husband, it had never occurred to her that he would feel differently about it. And now it was too late
.

  Certainly, Anastasia could break the engagement. But it would not do well for her family name, and as such, she could not seriously consider the possibility. She would simply have to make the best of the disappointing situation. Perhaps if she could make him see her as something other than the little girl who had pelted him and his horse with mud balls.

  Perhaps then he would be content with her.

  All this she thought as Baldwyn led her around the room in the dance. She didn’t dare to meet his gaze, but it seemed he wasn’t making much of an effort to cast it her way either. A few well- timed sidelong glances told her that. When they switched partners, Baldwyn would smile and engage in pleasantries with the girl with whom he was dancing. When they came back together, he fell into a dark, brooding silence. It was almost unbearable.

  When the dance ended, Baldwyn offered her his arm and escorted her back to the refreshment table, finally breaking the stiff silence between them.

  “Care for something to cool to drink?” he offered, a hint of spite dancing in his blue eyes.

  “I believe I would,” she said, trying to muster up her sweetest smile. He seemed not to take any notice. Instead he handed her a glass of lemonade and offered his arm one more time. “Shall we take some cold winter air?” When he put it that way, it didn’t sound nearly as romantic as she had imagined it would be. But why start now? If nothing else, perhaps he would offer an apology for his brutal treatment of her earlier, so she hooked a gloved hand around his proffered elbow and allowed him to lead her through the ballroom doors onto the terrace.

  The situation was increasingly complicated. Why hadn’t he simply refused his grandmother’s invitation back to London? Even as the question entered his mind, he knew it would have been already too late. The dowager had made the betrothal contract weeks ago. She just hadn’t bothered to tell him until that day.

  The girl had known longer than he had.

  Baldwyn glanced down at her beside him. Perhaps girl was no longer an appropriate term. She was every inch the woman and nothing he had expected her to be. Her mousy brown hair had metamorphosized into rich chestnut waves. Her formerly straight frame had transformed as well into something he could only describe as desirable. It might not be so bad waking to find her in his bed every morning.

  He shook his head to dispel the thought. The arrangement was his grandmother’s doing. And Baldwyn wanted no part in it.

  Glancing at her again, he noted she had crossed her arms over her chest and hugged them close to herself. Her face angled away from him toward the floor and the far side of the terrace. It was rather chilly to be out in the open air without a wrap.

  Baldwyn slipped off his coat in one fluid motion and draped it over her shoulders.

  She offered him a weak smile and muttered, “Thank you.” But her gaze returned to the ground immediately. Perhaps it wasn’t just the cold bothering her.

  He wished he could recall exactly what he had said earlier when his head still spun with Montmouth’s brandy. He had consumed far too much with Benedict, hoping to deaden his sense of what he would have to endure that night. Montmouth was right. Blast him. He should have left well enough alone. Too much brandy, and as his head was beginning to clear, he had only a faint sense that he should perhaps apologize. For what, he wasn’t certain.

  Clearing his throat, he turned to face her, intending to string some sort of regret together and ask her forgiveness for whatever it was he had done. Not that he believed he hadn’t committed the offense, he simply couldn’t remember what it was.

  At the sound of his cough, she turned back and gazed up at him with her deep brown eyes, sad but expectant. His mind went blank, and the words dangling there on the tip of his tongue disappeared instantly.

  “Um… I… that is to say, you—” His words stumbled over one another, getting lost in his drunken haze. Why couldn’t he think of any words?

  “Ever the eloquent speaker, your grace,” she said with a hint of mockery.

  “Yes, well, normally I have a better grasp of language, I do confess.”

  “I remember.” Her eyes seemed to search his as though for something lost. Sad longing hung behind them mixed with… what was that?

  Disappointment.

  Odd. He had expected to be disappointed with his grandmother’s choice. Instead he found indescribable beauty. Never once had Baldwyn considered she would be disappointed with her end of the arrangement. Every girl aspired to marry a duke.

  “You seem… unhappy, my lady. Could it be that you are not content to be engaged to a duke?” The offended tone that edged his words surprised even him.

  In answer, she removed his jacket from her shoulders and handed it to him with a stoic expression.

  “A duke shouldn’t be seen without his coat, your grace.” He took it from her, slipped it back on and considered her for a long moment. She simply lifted her chin and stared him down. A look that reminded him of the dowager, sending an instant chill prancing down his spine.

  The rap on the glass door behind him gave him an excuse to tear his attention away from his companion. Much to his chagrin, his grandmother stood on the other side of the glass, glaring at him intently. What did she want now?

  With an adamant nod and a raised eyebrow, she indicated his jacket pocket, then lifted her cane in a gesture toward his betrothed. When Baldwyn hesitated in his confusion, the dowager duchess repeated the gesture more vehemently and pounded her cane on the marble floor to punctuate her silent order.

  Baldwyn reached into his coat pocket and felt along the seam. It was next to impossible to feel anything through his glove. What had she planted there anyway? He rolled his eyes and shot the old woman a scowl. She returned it with equal fervor and another stamp of her carved wooden cane.

  Without breaking eye contact with his grandmother, Baldwyn lifted his hand in the air and finger by finger pulled off his glove. He knew the act would exasperate her — taking off his glove in public. She was ridiculously fond of her social proprieties. One more reason to hole up on his estate in Scotland and never return to London again.

  Again he plunged his hand into his coat pocket and fished around for something hidden there.

  Then he felt it. Small. Round. Cold. His mother’s ring.

  Blast the dowager.

  She was ordering him to propose properly and offer up his mother’s ring as a testimony of his commitment to the arrangement.

  A heavy sigh escaped his lips, and he turned to the lady once more. He cleared his throat again to gain her attention.

  When she glanced up at him, he thrust the ring toward her with all of the grace of a French goat wearing Hessian boots.

  “Here,” he grunted. When the lady made no move to accept the ring, he grasped her left hand in his and slipped it on her finger.

  “What are you—” she began, but he cut her off with a shrug.

  “You don’t want my coat, so perhaps my mother’s ring will warm you. Take it. As a token of my… affection.”

  She opened her mouth to object, but Baldwyn had no intention of presenting her to his grandmother without that ring on her fragile little finger.

  “Wear it, my lady. We are, after all, engaged — whether we like it or not.” The last words tumbled out of his mouth before he had a chance to stop them, and thus trailed off into a whisper. He hoped she hadn’t heard them, since apparently he had done more than enough damage for one night, but the brittle smile she offered did not reach her eyes as she took the arm he offered and followed him stiffly back into the warmth of the ballroom.

  Chapter Five

  The night couldn’t end soon enough. All her life Anastasia had dreamed of the moment of her engagement to the Duke of Paisley. But it had all been for naught. Not one part of the evening had lived up to the fantasy she had concocted.

  Baldwyn Sinclair didn’t want her.

  He would always see her as the little girl with mousy brown hair who threw mud balls at him to gain his attention.

&n
bsp; The air in the ballroom was stifling. Even with the smaller crowd, the fires were roaring in the hearths at each end of the hall, seeming to suck every ounce of oxygen from the room.

  After Baldwyn escorted Anastasia once about the room, he presented her to his grandmother and promptly disappeared. The dowager duchess took over from there, dragging her from lord to lady, introducing her as the future Duchess of Paisley.

  All Anastasia desired was to go home, crawl into her canopy bed, and mourn the loss of her dreams. If she could just find her father, perhaps he would consent to taking her home.

  Beside her, the dowager entrenched herself in conversation with a small group of ladies, discussing the future wedding plans. Normally, Anastasia would be enthralled with the prospect of planning her nuptials. After all, she had been doing just that since she was seven. Somehow a groom who didn’t share her enthusiasm about the blessed event made the whole thing repugnant to her very spirit.

  Her father was nowhere in sight, which meant he had congregated with the older men, holed up somewhere discussing politics. Anastasia knew he would give in to her request and take her home, but he socialized so seldom since her mother died, it seemed unfair to ask him to quit the company of his friends.

  A throat clearing behind her caught her attention, and she glanced over her shoulder. Tristan Markham, the son of the Count of Brundage, stood there with a broad grin spread across his face. He wasn’t much older than she was, and she had known him for several years.

  “Good evening, Miss Ana—Anashtashia,” he slurred thickly and bowed at the waist. “Would you like to dance?”

  “Mr. Markham. That would be lovely.” He seemed somewhat foxed, but she was dying for an excuse to leave the dowager. And Tristan was harmless. A childhood friend. They used to make mud pies together long ago. The sound of Baldwyn’s guarded laughter from across the room reminded her, however, that it wasn’t so long ago.

  Tristan offered his arm, and Anastasia offered a brief excuse to the dowager before taking it. He ushered her onto the floor beaming like he had won at the gaming tables.