A Renwick House Christmas Box Set

With stories from

Leah Sanders & Rachel Van Dyken

Copyright © 2019 LEAH SANDERS and RACHEL VAN DYKEN

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

A RENWICK HOUSE CHRISTMAS BOX SET

TWO TURTLEDOVES

Copyright © 2015 LEAH SANDERS

THE DEVIL DUKE TAKES A BRIDE

Copyright © 2015 RACHEL VAN DYKEN

Cover Art by P.S. Cover Design

Table of Contents

Title Page

Two Turtledoves

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

About The Author

Books By Leah Sanders

The Devil Duke Takes A Bride

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

About The Author

Also By Rachel Van Dyken

Two Turtledoves

Two Turtledoves

by Leah Sanders

Copyright © 2015 LEAH SANDERS

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

TWO TURTLEDOVES

Copyright © 2015 LEAH SANDERS

Cover Art by P.S. Cover Design

For my sisters:

Sarahlee, Rebekah, Liz, Amy, and Ann — for all the times you wanted me to kiss and tell but I refused…

I love you guys!

Prologue

The mourning call of the turtledove echoed across the field, muffled only by the rustling of the nearby trees in the mild summer breeze. From the far side, a lone figure, a boy no older than one and six, carried a musket at the ready, wading through the tall field grass with a slow, deliberate gait. His gaze scoured the land all around him. The crack of a twig brought him swinging around to take aim at the disturbance, but his sudden movement startled the prey, sending it scurrying back into the cover of the nearby thicket.

He shook his head and turned in the opposite direction, following his original path. His bright copper hair danced in the light gust sweeping the field as he traipsed forward once again, musket at the ready.

A piercing scream mingled with the call of the turtledoves, startling the hunter and the wildlife. There was an instant rush in the trees as birds took to wing. The boy craned his neck in the direction of the unearthly wail. It seemed to come from beyond the line of trees.

Somewhere in the blur of thick foliage, he seemed to catch sight of something he wasn’t expecting. Patches of bright blue interspersed among the leaves high in a tree glittered in the sunlight.

Tiptoeing forward, he made his way through the field to stand directly under the giant oak. He slung his musket over his shoulder, crossed his arms, and gazed up into the branches at the offending apparition.

“Young Miss Trent, I presume?”

Her only response was a pitiful whimper. She gazed down on him with wide brown eyes which glistened with fresh tears.

“Are you stuck?” he asked.

After a moment of hesitation, she answered with a loud sniffle. “Yes.”

“Then I shall rescue you, fair damsel,” he announced, sweeping low into a grand bow. He removed his musket sling and game satchel and leaned them against the base of a nearby elm. Without further ado, he reached for the lowest branch and hoisted himself up, crawling higher and higher until he reached her side.

“Alas, fair lady, your knight has arrived.” His most dazzling smile comforted the frightened girl. “However did you come to be imprisoned here in this tower, Princess?”

“My foot is stuck.”

“I see. This is a grave situation indeed. May I?” He gestured to her slipper. Her mousy brown pigtails bounced when she nodded her assent.

With a gentle twist, the boy freed her foot from its confinement. He lifted her into his arms and started back down the tree.

Once safe on the ground, he set the little girl on her feet and knelt on one knee to examine her face‑to-face.

“Are you well, Princess?”

She bobbed her head again and threw her arms around his neck.

“There now, Princess,” he said, patting her gently on the back. “All is well.”

As if she remembered her part in the farce, she released him and stepped back with a coy smile and a sweet curtsy. “Thank you, Sir Knight, for rescuing me.”

“At your service, my lady,” he said, rising to his feet and bowing at the waist. “‘Tis my sworn duty to protect a lady of the realm.”

She giggled. Her eyes shone bright with joy in their little game.

“Are you hungry, Princess?” He picked up his hunting satchel and reached inside it, fishing out a shiny red apple and a hard biscuit.

The little girl smiled wide, showing a gap where her two front teeth used to be.

“Oh, dear. I suppose the apple is out of the question then,” the boy said with a wink. “Unless…” he paused thoughtfully, then reached a hand into his bag once more, retrieving a small hunting knife with triumphant flair. “Ta-da!”

She clapped and shrieked with laughter.

“Apple, Princess?”

Her enthusiastic nod sent him straight to work peeling and slicing the fruit into crisp slivers.

They sat under the tree together. He handed the juicy slices to her one at a time, and she munched on them happily. “Thank you, Sir Knight!”

“You, my dear princess, may call me Baldwyn.”

“Baldwyn,” she tried it out, chasing it with a short burst of bubbly little girl laughter.

“There now. Isn’t this much better than being stuck up in that old tree?”

“Yes!”

“Whatever were you doing up there anyway?”

“I was looking for the nest.”

“The nest?”

“The turtledoves. Papa says they make their nests out here in the spring and fly away in the fall.”

“That’s true. They do like it out here in the fields.”

“I heard them crying. I thought maybe they needed help.”

“Ah, yes. They do sound terribly sad, don’t they?”

“Yes. Like they’ve lost their true love.”

The boy chuckled. “I suppose that’s exactly how they sound.” He handed her another sliver of apple. “That sad cry is the sound they make when they call to their mates. Turtledove pairs don’t like to be apart. So they call to each other, reminding each other where they truly belong.”

She sat silent for a moment, staring at the piece of apple in her hand. “Sometimes I awaken at night and hear that sound.” Her voice lowered to a confidential whisper. “Once I followed it to my father’s chamber door.” Her big brown eyes lifted to meet his sparkling blue gaze. “Do you think he cries like that because Mama was his turtledove?”

The boy’s eyes glistened as he blinked back at her. “That might be,” he whispered finally. They held their peace for a moment, listening to the mournful cry of the turtledoves dodging through the canopy of branches overhead.

Finally, the boy stood and brushed off his breeches. He reached for his musket and satchel and slung them each over his shoulders. He offered a hand to the child who still sat at the base of the giant oak. When she grasped it, he helped her to her feet, then proffered his elbow. “May I see you home, Princess?”

“I’d be delighted, Sir Knight.” Her smile was cheery and bright once more as she rested her tiny fingers on his forearm like the perfect little medieval lady, and the two of them made their way back across the field to the estate house, laughing and joking as they went.

Chapter One

Twelve years later

Baldwyn Sinclair, the Duke of Paisley, gazed out the window, blinking his heavy eyelids, and watched the snow-covered landscape slip by. As rare as it was for the present time of year, the sun was shining, casting a blinding reflection off the pristine white ground, causing him to blink and turn away from the window.

The wind was quiet. It was an eerily calm winter day, far from normal in that part of the country. The calm before the storm was more like it.

His grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Durbin, had summoned him back from Scotland. For what, he did not know, but one did not ignore a request from her grace.

It was only a matter of hours now until his impending arrival at her London home. She never retired to the country for the winter anymore. The old woman much preferred to stay ensconced in her townhouse, wreaking havoc on the lives of any relative foolish enough to reside within the city limits.

Bile choked his throat in direct proportion to his anxiety as he considered one more time what the old crone could possibly want with him.

Baldwyn should have been safe in Scotland. After all, his cousin, the Duke of Banbury, was well within her reach and could surely keep her meddlesome hands occupied for several months.

Why hadn’t he accepted that commission when he had the chance? He could have been away on the Continent fighting against the evils of the French rather than the evils of her grace’s machinations. Staring down the barrel of Napoleon’s cannon would have been preferable.

He closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall of the coach. It would be wise to rest now. No doubt his grandmother had already arranged for him to attend a winter event that evening and would have him racing to ready for it the moment he set foot in her front door. Taking a slow, deep breath, he soothed his frazzled nerves and allowed himself to drift into a fitful sleep, propped against the blue satin-lined wall.

“Your grace.” The voice of his valet broke through his haze of sleep. “We have arrived.”

Baldwyn groaned with anguish as he opened first one eye and then the other.

“Munro,” he muttered in disgust, “I have told you of my feelings on being awakened with bad news, have I not?”

“Yes, your grace,” Munro offered. “However, in matters such as these, I believe your wrath is less daunting than that of the dowager’s.”

Baldwyn sighed. One couldn’t argue with that logic.

The massive stone structure rose ominously above him, as he stepped down from the carriage and squared his shoulders in preparation for the onslaught he knew he was about to endure.

His Hessian boots suddenly felt like they were encased in the stone path as he endeavored to move toward the stairs leading to the front entry. Dread weighed in the pit of his stomach. Where was Napoleon’s cannon when he needed it?

At the door, his grandmother’s loyal old butler answered Baldwyn’s hesitant knock almost immediately, as if he had been stationed there with the express purpose of tethering the duke the second he laid eyes on him.

“Good afternoon, Perkins,” Baldwyn managed to grunt.

“Your grace.” Perkins bowed and held out the tray for his hat and gloves. “Her grace awaits you in the blue salon.”

“May I not refresh myself before the torture commences?” Perkins’ emotionless expression was fixed firmly in place.

“Her grace wishes to begin the moment you arrive.”

Petulant little man.

Baldwyn directed an ironic smirk at the smug butler. He knew, of course, it wouldn’t have any effect. Perkins would be far more concerned with what his mistress would do to him if she discovered her instructions had been ignored than anything the Duke of Paisley might threaten to do.

He turned to the blue salon, and with one last deep breath of free air, he threw the doors open and strode in with Scottish bravado.

“Guid efternuin, Grandmother! Ye ur lookin’ brammer as ever!” He knew the native brogue would infuriate her; nevertheless, he raised his voice to a ridiculous volume as well, knowing full well she would take it as a direct insult to the condition of her hearing.

“Bite your tongue, boy. We are not deaf. Nor are we in the presence of the wild Scottish savages you spend your time with these days.” Her icy steel blue glare bore into his face. Oh, yes, he had succeeded in incurring her wrath in less time than it would take to seduce a whore.

Inwardly, he winced but showed no sign of contrition as he drifted to her and planted a light kiss on her pale cheek as though he was as innocent as the driven snow.

She waved him off.

“Oh, posh!” A bemused grin tainted one corner of her mouth.

For all her fearsomeness, Baldwyn knew she adored him.

However, all the adoration in Europe would do nothing to shield him from her matrimonial schemes. Which, no doubt, was the only thing short of Napoleon laying siege to Mayfair that would incite her to send for him in the dead of winter. Cursed ducal obligations to propagate the family name. He groaned and shook his head.

“You shall cease those unearthly sighings, young man, and sit down. We have important family matters to discuss. And there is no time to waste. The Montmouth Winter Ball is this evening. Word has already been sent that you shall be in attendance.”

Baldwyn slumped into the royal blue wingback chair and eyed her with suspicion.

“What are these important family matters, Grandmother?

Please. I wish to be enlightened.”

“Your tone says otherwise, Baldwyn. Remember to whom you are speaking.” She was seething now. He had pressed her too far.

“Of course, Grandmother. I apologize. Please, continue.”

The dowager lifted her head and glowered down her aristocratic nose at him. Again her steel blue gaze sliced right through him, sending a sudden chill stampeding down his spine. He took the cup of tea offered by the maid and sipped, hoping to cover his momentary lapse in ducal composure.

“I have wonderful news for you.”

That is debatable.

“I have arranged a betrothal.”

The tea turned to sludge in his throat and he choked, spewing the mouthful he had just drawn from the cup all over the table before him. He glanced up in time to see the fresh brew dripping from the dowager duchess’s chin.

Her stoic glower told him all he needed to know. Death awaited him.

The maid was at the old woman’s side in an instant, fear radiating from her crisp green eyes as she dabbed at the duchess’s tea-bathed face. Baldwyn rose to offer his aid, but his grandmother’s hand shot up, freezing him in place.

“Sit down, Baldwyn. We shall complete the business at hand.” She wrenched the linen cloth from the maid’s hands and swatted her away. As she continued, she patted her forehead, cheeks, chin, and neck with the cloth.

“As I was saying, I have arranged a betrothal contract between you and the daughter of Lord Marks.”

Baldwyn’s blood curdled in his veins. Shock held him prisoner where he was, tying his tongue until finally he forced out, “Betrothal! You’ve gone mad!”

“I said sit down.” Her gaze leveled on him once more, compelling him to his seat.

“How did you—? What makes you think—? You have no right!” he stammered like a fool.

“I have every right. Lord Marks and I have come to an agreement. You shall marry the girl. You shall produce an heir. And you shall conduct yourself as the duke you are expected to be.”

“Lord Marks’ daughter is a child, Grandmother. A child with mousy brown hair and braids. And straight as an—” He stopped mid-sentence. It was humiliating enough without divulging his preferences to his grandmother.

She arched a malevolent eyebrow.

The last time he had seen the child had been five years previous upon a visit to Lord Marks’ country estate to discuss a business venture. She had loitered about underfoot the entire afternoon, vying for his attention. Her father had indulged her every whim and seemed to view everything she said or did as an enchantment of sorts. Baldwyn had simply rolled his eyes, concluded his business, and took his leave at the first opportunity.

But the girl was not content to be pleasantly tolerated by a gentleman nine years her senior. She preceded him out of doors and lay in wait behind a hedge, and as he rode past she ambushed him, hurling crudely formed mud balls dangerously close to his head. Fortunately, her aim left something to be desired, though by pure dumb luck, one of the misfired projectiles struck square in his horse’s eye. The animal reared, taking Baldwyn by surprise and sending him flailing all the way to the ground. The few strategically placed bruises would have been humiliating enough, but through some horrifying twist of fate, his horse had recently dropped a steaming pile of dung in the precise location he found himself sitting.

Naturally, no doubt to the delight of the devilish pixie, he had to immediately return to the house to clean up and change before he could leave again. But it was already late, so he was forced to remain for the night, enduring an evening of unending prattle as the girl begged for his particular attention.

Even now as he thought on the tragic memory, his head ached and his backside throbbed.

Baldwyn massaged his temples in slow deliberate circles, hoping to erase the reminiscence from his mind forever.

“Lady Anastasia is no longer a child, Baldwyn. And you have responsibilities.” His grandmother’s voice broke through his anguish.

“Regardless, Grandmother. It would have been nice to have a choice in the matter.”

“You were given ample time to select a suitable bride. It is I who had no choice.”

“Are there no other options?”

“None. The deal has been made. The announcement shall be made tonight.”

Chapter Two

The Duke of Montmouth’s Winter Ball was the first the duke had had since his marriage last winter. As such, it promised to be a memorable event. Anastasia Trent, the only daughter of the Earl of Marks, had been looking forward to it for weeks. Ever since her father had informed her of the betrothal to Baldwyn Sinclair.

Anastasia had been in love with him for ages, though he had never shown much interest in her. Truth be told, she hadn’t seen him in several years, but that last meeting still made her cringe with abject shame. How she could have ever been so purely disgraceful and immature was beyond her own understanding.

She only hoped he had forgotten the incident.

There was a sort of hope in that he had agreed to the betrothal. At any rate, tonight they would announce their engagement, and he would be hers forever, just as she had always dreamt.

Last year, her eighteenth year, she had begged her father to allow her to sit out another Season and debut at nineteen. She realized it would be strange to be presented so late, but there was only one man she had ever wished to marry, and as he was in Scotland, there was no use in coming out.

Her father had always indulged her every whim, and though Anastasia had never told him her reasons for hesitation, she knew he had a suspicion. When he brought her into his study one day a few weeks before and asked her how she felt about a marriage to the duke, she could hardly contain her enthusiasm.

Finally, the evening of the ball had arrived. Anastasia had spent the entire day preparing herself — two baths, four hairstyles, and seven gowns later, she was ready to meet her groom-to-be. A bit of the old schoolgirl giddiness bubbled in the pit of her stomach, and she prayed she wouldn’t have to make another trip to the necessary.

Her father awaited her at the foot of the staircase. Her heart soared as she descended, and her feet hardly touched the floor. If the look on her father’s face was any indication, the pale gold gown she had finally settled on was the perfect choice.

“You are a vision, my sweet,” her father crooned, offering his arm gallantly. His broad grin and sparkling brown eyes warmed her heart. He still cut a dashing figure with the brush of silver at his temples, highlighting his chestnut hair. It was a shame he refused to marry again after her mother had passed away.

He often told her she looked like her mother, but Anastasia knew it wasn’t true. She had his hair and his eyes, while her mother had been a blonde beauty with marvelous hazel eyes. If she had inherited any of her mother’s traits, it would have to be her spirit — her sense of adventure. Though Anastasia hardly remembered, her father had told her many stories of Lady Marks’ escapades. Each new story inspired her more than the last.

Her favorite, of course, was the tale of how her mother had captured her father’s heart.

It was that story — that fairy tale — that had burned in her soul since childhood.

She wanted a story like that.

And she was certain the one to give it to her was Baldwyn Sinclair.

“Shall we go to the ball?” Her father interrupted her thoughts once again, his glowing admiration of her still fixed in his expression. A warm tingle of excitement washed through her, and she couldn’t keep herself from the involuntary giggle that bubbled forth.

Anastasia took his arm and followed him out the door, down the steps, and to the carriage where it waited in the front drive.

Why his grandmother had insisted they make an appearance promptly at the start of the evening was beyond Baldwyn’s understanding. No one of any consequence had yet arrived, which left him with nothing to do but seek out the best hiding places in the house in case they were needed later.

And that is what he was doing when the Duke of Montmouth happened to come across his path.

“Paisley, I didn’t know you had returned to the city.” Montmouth greeted him with a hearty pound on the back.

“Aye, ‘tis my misfortune that beckons me,” Baldwyn answered, grimacing under the duke’s painful salutation.

“The dowager?” his friend asked, arching a single eyebrow. Baldwyn nodded. “She insists I marry.”

“Sounds familiar,” Montmouth said. He shook his head and chuckled knowingly. “So tell me, has she yet selected the perfect target for your matrimonial bliss?”

“Worse.” Baldwyn’s stomach turned even as he said it. Certainly Montmouth would note the displeasure undoubtedly etched across his face. “She has already spoken to the girl’s father on my behalf.”

Both of Montmouth’s eyebrows shot up in blatant shock. “Yes, indeed. It is true. Without my knowledge or consent, I have become betrothed to a girl I hardly know and haven’t seen in years. In fact, the last time I had the pleasure, she hurled mud balls at me.”

Montmouth’s delight broke out in a loud, bellowing laugh.

Baldwyn was not entertained in the least. He leveled his gaze on his host. “You’ll pardon me, Montmouth, if I do not share your amusement.”

The larger man tried in vain to stifle his mirth. “Ahh! I’m sorry, Paisley.” He burst into another round of raucous laughter. When it wound down, he shook his head and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I am sorry, Paisley. I do hope she has outgrown that phase by now. The duchess would be terribly put out if the girl began flinging mud in her ballroom.”

Baldwyn glanced around the room. The very thought of the wretched child taking aim at him that evening made his throat go dry. “Have you anything stronger than champagne in the house?”

Montmouth pounded him on the back again. “Yes, of course. I can see that you need it, and if it wasn’t already necessary, it shall be very soon!” He chuckled again as he stepped to the liquor cabinet, drew a bottle of good English whiskey from its place there, and filled two glasses.

He handed one to Baldwyn and raised his own in toast. “To your engagement, Paisley. May she be everything you need.” Montmouth gulped the contents of his glass and laughed once more. Baldwyn eyed the amber liquid in his glass before tossing down his drink as well then lifted his glass to request another.

His host shook his head with a smirk and took the glass from Baldwyn’s grasp. “I think not, Paisley. After all, a gentleman should be altogether alert when meeting his future wife.”

“I’d rather be foxed when the assault ensues.” Baldwyn scanned the room once more looking for some worthy place to hide.

As if reading his intent, Montmouth said, “There’s no good place to hide in here, Paisley. Your grandmother will find you if she has to bring in the dogs.” He stepped toward the door. “I have to see to my newly-arriving guests. Feel at liberty to search out a more worthy concealment… but do stay out of my whiskey.” With that, the Duke of Montmouth disappeared through the doorway, leaving Baldwyn to wallow in his apprehension.

He didn’t linger. Eventually, his grandmother would come looking for him. It would be far wiser to keep moving, throw the bloodhounds off his scent. As he entered the corridor the music from the ballroom drifted into the hall. Baldwyn cringed. He would have to dance with her. She would probably trip him.

How he longed for the serenity of his estate in Scotland. Of course, in that moment, he longed for the serenity the war on the Continent could provide.

Baldwyn stepped into the ballroom and glanced around the room. More guests were arriving by the minute. The dowager duchess was nowhere to be seen. His eyes fell on the balcony doors on the far side of the room. A perfect place to hide. No one would yet be there so early in the evening, not with the weather so bitterly cold.

He began his trek through the room, nodding and offering brief polite pleasantries to the few guests he encountered in his path. He could hide there, wait for Lord Marks and his daughter to be announced, and get a good look at the girl before being forced into her company… for life. If nothing else, it would give him an illusion of some control in the arrangement.

“Paisley!” A familiar voice drew his attention from his destination. Baldwyn turned to find himself face to face with an old family friend. One with whom he had spent many a night carousing about the town back in those old days past.

“Rawlings!” The sight of his old chum comforted him somewhat, making him think of simpler times. No responsibilities. No demands. No betrothals.

“You just missed a fair bit of excitement!” Rawlings appeared to be entertained still. Amusement danced behind his dark eyes.

“Oh? What did I miss?” There were hardly enough guests here for a mouse in the kitchen to cause a rumpus. At any rate, there seemed to be no evidence of anything out of the ordinary now.

“The dowager duchess discovered Banbury on the balcony with Lady Katherine. The look on his face! I’ll never forget that sight as long as I live.”

It took a moment to fully absorb the information. Surely not even his grandmother would be capable of two forced betrothals in one evening. A knot formed in his stomach. Even if he had entertained thoughts of escaping her schemes, the old woman would find a way to trap him. Just as she had apparently done to Benedict, his cousin. Perhaps he had shown signs of less than full cooperation.

Baldwyn would have to step prudently. Avoid balconies, dark corners, and above all, Lord Marks’ daughter. If Benedict Devlyn, the Devil Duke himself, could be ensnared — a man of legendary prowess, who was always rumored but never seen to be ruining some girl, could find himself caught in a woman’s trap — what hope was there for mankind?

“Where is he now?” Baldwyn scrutinized the growing crowd. If what Rawlings said was true, Benedict would need a shot of that whiskey.

“Somewhere collecting the remaining fragments of his dignity, no doubt,” Rawlings answered with laugh.

“I suppose I had better seek him out and see to his wounded pride.”

“Right. And I must dance with Lady Rawlings before she becomes entrenched in gossip with her sister. It’s good to see you, Paisley.” He bowed slightly and sauntered toward the refreshments where his wife stood conversing with the Duchess of Tempest.

Baldwyn began the search for his cousin. As he approached the balcony doors, he heard some strange scuffling coming from the alcove just out of his line of sight. A slow grin crept across his lips. Some impatient couple had already found their way into a darkened corner. Could Benedict have truly been wooing some chit when his grandmother happened upon them?

When he rounded the corner, the answer to that question lay before him in plain sight. Oh, Benedict, you played right into the dowager duchess’s hands. Baldwyn cleared his throat, breaking the two from their intimate embrace.

“I do hope I’m not interrupting anything.” An ear-splitting shriek erupted from the lady, and she pulled abruptly from Benedict’s arms. Benedict stood grinning from ear to ear, looking more than a little winded. He cursed and pushed the lady behind him to shield her from the intruder, but it was to no avail.

The lady peeked around him, squinting her eyes as if she was struggling to make out Baldwyn’s features. Sudden recognition broke across her face, then pure horror.

“When did you arrive?” Her voice trembled. And Baldwyn realized who she was as well.

Lady Katherine Bourne.

So that was the lady whom his grandmother had designs on for Benedict. Poor devil. His cousin’s fate was even worse than his own.

The girl’s humiliation seemed complete with Baldwyn’s discovery of her locked in a love embrace with the Devil Duke. With a sob, she burst from the alcove and disappeared around the corner, leaving the two startled gentlemen in her wake.

“Classic.” Baldwyn shook his head at Benedict and burst out laughing. “Tell me, was your plan simply to assault her in order to win her favor? Or had you not fully thought through your attack?”

Benedict uttered another curse. “I don’t know what came over me. She’s just so blasted irritating. She struck me and then provoked me.”

“Well then…” Baldwyn folded his arms across his chest. “By all means, make her cry. It seems you earned a bit of revenge.”

A loud groan slipped from Benedict’s throat, and he turned his glower on Baldwyn. “What the devil are you doing here, Baldwyn? Don’t tell me—”

“Agatha,” they said in unison. Both as if her name was an expletive on their lips.

“She got to you too, I imagine?” Benedict asked, clearly still affected by the secret tryst in which he had just been participating.

“She called me back from Scotland in the dead of winter. What other conclusion can be drawn?” Baldwyn shook his head and glanced at his cousin.

Benedict’s eyes seemed to glaze over, and his gaze wandered to the path Lady Katherine had taken only a moment before.

Baldwyn snapped his fingers. “Woolgathering? Or planning to attack another virgin?” he asked with a hint of sarcasm, betraying the frustration he had felt ever since the missive from his grandmother had been placed in his hands, calling him back from Scotland.

“My apologies, you were saying?” Benedict shook his head and took a step in the direction of Montmouth’s liquor cabinet. Yes, they were both going to require more liquid courage if they were to survive the evening’s festivities… and the prospect of a lifetime of matrimonial enslavement. With one long stride, Baldwyn took the lead.

“Follow me. I know where Montmouth keeps it.” There was no need to clarify. Benedict would know instinctively what Baldwyn meant.

Chapter Three

Upon Anastasia’s arrival at the Montmouth Winter Ball, her heart beat in her throat. The ballroom was well attended, but not nearly so crowded as the events of the Season were. It should be easy to find him. She was certain he would look the same. Closing her eyes for a moment, she pictured him. Baldwyn Sinclair. The tall, broad-shouldered man who had stolen her heart so long ago. She pictured how he would see her. All at once their eyes would meet, and the rest of the world would melt away.

His dark auburn curls, his crystal blue eyes, like the cloudless winter sky. There was nothing about him that wasn’t perfect. And soon they would be together.

She opened her eyes and exhaled a slow, deliberate breath. Her gaze scanned the room for Baldwyn, every inch of the ballroom, until she saw him.

He sauntered toward the refreshment table, chatting nonchalantly with his cousin, the Duke of Banbury. It was difficult to be certain from such a distance, but it seemed his gait was a mite unstable, as was that of Banbury’s. They moved in unison. Banbury said something apparently witty. Baldwyn laughed heartily, and his eyes sparkled with his amusement, and Anastasia wished again for the moment it would be her witty remark that delighted him so.

But Baldwyn would never notice her as long as he was distracted by the duke.

Anastasia made her way around the room, moving steadily toward the refreshment table. She would meet him there and wait for his gaze to fall upon her. Then they would dance. Dance as if they were the only two people in England… except for the musicians, since they would need music in order to dance… and the servants, to help them dress and prepare their food… and those who worked in her favorite modiste’s shop — she would need new dresses, after all. But other than those, Baldwyn and Anastasia would fall under love’s magical spell, and all the world would fade around them.

Well, eventually they would need a vicar.

The Duke of Tempest interrupted her thoughts, ripping her abruptly from her fantasy. “Lady Anastasia, a pleasure to see you out this evening,” he crooned, sweeping into a polite bow and bestowing a kiss on the air above her outstretched hand. “Have you met my wife, the Duchess of Tempest?”

“Your graces. The pleasure is mine,” Anastasia said, dipping into a brief curtsy. She had not had the pleasure of meeting the duchess before, but she had heard the stories. They had a wonderful love story, so much like a fairy tale. The Angel Duke had whisked in and saved his fair lady from a fate worse than death.

It was one of the tales Anastasia loved to replay in her mind in the quiet moments, pretending she was the fair lady, and Baldwyn was the duke rescuing her. A soft sigh escaped Anastasia’s throat before she could stop it. The duchess arched an eyebrow, causing a rosy blush to burn in Anastasia’s cheeks.

“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.

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.

As they danced, Tristan leaned close to Anastasia’s ear as though he wanted to tell her a secret, but his voice was hardly hushed.

“I’m drunk,” he blurted and winked at her with an air of confidentiality.

Anastasia stifled a nervous giggle. “Yes, I believe you are, Mr. Markham.”

As if to punctuate his confession, he stumbled over her feet, forcing her to steady him by clutching at his flailing arms, lest they both careen to the ground in front of everyone.

That would never do on the night of her engagement to the Duke of Paisley, even if the man despised her. She would not be the cause of his further disappointment and humiliation.

If he had noticed her partner was drunk and stumbling about the floor with her, Baldwyn gave no sign. He was engrossed in deep conversation with Lord Renwick and Lord Rawlings. Not one glance at her since she had been dancing with Tristan.

Any hope she was holding onto that she might be able to arouse some flicker of jealousy, some signal that he might carry a secret tender for her, even a glimpse of concern for her welfare, was thoroughly dashed as she followed Tristan’s unstable lead about the dance floor.

Tears burned behind her eyes, but she refused to give them leave to flow. Not here. Not where the duke might see. Where he might think she truly was still only an emotional child. Instead, Anastasia swallowed back the dry lump in her throat and forced her mind to focus on the steps of the dance, which were becoming increasingly difficult with such an inebriated partner.

Just when she was certain Tristan would surely slump to the floor, she heard a thickly accented, deep voice break in. “Pardon me, Markham, I would like to dance with this lovely lady if I may.”

Tristan glanced at him through glassy eyes and smiled wide in recognition. “Ah, Tenorio. Just in time.” With a grand sweeping gesture, he offered his place in the dance to the suave Spaniard and staggered to the nearest seat.

Left alone with a complete stranger, Anastasia could feel her face burning to deep crimson. What just transpired could hardly count as an introduction, and yet of all the gentlemen in the room, he was the only one to come to her rescue. Not that she was ever in any real danger from Tristan. She knew that.

But they didn’t.

And certainly Baldwyn couldn’t have known.

“I apologize, señorita, for the inadequate introduction, but I could not in good conscience allow you to be treated in such a fashion.” His eyes were black as night, but they gleamed with admiration as he gazed into Anastasia’s. “I am Santiago Tenorio, the son of the Spanish emissary to the Crown. May I ask your name?”

“You may call me Lady Anastasia. My father is the Earl of Marks.” Mr. Tenorio’s gaze seemed to scorch her as she spoke, forcing her to avert her own. His olive skin and wavy black hair cut a striking figure, stealing her breath away as they danced.

When the music came to an end, the Spaniard bent over her hand, pressing a lingering kiss to her glove, before lifting his dark eyes again to her face.

“The pleasure is mine, Lady Anastasia.” Her name dripped off his tongue in an accent that turned her knees to warm porridge. The sensation spread through her, warming her throughout, causing her to fan herself involuntarily.

“It is rather stifling in here this evening. Would you care for some fresh air, señorita?”

It was stifling in the ballroom. She had thought so only moments ago as she listened to the dowager drone on and on about the wedding preparations. And fresh air sounded so lovely and inviting in that accent. Baldwyn had yet to notice her. Perhaps her whole life had been leading to that moment. Mr. Tenorio was gallant. He was dark and handsome. And he alone had saved her from the would-be ravishing of a drunken rake.

A small electric thrill pulsed through her as she accepted the Spaniard’s proffered arm and allowed him to guide her onto the terrace, down the icy stairs, and into the snow-encrusted garden.

From the corner of his eye, Baldwyn saw the Spaniard escort Lady Anastasia out onto the terrace. He had become quite adept at keeping tabs on her in such a short amount of time. Strange, since his only aspiration at present was to determine the best course of action to find his way out of the engagement. Why should he care if his fiancée took fresh air with the Spaniard?

Because she was his. That was reason enough.

But he had also heard stories. Tenorio. A man of great talent where ladies were concerned. And with his thick romantic accent oozing from his every Spanish pore, the reputation was of little wonder.

Baldwyn knew that a lady who had ensnared a duke would be a complete fool to jeopardize the match — on the day of their engagement, no less. So why could he feel the burning ire surging to his heart?

“Don’t you agree, Paisley?” Renwick’s brusque voice broke into his thoughts. Baldwyn hadn’t heard a word of what the earl had spoken.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” he answered curtly and glanced back toward his companions. “Will you excuse me, Renwick? Rawlings.” He offered a brief nod and trudged in the direction of Montmouth’s study. Certainly there was another drop or two in the bottle he and Benedict had efficiently polished off earlier in the evening.

Chapter Six

It was lovely out in the garden, though bitterly cold. The moonlight reflected on the crystalline frost, glistening like a bouquet of diamonds.

Diamonds.

The thought drew Anastasia’s attention back to the ring on her left hand. The ring that had been offered to her with all the care of a plow horse in a China shop. A sentiment that hardly matched the beauty of the heirloom. A deep blue sapphire laid in a wreath of brilliant diamonds, all set in a filigreed gold band, cast to look like autumn leaves.

“It is a lovely token, señorita.” Her companion’s voice shattered her silent reflection, reminding her that she was not alone.

“Thank you, Mr. Tenorio.” A wistful sigh escaped her throat as she cast another lingering glance at the jewel on her hand.

“Pardon me, señorita, but you do not seem as happy as I imagine a newly betrothed lady to be.” He stopped abruptly in the garden path and faced Anastasia, capturing her hand in his. Very forward. Even for a Spaniard.

“Do I not? How very odd.” She gently slipped her hand from his grasp. No matter how horrible Baldwyn had behaved, Mr. Tenorio should not be allowed such liberties. Not with a lady betrothed to another. “I am deliriously happy.”

“My apology, then, for the mistaken observation. You sighed so sadly just now, I thought perhaps it was a match that did not please you.”

His dark gaze bore into her, as though he could read her deepest thoughts — the bitter disappointment must have been written across her face. For the first time, Anastasia realized she was alone with him. Outside. In the dark. On the night of her engagement.

An icy chill shot through her and she shivered against it. How had she allowed it to happen? Inwardly, she cursed her own stupidity.

Even as she questioned it, she knew. Baldwyn’s rejection, her shattered romantic dream, a handsome stranger coming to her rescue. A glance at her companion told her he had read all those things in her before he ever stepped in to dance with her. She was naught but prey to a discerning rake.

Mr. Tenorio took a step closer. “Are you cold, amor?” The predatory glint in his eyes warned her of his intent to remedy the situation.

“No. Thank you, sir, for your concern. I am quite comfortable.” Fear cracked her voice, and she struggled to project a confidence that was rapidly dissolving in the danger that threatened her. A step backward put the needed space between them, but he immediately closed the gap.

“Señorita…” He spoke in a low whisper. His Spanish charm dripped from every syllable of the word. “Surely you tremble with cold.”

Anastasia retreated once more. He followed, matching her step for step. Ever so slowly backing her into a darkened gazebo. Her heart raced.

“Don’t be afraid, amor. I wish only to warm you and protect you from the winter chill.” He reached for her arm, but with a clever turn, she spun free of his grasp.

“Perhaps we should return indoors. I would certainly enjoy some hot wassail. Wouldn’t you?” Her voice cracked again, as steadily she drew away from her assailant.

“You are quick, sweet dove, but there is no need to take flight.” His smooth movement toward her and the alluring warmth of his voice lulled her. Another step. She must get away.

With a solid thunk she found herself backed up against a wooden balustrade, unable to retreat further. Her breath caught in her throat with an audible gasp.

A grin crept wide across the man’s face as he closed the narrow space between them and wrapped his fingers tightly around each of her arms. Now there was no escape. She would be ruined. And any chance she had for happiness with Baldwyn would dissipate like smoke curling from the chimney.

“Please, Mr. Tenorio. I wish to return to the dance.” Her voice was hardly a whisper. If she could only find it again, she might scream.

“In time,” he murmured as he pulled her against him.

“If you do not release me, sir, I shall scream,” she insisted, though so softly, he no doubt took it as an invitation.

He laughed, drawing closer to her. “Come now, amor, do not be coy. I can see you are in need of my warmth.”

As if in slow motion, his head descended toward her, his eyes intent on her lips. Fear in the face of inevitable ruin, the fate that was worse than death — her body reacted as though an involuntary force, and she struggled violently against him. A fervent voice shattered the silence encompassing them. And it was several moments before she realized the screaming she heard was her own, as though she were viewing the scene from a balcony seat at the opera.

“No! No! Let me go!” Anastasia’s insistent wail brought her spirit sailing back down from the rafters, jolting her into the present danger. She wrenched an arm from his vice-like grip and swung at him with all her might.

Her attacker caught her arm mid-swing and laughed heartily in her face. “Your spirit simply makes this more interesting, señorita. So fight on, amor. The music is too loud, and the night too cold. No one shall hear your cries but me.”

He released his grasp on her wrists then, but only to wrap his arms around her, immobilizing her completely. When his lips crushed onto hers, her mind screamed in fury. The depraved cur was stealing from her what she had saved her entire life to offer only to her duke. For Baldwyn alone. Her whole body revolted against the vile sensation, the taste of his Spanish accent. Bile rose in her throat, and she had no intention of holding it back, should it come with urgency.

Inexhaustibly she struggled against his hold on her. With every chance for air, she screamed her protest. With every chance for movement, she pounded him with her fists. Until he seemed to weary of her fight.

“Enough!” He railed and twisted her arms, sending sharp pains stabbing through her with vicious intensity until she had no choice but to fall to her knees at his feet. “And now we shall see.” The wicked gleam in his eye danced in the darkness held there.

“Yes, we shall!” Another voice echoed over her. Before she knew what was happening, someone grabbed Mr. Tenorio by the shoulder and spun him around to meet with a bone-shattering blow, delivered sharply to the man’s jaw.

Another scream escaped Anastasia’s throat as her assailant crumpled to the ground unconscious.

She leapt to her feet and covered her mouth with both hands. Her gaze darted to her savior, who loomed over his quarry, panting as though out of breath.

He had come. Baldwyn had saved her.

The reality of her ordeal slammed her with full force then, and she threw herself into Baldwyn’s arms, clutching at him for dear life.

The tears flowed on their own. She could hardly stop them.

How close she had come! How close she had been to—

She dared not give voice to the truth. All she could do was cling to her rescuer as though life would end otherwise.

When he wrapped his arms around her, the warmth from his frame spread through her, chasing away both the chill of the winter night and the icy fear that had frozen the blood in her veins.

Slowly he swept her into his arms and carried her toward the house with a deliberate stride, murmuring softly in her ear, “It’s over now. All is well.” His native Scottish accent seemed to grow more evident as he spoke, and the words seeped into her every pore, soothing her simpering breath, melting away her fears.

Anastasia buried her face against his neck and breathed him in. The smell of safety. Protection. The smell of a knight in shining armor. The smell of sandalwood and nutmeg. How she loved that smell.

The warmth emanating from the grate in the dark room welcomed them as Baldwyn stepped inside and set her on her feet. Lord Montmouth’s library. They had come through a side door, just out of sight of the balcony but with a grand view of the gazebo where she had only moments ago been held captive.

His hands remained on her shoulders, as though to steady her. She lifted her gaze to meet his. His clear blue eyes shone with concern, but a veiled hint of fear seemed to hang there as well.

He truly was her knight in shining armor. The one who would ride in on a gleaming white stallion when she needed him most and carry her off to safety. Was it so wrong to want to stay in the comfort of his arms? Even if it meant only a few more minutes of the safety of his embrace?

Disappointment flared in her chest when he relinquished his hold on her shoulders, but instead of leaving, he cradled her head in his hands and sighed, gently wiping a stray tear from her cheek with a soft brush of his thumb.

“Did he harm you?”

She shook her head, positively transfixed by the concern in his deep blue eyes, an involuntary shiver made its way down her spine. Only a slight tremble, yet enough for him to take notice.

Baldwyn cursed. “You’re shaking like a leaf.” He pulled her closer still, close enough to share the heat radiating from him. He inclined his head toward hers and pressed his lips against her forehead. She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the tenderness in the delivery of the kiss.

Then she sighed, and it felt as though she had been waiting to exhale that breath all her life.

His lips touched her again — first on one cheek, and then the other. Kissing away her pain. Her tears.

Anastasia rose on her tiptoes, wanting… needing more of him. Hope bloomed anew in her heart, and she willed him not to stop.

He cursed his grandmother, which seemed odd, but then his lips grazed Anastasia’s — once, twice — then fully captured them. A moan escaped her as his scent overwhelmed her senses. He nibbled at her lower lip and eased his tongue through the barrier of her mouth until all she could taste was him.

This was what she had been waiting for — what she had saved herself for — the whole of her life. Here in the arms of her intended, on the night of their engagement, she could die happy. This was what it was meant to be.

Anastasia sank into his warm embrace, wishing the moment would never end. His kiss grew more intense, more demanding, drawing her deeper into the haze of longing for him. His hands felt their way to her arms, as if he would lift her again into his embrace. When his fingers tightened around them, a stabbing pain shot straight through her and she flinched against it.

Instantly Baldwyn released her and stumbled backward, searching her face for signs of injury. Before her very eyes, the cloud of desire dissipated from his, retreating in the face of raw fear, and on the heels of that fear, sparked to life a blaze of hot fury. So sudden was the transformation, she had no time to react before he had drawn an index finger up in front of her face.

“What were you thinking! Have you not been told never to roam the gardens unchaperoned with any man? Were you not concerned for your reputation? For your virtue? Is this the type of daughter Lord Marks has raised?” Baldwyn dropped his hand to his side, clenching it into a fist with evident rage. He began pacing back and forth before her. Anastasia shrank back as he lashed out again. “You, who so brazenly go gallivanting about in the dark with a suave foreigner? What did you expect him to do, pray tell? Out there in the dark! In solitude!”

“Truly, your grace, I wasn’t—” she began, but he cut her off with his continued tirade.

“What if I had not happened by? What if I had been inside searching the ballroom for my betrothed and never once thought to look out of doors?”

A lump rose in Anastasia’s throat, and she didn’t dare risk her voice, lest it give away the tears threatening to break through the floodgates. Confusion and fear reigned.

Only a moment ago, he held her in his embrace. Comforting and shielding her from the waking nightmare she had endured. And now — now he derided her for her glaring stupidity. Her naïveté. Scolding her as if she was a mere child.

A mere child in mousy brown pigtails. “Were you?”

“What?” He stopped in his tracks and swung around to face her.

“Were you?” she repeated.

“Was I what?” he demanded.

“Were you searching for me?” Her heart dared to hope for it.

His reply was an exasperated grunt. Then he pivoted on his heel and stormed from the room bellowing, “It’s not enough that you tear me from my true duty in the dead of winter, but now I must play nursemaid to the infants as well!”

She knew the outburst was meant for his grandmother, but the words sliced through her already raw and wounded spirit. How she longed for the wretched night to end.

Chapter Seven

What was that? Baldwyn cursed again as he entered the ballroom. Surely a fluke — overcome by the passion of the moment. Nothing real, he assured himself. After all, she was the same girl who had thrown mud balls at him only a few short years before.

Wasn’t she?

Even as the thought made its way through his mind, he knew it for the lie it was. His grandmother was right, and the fact galled him. Anastasia Trent was no longer a little girl.

But she was acting like a naïve child.

Whatever had she been thinking? Señor Tenorio was known far and wide as a notorious rake. Even so, Baldwyn had never known him to move so fast. Almost as though he saw the engagement announcement as an open challenge, and his window of opportunity rapidly closing.

But Baldwyn had been absent from Society for a long time. He made a valiant effort to reason his rage away, to no avail.

Though it made no logical sense, he wanted to kill Tenorio.

With his bare hands. Tear him limb from limb.

Foolish, foolish girl! A fresh resurgence of anger overcame him as he scoured the ballroom for Lord Marks. The only thing to do was see the chit safely on her way home.

The ballroom was a buzz of activity, rather lively for a winter event. It seemed more of the peerage had remained in town this year than in the past

Perhaps it was the war dampening the desire to travel.

His gaze scrutinized the dancers until he noticed a couple quite out of step. Another drunken assailant? And the victim?

Katherine Bourne. His cousin’s burden — coerced though it might be.

And where was Benedict? Not rescuing the chit. That was certain.

Baldwyn cursed again, louder than he intended. The ladies near him gasped and fanned themselves vigorously. “Pardon me,” he mumbled and nodded his regret.

Lady Katherine seemed helpless as her partner lumbered around the dance floor, dragging her along with him.

No doubt it was up to Baldwyn to save her. If she were anywhere near as simple-minded as the Lady Anastasia, she’d be out in the gardens being pawed to death in no time. And whose fault was it truly? If Baldwyn had stepped in when young drunk Markham had been dancing with Anastasia, he would’ʹve never had to rescue her from Tenorio. He grunted in disgust, and grudgingly made his way toward Lady Katherine.

There was no use in following right behind the duke to the ballroom. She had no intention of giving the gossips more fodder for conversation. Baldwyn was already furious with her for the episode with the Spaniard. If anyone else saw the scene, she would be done for, and so would her father’s good name. The possibility nauseated her.

Stealthily she made the short trip to the ladies’ lounge. A few moments of peace and she could return to the ballroom to search out her father and ask him to take her home. All she wanted was to see the end of this wretched night.

Once she regained her composure, and righted her dress and hair after the harrowing ordeal, she re-entered the ballroom with renewed confidence, certain that her evening’s excitement had gone unnoticed by everyone but Baldwyn.

From across the room, she caught sight of Baldwyn dancing with Lady Katherine Bourne, an acquaintance she had often wished she knew better. But the particular attention Baldwyn seemed to be paying to her in that moment was disturbing, and Anastasia couldn’t help but envision herself tearing out the poor girl’s hair.

She glanced around the room until she found her father amidst a small group of older gentlemen. And though everything within her demanded she chase after Baldwyn and scratch out Lady Katherine’s eyes, Anastasia focused her energy on reaching her father.

Halfway to him, pandemonium seemed to break out behind her, and she turned to see what the matter was. Just beyond the doorway from which Anastasia had just entered, the Duke of Banbury staggered onto the dance floor, bellowing unintelligibly. He seemed angry. He was certainly inebriated.

And he was heading toward Baldwyn.

Anastasia froze in her place and watched the scene unfold. It seemed all in attendance did the same.

Banbury stopped abruptly when he reached the dancing couple. Anastasia held her breath. He wouldn’t hit Baldwyn, would he? She stared at him, silently willing him to leave Baldwyn unharmed. Banbury grasped Lady Katherine’s arm and tugged her away from her partner, and together they trudged out of the ballroom, leaving a silent and shocked audience in their wake.

Anastasia’s gaze returned to Baldwyn. Was he laughing? He shook his head and turned her way, wearing a small amused grin. When his gaze reached her eyes, the twinkle left his expression, and for an instant he held her gaze. Then Baldwyn looked past her and lifted a hand to adjust his cravat before striding forward with purpose.

She remembered she still held her breath, and let it out in a soft blast, while tracing his path across the floor. Toward her.

He paused directly in front of her and bowed his head briefly.

“My lady, shall I see you to your father?” He offered his arm, but no smile. Ever the well-mannered duke, he was simply doing what was expected of him. It would be awkward for him indeed to abandon her to her own devices on the night of their engagement, after all. Though he had done just that no less than two times already. Perhaps his mind was just now coming out of the haze of liquor he had drowned himself in before the announcement.

No doubt he had needed the liquid courage to face the horrifying task of promising to marry her.

Anastasia felt the sting of rejection in her eyes, threatening to induce another bout of tears. She swallowed them back and placed her hand on his arm.

“That would please me, your grace,” she finally forced out, and focused her attention on the group with whom her father stood just a few feet away from them.

“Good evening, Lord Marks,” Baldwyn said, drawing her closer to him.

Her father looked up from his conversation with a wide smile. “Paisley, my boy! I am so glad to see you have returned to London at last!” He gestured toward Baldwyn with a nod and added to his companions, “Gentlemen, you all surely know the Duke of Paisley, my daughter’s intended.”

The others bowed briefly and chuckled. Several congratulated him and nodded toward Anastasia.

“Gentlemen,” Baldwyn acknowledged them. “Lord Marks, I thank you for the loan of your lovely daughter this evening, but I do believe she has reached the end of her taste for the entertainments.”

He was sending her home? While it was true that she had suffered quite enough for one evening, it seems he could have at least asked her preference before making the decision for her. With little more than a glance in her direction, he slipped her hand from his arm, placed a chaste kiss on her gloved fingers and turned her over to her father.

“Come around in the morning, Paisley. We should have a chat.”

“Certainly, sir. First thing.” He turned back to Anastasia.

“My lady,” he mumbled, then nodded to Lord Marks, turned on his heel, and left.

“Your grace,” she said to his retreating form.

Anastasia’s father kissed her hand, drawing her attention back to him. “Was it all you dreamed it would be, my dear?” His eyes held a hopeful sparkle.

A lump formed in her throat. How could she tell him what a horrifying disappointment the evening had turned out to be? Could she tell him of her failures, of how close she had come to being compromised? She swallowed back her regret once more and forced a sweet smile.

“Of course, Father. Everything I had hoped and more.”

He patted her hand tenderly. “I’m glad to hear it, my sweet. Very glad indeed.”

As he escorted her outside to their waiting carriage, she clung to her father’s strong arm — the only thing she knew she could depend on to hold her up, when all she wanted to do was crumple to the ground and weep.

Chapter Eight

Baldwyn awoke to the sound of his grandmother’s tirade right outside his chamber door.

“I don’t care one whit what time he dragged into bed last night! I want him up, dressed, and ready to call on the Duke of Banbury within fifteen minutes, or I shall bring in the dogs to roust him! And Heaven help you, if I have to deal with the hounds! Do I make myself clear, young man?”

The simpering murmur that followed could only be Munro, the traitorous wretch. Selling him out to the old woman once again to save his own hide. Surely he knew that only Baldwyn could discharge him.

The thought made even Baldwyn chuckle. She would find a way. The devil’s own bride, his grandmother. She could find a way to make anyone suffer.

Munro entered his room with a soft click of the door. Baldwyn held deathly still. He would not make this easy on the valet. Let the man sweat a bit at the prospect of the wretched old dowager haunting his children’s children for years to come. It would serve him right, for choosing to ignore his master’s instructions that he not be disturbed.

“Your grace…” Munro began, his voice soft at first. When Baldwyn did not stir, the valet gently laid a hand on his shoulder and spoke louder. “Your grace.” Again Baldwyn dared not even breathe.

The urgency in the young man’s voice grew tangible. “Your grace!” he shouted and shook Baldwyn rigorously.

Baldwyn lay completely still. How long could he hold out?

With each second ticking by, the poor fellow’s desperation grew. After multiple attempts to rouse him, Baldwyn could sense the valet retreat to the side of the room. He heard the splash of water being poured from the pitcher into a shallow basin. The man wouldn’t dare… would he?

Baldwyn cracked an eye open into a squint and watched as Munro grasped the glass of ice cold water and balanced it carefully on the way back to the bed, lifting it slightly when he got close and pulling back his elbow in preparation to douse what he thought was the sleeping duke.

“Don’t you dare!” Baldwyn bellowed as he leapt from the bed, scaring the valet so savagely, that his arm jerked in surprise, sending the contents of the glass sloshing directly into Baldwyn’s face before he could dodge it.

“Munro…” Baldwyn muttered as he wiped at the water streaming down his face.

Munro immediately covered his mouth with his hand, hiding the evidence of his amusement. “The dowager requests your presence, your grace,” he managed to choke out, and handed Baldwyn a dry cloth.

“Munro, if I live through this day, you and I shall have a lengthy discussion about your continued employment upon my return.” Baldwyn knew it was his own fault for scaring him, but it seemed rather obvious that one way or another he was going to be on the receiving end of that icy shower.

“Forgive me, your grace,” he muttered. “But the dowager has given you a mere fifteen minutes. You’re down to ten.” Were Baldwyn’s eyes playing tricks on him, or did he see a shiver of fear in his valet’s shoulders as the man worked to lay out Baldwyn’s clothes?

The Dowager Duchess of Durbin could strike fear in the stoutest of hearts. One could hardly blame the young valet.

“Very well, Munro,” he conceded. “I shall make haste for your sake. And when I return, I will share my brandy with you. I’m certain after a day in this house, you will have earned it.”

“Not to worry, your grace. The house staff keeps a fine liquor cabinet well-stocked in the servants’ wing.”

Naturally, Baldwyn thought. And who could blame them? He rushed to ready himself for the visit to Benedict. Lord Marks would have to wait his turn.

Sunlight streamed through the windows, nagging at Anastasia’s closed eyes. Her lady’s maid pushed the curtains back with surprisingly little care for how much noise she was making.

Anastasia flinched in complaint at the brightness of the daylight infringing on her rest. She felt as though she hadn’t had a wink of sleep all night. Her eyelids were swollen and heavy from the tears she had indulged in throughout the restless hours, replaying the events of the evening over and over in her mind.

“Trudy,” she whined pitifully.

The girl turned to her with an apology in her eyes. “I’m sorry, milady. The earl asked me to wake you. The duke will be comin’ this mornin’. Yer father wants you to receive him and keep him busy until he can finish his mornin’ business.”

Keep him busy? How was she to accomplish that? She could see it now, the whole conversation…

You look well, your grace.

I hope you’ve learned your lesson, child. Proper girls do not go into dark gardens with Spaniards.

Yes, your grace. I’m sorry.

Yes. Yes, you are. Very sorry indeed. Perhaps your nanny should accompany you to your next event. To wipe your nose and keep your gloves clean.

My father has said as much, your grace.

Excellent. Now where is he? I grow tired of this childish conversation.

“I’ve laid out your blue afternoon dress, milady. Cook is already setting out the morning meal.”

Anastasia groaned and rolled out of bed. The day ahead would be long and trying. She steeled her nerves and reached for her slippers.

His grandmother’s rush had deprived him of his morning meal, but fortunately, Benedict’s kitchen staff had already laid a suitable spread.

The dowager had been in such a fit this morning, she hadn’t uttered a word the entire way to the Banbury house. She simply stared straight forward, clenched her hands tightly in her lap, and periodically heaved an exasperated huff.

At one point Baldwyn opened his mouth to ask her if she was well but thought better of it when he noticed the vein straining in her temple. A sign he had long ago learned meant his grandmother was not to be trifled with.

Now as he sat in Benedict’s place at the table, he couldn’t keep the smile of relief from playing at his lips at the fact that his cousin was the object of her wrath rather than himself. He lifted a hot scone to his mouth and took a large bite.

Benedict wouldn’t mind. In fact, it would come as quite a surprise to Baldwyn if the man had any appetite left after dealing with the dowager this morning.

A maid poured him a cup of tea, but when he reached for it, he heard a throat clearing beside him. Baldwyn glanced up to the man standing at his elbow with a bottle on a silver tray.

“For your tea, your grace.”

“My tea?” Benedict certainly had strange habits. Whiskey in his morning tea? He regarded the footman with suspicion for a moment.

“You are staying with the dowager, are you not?” Baldwyn stared at him. His cousin was a genius.

“Indeed,” Baldwyn said as he chuckled, reached for the bottle, then changed his mind. Liquor on his breath when he met with the dowager would not be the most brilliant of strategies. Above him the crystal chandelier trembled with the vibrations of his grandmother’s raised voice. The same shiver seemed to course around the room, leaping from one servant to the next.

He hesitated for an instant, eyeing the bottle once more.

Then he shook his head adamantly and waved the footman off.

A few minutes later, Benedict burst into the room.

“She’s fainted again!” he bellowed to his servants. “Where are the smelling salts?” One of the maids leapt into action, exiting immediately to retrieve the smelling salts.

“Again?” Baldwyn asked, wiping the last few crumbs from his lips. “How often does this occur?” He stood to join Benedict near the door.

“Occasionally,” Benedict replied.

“Perhaps it is a ruse?” Baldwyn suggested. He hadn’t known her to garner attention through a farce in the past, but in a situation such as this, where she might feel her stratagems falling flat, there was no telling to what depths she would stoop.

“Perhaps. I had just told her I had plans to ruin Lady Katherine,” he said with a calculated wink. “Then again, the shock of my exploits being plastered in all the gossip papers could easily be the culprit.”

“The dowager is never shocked, Benedict. She knows of every scandal before it even happens.”

Benedict shook his head mournfully. “The truth of that statement pains me.”

“It pains us all.” Baldwyn rested a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. An abrupt change of subject was in order. He cleared his throat. “I have an appointment this morning with Lord Marks. Will you see the dowager home?”

Chapter Nine

The Marks’ butler met Baldwyn at the door the moment he raised the brass knocker. He was promptly ushered through the foyer to the salon.

“Lord Marks is occupied, your grace. The lady of the house will receive you. If you will please be seated, Lady Anastasia will be with you in a moment.”

Baldwyn’s nerves protested, but he waited in the salon as instructed. After the night before, he wasn’t certain what he would say to her. He had behaved horribly.

Not that any man would have handled the situation better than he had. It was only the previous day he had arrived from Scotland, been informed of the betrothal, announced his engagement to a girl he hadn’t seen in years, rescued her from a fate worse than death, kissed her senseless, and scolded her ruthlessly. All in all, he had made a thorough fool of himself.

He stood rather than sat, since he hardly felt at ease.

The doors opened, and Lady Anastasia entered, followed by her lady’s maid, a proper escort.

It was impossible not to notice that her hair was down, draped carelessly over her shoulders. Did she not expect his visit? Why would a proper young lady receive a gentleman caller without her hair properly arranged?

He was staring. He knew he was, but he could no more pry his gaze from her soft wavy chestnut locks and the way they framed her ivory face than he could will his heart to stop beating.

“Good morning, your grace,” she said, interrupting his silent appreciation of the vision before him. She tilted her head to the side and regarded him with a raised eyebrow. “Are you well?”

“Yes.” He shook he head slightly to clear it. “Yes. Pardon me, my lady. I was just—” He stared at her and gestured with a sweep of his hand. “I — your hair.”

“My hair?” A look of confused horror blazed in her dark eyes, and she lifted a hand to examine what was amiss. From the expression on her face, it seemed she had no idea of her lack of preparedness for this meeting. “Oh dear!” She covered her mouth with her other hand and glanced to her maid.

“Trudy—” Her voice seemed to freeze in the air, and the maid’s gasp mirrored the lady’s mortification.

“I imagine the damage is already done.” In more ways than one. Did she know what her appearance brought to mind?

Brown hair spilled nearly to her waist, and he was having a devil of a time keeping his eyes from following the silky tendrils as they danced along her body and rose and fell with her breath. And Baldwyn realized anew that Lady Anastasia was indeed no longer a child.

“Forgive me, your grace, I was a bit rushed this morning.” Her cheeks reddened with embarrassment. Baldwyn couldn’t tear his eyes from her, and she cringed under the weight of his steady gaze. Her eyes darted to her maid once more as she gathered her hair and twisted it behind her head. Perhaps silently pleading for the girl to do something about her current state.

The girl disappeared through the door without another word, leaving them quite alone.

He had told himself the night before that his interest in the lady was a fluke. That he wasn’t truly attracted to her, but had been swept up in the passion of the moment. Now he wasn’t so sure.

But there was one way to prove it to himself. She was his betrothed, after all.

And the maid had left them alone.

After the previous night, the only thing Anastasia could think of was being kissed by the duke. Her mind had been a thousand miles away. Little wonder how she had gotten all the way to the salon without realizing her hair was still down. But as he said, the damage was already done.

Baldwyn was staring at her with the most frightening look in his eyes. As if he couldn’t believe her wantonness. She sat down on the settee to prepare herself for another scolding. Surely he must believe her to be the worst kind of misbehaving child. She glanced at her hands, awaiting his lecture.

When it didn’t come, she looked up to find him standing in front of her.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing to the seat beside her.

“Yes, of course.” Anastasia scooted further to her side, leaving him plenty of room. Her heart skipped a beat at his nearness.

“I would like to offer an apology, my lady, for last night. My behavior was inexcusable.” His words caught her completely off- guard. He was apologizing? A duke? “My grandmother’s dictum came as a… surprise. I—” Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed him fidgeting with his gloves. “I thought perhaps I might have a few years more before being forced to marry.”

Ah. So there it was. She was his burden to bear. Hardly the romantic love affair she had imagined all these years. Her long sigh gave away her disappointment.

“I mean to say, as a matter of course, I fully intend to do my duty, my lady. You have nothing to fear from me. From here on out I will behave as the perfect gentleman where you are concerned.”

Her heart sank to her slippers. That was a shame.

The maid swept back into the room with a handful of pins and made short work of securing Anastasia’s wayward tresses on the back of her head.

“Thank you, Trudy.”

He simply couldn’t go through with it. No matter how much he desired to test his theories.

The girl was young, unspoiled, and it hardly seemed fair to ravage her here in her father’s house when they scarcely knew each other. They would be married soon enough, and then he would claim his rights.

Baldwyn had withstood temptation once or twice before, though he didn’t make a common practice of it.

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’ʹs 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 mud balls 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 played itself over 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 them. Women were frightfully anxious about such things.

The warmth of her touch was both pleasant and frustrating, reminding him of the stolen moments 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 boar. 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 to 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.

“Excuse me, Lady Anastasia, 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. “I thought I saw a bug on your gown, and I was endeavoring to remove it.”

“Consider yourself lucky, your grace,” Anastasia snapped back.

“Lucky? Hardly,” he murmured just under his breath. She almost didn’t catch 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 finally 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?”

“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 timbre 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.

“Is all well, your grace?”

“I—I am uncertain,” he said, the slur of his voice coming belatedly to his ears.

Concern leapt into her expression, and the door opened wider. It was Lady Anastasia. A sense of guilt pricked at the back of his mind, as though there were some reason he should apologize to the lady, but he could not for the life of him grasp what it was.

“Might one of you show me to my room?”

“One of us, your grace?”

“Yes, you or your identical twin.” Perhaps he was seeing things. There were two of them, weren’t there?

“I believe your grace has had a drink or two this evening.”

“That is very true.” He took a step toward her but stumbled and launched himself into the wall instead. “Will you help me?”

She glanced down the corridor and then back to him. “Very well, your grace,” she said with a sigh and lifted his arm and wrapped it around her shoulders. “It’s just a bit farther.”

He didn’t remember her smelling so good. Like Scottish bluebells and primroses. Perhaps the brandy was heightening his senses. The floor pitched again, and he stumbled over his own feet.

So, perhaps only his sense of smell…

“Your grace, I will see you to your room, but you shall have to make an effort to keep your feet under you.”

“Yes, of course. I do apologize, my love,” he slurred. She stopped suddenly in her tracks, jolting him. “What? What is it?” he asked.

“This is it.” Her brown eyes searched his face.

“Oh. You are angry with me.” Baldwyn hung his head. If only the thick fog in his brain would clear. “I know I have been awful.”

“You misunderstand, your grace. This…” she waved a hand toward the door before them, “…is your chamber.”

“Ah, yes. Very good.” She turned away, leaving a cold void where she had held him. “Anastasia…” He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, he just knew he wasn’t ready for her to leave him.

“Your grace?”

“Your grace, your grace!” he mocked her. “Must you always be so proper?”

“Pardon me?” A flash of anger lit up her eyes. “Did you not just—”

But he stopped listening. His eyes focused on her lips. He didn’t understand a word coming out of her mouth, but it didn’t matter. Ever since he had kissed her at Montmouth’s ball, the memory had plagued him. He would kiss her again. Now. And to the fire with propriety.

“You arrogant, self-righteous pr—”

His lips crushed to hers, stopping the words in her throat.

It was easy to rationalize it. It was his duty to show her how dangerous it was for her to be gallivanting about the hall in her dressing gown… at night… in her own house. Put that way, of course, it sounded much less chivalrous.

He knew he shouldn’t, but the logic of it seemed to make perfect sense. And in the instant his lips touched hers he was lost — lost in a sea of desire of need, and powerless to fight what he’d been craving to do for the past four days.

The lady was innocent, unsure how to respond. Baldwyn could tell that much in his drunken state.

If he was to be chained to her for the rest of his life, he may as well teach her how this was done. Surely that was his responsibility as well.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her, intending only to gain a better angle from which to begin the lesson. Still unsteady on his feet, he lost his balance and stumbled toward the wall, slamming her back to it and falling against her forcefully. The gasp that escaped her throat left her mouth slightly opened, enough for him to taste the moist warmth of her mouth. His brain was on fire and had no room for any other thought.

Her whimper was all the encouragement he needed, and he pulled her flush against him. The softness of her pressed against him drove him deeper still into the flames that consumed him body and soul.

His hands wandered on their own then, with no regard to propriety. He couldn’t stop if he wanted to.

Anastasia squirmed in his grasp. He took her mouth wholly with his, pulling her tighter, wanting with every fiber of his being to somehow stumble into his bedroom and ruin her completely. Perhaps it was the liquor, but it seemed like a perfectly lovely idea.

Her hands pressed to his chest like a barrier between them, keeping them apart. Why wasn’t she embracing him? He tangled his fingers into her long wavy brown hair which hung down her back and about her shoulders like cascading velvet. Baldwyn traced her shoulders, down her arms, and finally finding her hands, he interlaced his fingers with hers and gently urged them away.

She startled as if caught off guard, pulling them off balance once more, and the two of them lurched to the side, slamming against a hall table which held an old vase and a pair of silver candlesticks.

The vase tipped over and rolled to the floor. The resounding shatter echoed through the hall, bringing Baldwyn abruptly back to earth.

He took a step back and turned to Lady Anastasia. She seemed frozen in that moment of time. Both her tiny hands covered her mouth in what appeared to be horror, and she shook her head. Tears brimmed in her eyes and began to slip down her cheeks.

“I—” she began. Wrapping her arms around herself, she began to back away from him.

Baldwyn wanted to reach out. Comfort her. Protect her from whatever was causing her sorrow… her fear.

“Your room is here, your grace,” she whispered quickly, then whirled around and hurried back to her own room, closing the door behind her. The latch clicked into place, and the creak of a key turning in the lock immediately followed.

And with that metallic snap of the mechanism, the realization came.

It was he who’d caused her sorrow.

Chapter Thirteen

He was a great idiot. That was not up for debate. Unfortunately the episode the previous night was clear enough in his memory to cause violent pangs of conscience… which were only compounded by the pounding in his head.

By some miracle he had found his way down to the dining room, though he was less interested in breaking his fast than he was in spending the day in his chamber, nursing the skull splitting ache in his head. Benedict would have the cure. The man was notorious for his drinking binges and always seemed to come out on the other side without so much as a twitching brow.

“Good morning, cousin!” Benedict announced far too loudly while pounding him heartily on the back.

Baldwyn cringed at the sound ricocheting through his brain like a French cannonball.

“I see very little good about it,” he whispered. Benedict only smiled back at him like he had lost his mind. Baldwyn peered at him through half-open eyes.

“It’s a lovely morning! And there shall be ice skating!” If it were possible, the devil’s grin grew even wider. There was something wrong with him.

“Why are you so—” Baldwyn searched his mind for the perfect word to capture the essence of Benedict’s ailment.

“Handsome? Intelligent? Well-endowed?” Benedict offered.

Baldwyn snorted, then cringed at the stabbing pain. “I was going to say happy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so disgustingly merry.”

“And so I am… all of those things!” His cousin threw his head back with a raucous laugh and slapped Baldwyn on the shoulder once more.

“Cousin, you must stop doing that.” He clutched his head in his hands and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the devil duke stood beside him grinning like an imbecile and staring across the room at none other than Lady Katherine Bourne, the accident-prone wench the dowager had designed for his future.

Nausea rolled through his stomach and he shook his head in disbelief.

“Oh, no.” There was no hope. No hope for a man such as Baldwyn if even the devil duke was susceptible to the dowager’s schemes. Hot fury rose in his chest. He wanted to kick. He wanted to scream. If only neither of those activities would make his head explode.

“Excuse me, Benedict,” he muttered. Baldwyn would get to the bottom of her hold on him. The ton’s last great bachelor could not go down so easily.

In four long strides, he stood beside her. His indignance overshadowed the throbbing pain in his head. He grabbed the plate from her conniving little hand and began scooping large amounts of eggs onto it. “Allow me.”

Lady Katherine stared at him in amused confusion. “Thank you—” her voice broke off with a questioning lilt, and she reached for the plate to take it back, but Baldwyn pulled it back just out of her reach.

“What the devil did you do?” He was seething. He had to stop this. Had to break her spell over the last great hope of bachelors everywhere.

“Pardon?” Such an innocent face. But underneath she was a scheming hoyden, out to put a stranglehold on all eligible gentlemen.

This would never do. It was one thing to force the two dukes to marry. To forge betrothal contracts in their names. To plot their demise. To design and plan and weave a twisted web in which to trap the two. To force a marriage with any young chit. But it was another matter entirely to engineer a match that sucked every last bit of life out of the notorious rake, leaving him nothing more than a shell of his former moody self. Baldwyn couldn’t take it.

And he knew. As he had known the first night in the garden at the Montmouth ball.

His heart was next in line for the fall.

Anastasia hadn’t slept. And now she was wishing she had remained in her room until everyone else had finished eating. It felt as though all eyes were on her when she stepped through the door, as if they knew what had transpired between Anastasia and her betrothed the night before. But how could they?

Across the room Lady Katherine accepted a plate from Baldwyn and smiled at him. She was forever smiling at him. Baldwyn’s gaze reached Anastasia. She thought there was a spark behind his eye. A spark that was for her. Undoubtedly a spark of resentment.

He blamed her.

He’d attacked her in her own house, and somehow it was her fault? And after all that duty and responsibility talk. The speeches about guarding her virtue. Give the man a few drinks, and he was an absolute rake.

And he was coming her way.

Warmth spread through her as he approached.

“Good morning, my lady. Did you sleep well?” He reached for her hand and planted a quick kiss on her wrist. It was difficult to read him. His eyes were glassy and his voice was low.

“Not at all, your grace.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Any reason in particular?” He glanced around the room as though he cared little what her answer would be.

“Surely you jest, sir.” Anastasia stared at him in disbelief. Was he truly going to pretend nothing had happened? Still he wouldn’t meet her gaze.

“Are you—” she began but was abruptly cut off by a sudden commotion amongst the servants.

“Look alive! She is here!” one footman called.

“Quickly, quickly!” another rushed toward a group of maids near the door.

Anastasia glanced around the room to determine the cause.

Her father’s servants were rarely this upset. Was Casper crying?

Beside her Baldwyn seemed to tense and freeze. She traced his gaze to the door on the other side of the room. There stood the Dowager Duchess of Durbin wearing an icy glare as she looked down her long aristocratic nose at everyone.

“I didn’t know my father had invited her.” Anastasia’s voice was no more than a breath, but it reverberated in the air between them like the clash of a cymbal.

He sighed and turned to Anastasia. “I believe our best course of action is to join the ice skating.”

“As you wish, your grace.”

Chapter Fourteen

The sky was clear and deep blue as they sat around the frozen pond lacing up their skates. A few feet away, the servants stoked a small fire and heated mulled cider alongside the roasting chestnuts.

A gust of winter wind blew Anastasia’s bonnet from her head, and it flapped against her back avoiding her grasp. Beside her, Baldwyn caught the offending article, replaced it on her head, and retied it securely under her chin.

His gaze was intent on the task at hand, though Anastasia couldn’t help but search his eyes. They seemed a deeper blue out in the sunshine. His fingers fumbled with the strings of her bonnet, lingering longer than necessary.

“That should hold,” he said finally, allowing his hand to brush her chin and glancing to her eyes briefly before abruptly turning away and offering his arm. “Ready?”

“Yes, thank you, your grace.” She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and buried the other deep in the fur muff hanging from her neck as they slid onto the ice.

Baldwyn was silent as they made their first pass around the ice. After several minutes Anastasia ventured to speak.

“How is your head, your grace?”

He glanced at her as though startled by the question.

“It is causing me some discomfort, I must admit,” he answered at last. “How do you fare this morning?”

“Lovely. Thank you.” In truth, she had hardly slept a wink all night and was frightfully tired, but it didn’t seem the proper thing to say.

Anastasia allowed the silence to encompass them again for several minutes. When it grew burdensome, she cleared her throat to speak again. She wanted to say something. Anything to clear the air. Perhaps speak of the kiss the night before. Somehow to understand how things stood between them.

“Your grace, I—” she began, but in that moment the Duke of Banbury and Lady Katherine skated up beside them.

“Paisley, you skate like a woman,” Banbury baited his cousin with a wicked grin. “I am certain I could make it twice around the pond before you made it halfway to the other side.”

A tiny smirk played on the corner of Baldwyn’s lips, and he turned to Anastasia. “My dear, I fear a challenge has been made. Shall I accept it?”

The special attention sent a tingle of joy through her heart. “Most sincerely, your grace. You must defend your family honor.”

“Very well. Banbury, I accept.” They swung a wide graceful arc and made their way back to the bank. Anastasia fairly floated on his arm as they went.

Katherine and Anastasia settled onto the bench to watch the race.

“May I wear your colors, my lady?” Baldwyn asked with a gallant bow and a wink at her.

“Paisley, you’re stalling,” Banbury taunted.

Anastasia slipped her handkerchief out of her muff, tied it around his wrist, suppressing a giggle when he kissed her hand and spun around to the starting mark.

This was the Baldwyn she remembered from long ago. The playful knight. Rescuing her from her distress, fighting for her honor, chivalrous to a fault.

Beside her on the bench, Katherine sighed faintly in disappointment. Banbury hadn’t asked for her favor.

Baldwyn regarded him a moment, but when he made no move toward Lady Katherine, Baldwyn took it upon himself.

“Lady Katherine, might I wear yours as well?” The lady’s eyes lit up. Anastasia’s heart fell.

Chivalrous to a fault. Of course he wouldn’t let Lady Katherine be disappointed. Part of Anastasia told her it was thoughtful, but another part wanted to pounce on the lady and tear out her hair in great handfuls. Still another part was fully occupied with restraining the second part from taking over the whole of her.

Lady Katherine tied her own handkerchief around Baldwyn’s other wrist, and he kissed her hand and smiled broadly into her eyes.

Banbury’s face reddened as he watched the scene unfold, a mirror’s reflection of Anastasia’s own concealed rage.

At least Lady Katherine had the decency to blush when Baldwyn kissed her hand. Little better than a common strumpet.

“Lady Katherine,” the Duke of Banbury said, his voice was a low growl. “On your word.”

She clapped her hands and stood. “Ready. Go!” she shouted. The ice sprayed back onto Anastasia’s skirts as the two launched forward, skating furiously for the other side of the pond. The few other guests clapped and cheered as the race went on.

Some called out for Paisley. Others cheered for Banbury.

Anastasia herself said nothing, but sat holding her breath, awaiting the outcome with her hands clenched together inside her warm muff.

When the two reached the far side of the pond, they were dead even. The turn was bumpy, but Baldwyn appeared to have the better move and turned on a pin. Banbury stumbled on his turn and lost several strides as he struggled to keep his feet under him.

“Trouble, Ben?” she heard Baldwyn shout back at his cousin.

Banbury answered with an unrepeatable curse, but Baldwyn just laughed and slid to a stop in front of the bench a full five count before his challenger’s arrival at the finish line.

A light danced in his blue eyes as he glanced her way. His smile took her breath away, and she imagined it was for her alone.

He bent into a deep mocking bow toward Banbury. “A pleasure, as always, your grace-less.”

Banbury smoldered in response — his usual frightening expression. Then as if a light suddenly dawned, he cocked an eyebrow at Baldwyn and an evil grin spread across his dark features. “Speaking of graceless, did any of you happen to hear the commotion in the corridor last evening?”

Anastasia could feel the blood draining from her face and knew she was as white as her fur muff. But Baldwyn didn’t even wince. He leveled his gaze at his cousin, still wearing his playful grin, as if not a single word of what Banbury had said struck any chord of remembrance.

“I heard nothing. In fact, I was so exhausted when I found my room, I fell asleep before I got more than three steps in the door. I awoke this morning drooling on the cold floor. What was the matter?”

The smirk remained on Banbury’s face, and he considered Baldwyn’s reaction. For Anastasia’s part, never was she so happy to melt into the background, for she was certain he would read the guilt on her face.

“A broken vase.”

“Perhaps one of the servants being careless in his work.”

“Generally speaking, housemaids tend to do their work during daylight hours.”

“Hmmm… how very odd.” Baldwyn turned his attention to Anastasia and Lady Katherine. “I am honored, ladies, to have won the challenge for two such lovely ladies.” He loosened the silk favors from his wrists and returned them to their owners.

Anastasia was both mortified at Banbury’s insinuation and humiliated by the flirtatious glint in the eyes of her betrothed when he bestowed Lady Katherine’s handkerchief. She cleared her throat in disgust.

“Would you be so kind, your grace, as to fetch a mug of hot cider?” she asked Baldwyn.

He nodded. The smile disappeared from his lips. “As you wish, my lady.”

She watched him stride away but found herself, in spite of the marvelous view, struggling with the impulse to viciously attack the lady on her left. Glancing back at Lady Katherine, she found the lady’s gaze following Baldwyn as well.

Fortunately for everyone, Banbury chose that moment to clear his throat and draw Lady Katherine’s attention.

“Care to skate, Kate?” he asked. He stepped between the two ladies and offered his arm to Katherine.

As they glided away arm in arm, Baldwyn returned with Anastasia’s cider.

“Is it terrible of me to hope the ice cracks and she falls in?”

Baldwyn chuckled, then thought better of it and took a long draught of the steaming liquid in his own mug. When he brought the cup down, his expression was stern once more. “Quite terrible indeed,” he chided. She sighed.

“However,” he held up a single finger and arched his eyebrows as though he was to make a vitally important observation, “Lady Katherine does have a frightful propensity towards mishap.”

It was Anastasia’s turn to stifle a laugh.

They sipped their cider in comfortable silence and watched the skaters for a few moments.

As if in answer to Anastasia’s dearest wish, Banbury and Lady Katherine did tangle up their skates somehow and crashed hard onto the solid surface of the pond.

Anastasia gasped. Beside her, Baldwyn tensed and stood from the bench. Was he regretting his jest?

Lady Katherine aided Banbury in returning to the bench. He was whimpering like a wounded pup, though one could tell from looking at him he was milking the perceived injury for all it was worth.

Anastasia stood to make room on the bench. Banbury sank onto the bench and proceeded to beg favors of Lady Katherine, who simply tossed his requests back in his face, drawing a hearty laugh from Baldwyn.

Banbury scowled at Baldwyn, then turned his attention to Lady Katherine, taking her hand and pulling her closer, but her skate found a chunk of broken ice, and the lady reeled forward, her arms flailing. Her overcompensation threw her backward, and she floundered toward the ground.

Much to Anastasia’s chagrin, Katherine’s fall was interrupted… by Baldwyn, who caught the lady and stopped her from a gloriously humiliating tumble. Anastasia rolled her eyes and resumed her seat.

However, when Baldwyn offered to escort Lady Katherine onto the ice, Anastasia’s breath quickened. Short, shallow gasps for air set her head to spinning. She crossed her ankles and thrust both hands into her muff, intertwining her fingers. Her grasp tightened until she could no longer feel her fingers.

Across the ice, Baldwyn laughed at something Katherine said. He faced her and lifted her chin in an intimate gesture.

Anastasia’s stomach churned. She was certain she would expend its contents. Her vision grew hazy and she couldn’t catch her breath. It was as though Lady Katherine had punched her right in the abdomen with all her might.

“Are you unwell, Lady Anastasia?” The Duke of Banbury’s voice floated through the haze to her.

“I’m lovely. Just lovely,” she heard her own voice reply.

His hand rested on her arm, and she glanced slowly at it. A foreign warmth on her cold wrist.

“You are quite pale.”

“Am I?” Her thoughts milled leisurely through her mind. “Perhaps if your grace is recovered enough, might you consider taking a turn with me around the pond? I believe the cold is settling in my bones.”

The thought to use him to bait Baldwyn occurred to her only after she accepted his arm. In truth, the only thought in her head was to move anywhere in order not to watch the two of them lost in intimate conversation, as they floated across the ice in perfect unison.

Her plan was an abject failure on both fronts. Baldwyn didn’t so much as cast a glance in her direction, while she herself couldn’t pry her gaze from him no matter how she tried.

Banbury led her around the outer edge of the pond, and as they rounded the final turn back toward their bench, the dowager duchess suddenly appeared there, with two bedraggled servants bent over her feet, attaching her skates.

“Crazy old woman,” Banbury muttered and shook his head. Coming from the other direction, Baldwyn guided Katherine toward his grandmother. He glanced in Anastasia’s direction and then focused on the dowager.

“Baldwyn! Benedict! Come help me. I wish to skate,” the old woman bellowed.

Benedict increased his speed and abruptly deposited Anastasia on the bank without so much as a nod to acknowledge her.

“Aunt Agatha, are you certain this is a good idea?”

The dowager struck him with her cane on the top of his hat. “Don’t argue with me, Benedict. Take my arm,” she demanded. “Baldwyn! Look alive there, boy. I’m not growing any younger. Take my arm and let’s be off!” Baldwyn helped Katherine to the bench, winked at her, and took his grandmother’s arm.

With one duke on each arm, the dowager began an unsteady tread across the ice. After an agonizingly long moment, she suddenly yelled, “Stop! I’m cold! Take me back to the house at once.”

Baldwyn and Banbury exchanged a knowing look, lifted her in the air and skated full speed back to the edge of the pond. The dowager screamed at the top of her lungs all the way.

When they finally set her down firmly on the bench and reached to help her off with her skates, she grasped her cane in exasperation and thumped each of them firmly on the top of the head in turn.

Anastasia stifled a chuckle and watched with interest. The dowager waggled her finger in Baldwyn’s face and gestured back to Anastasia. Baldwyn glanced in her direction and nodded contritely. He stood and with a sheepish grin skated to Anastasia.

“May I help you with your skates, my lady?” “That would be lovely, thank you, your grace.”

Chapter Fifteen

“Anastasia,” Lord Marks said as they entered the house. “Might I have a word, my dear?” He stepped back and gestured behind him to his study.

“Of course, Papa.” Anastasia glanced at Baldwyn and slipped her hand from his arm. He took her hand and kissed it before releasing her.

“My lady.” His gaze held hers for only a moment, then he nodded at her father and disappeared up the stairs.

Her disappointment weighed heavily on her shoulders as she followed her father into his study. The arrangement wasn’t working out the way she had hoped. No doubt her father was thinking the same thing. If only she would move past her ridiculous girlish romantic notions and see things differently, perhaps…

“Won’t you sit down, my sweet?” Lord Marks swept a hand toward a wingback chair. Anastasia sat on the edge of the seat and folded her hands in her lap. She stared down at her them, waiting anxiously for her father to speak.

“You are unhappy?”

“No, Papa. The trip to the country has been lovely.”

Her father smiled at her sadly. “I am glad to hear it. However, that is not what I meant, dear girl.” He leaned against the edge of his desk nearest her and took her hand in his.

“Papa…” she began, glancing at her hands and smoothing her skirts. “Everything is fine. Please don’t worry.” Looking into his eyes, she offered the most reassuring smile she could muster and stood. “I would like to change now. Rest for a bit perhaps. If you will excuse me?”

“Of course. I shall see you at dinner.” He rose and escorted her to the door. Anastasia slowly made her way up the stairs to her room. The shards of the broken vase had been cleaned up, leaving no sign that the events of the previous night had ever taken place. No trace except for what lay burned into her memory.

The day was spent in an unending cycle of meaningless activity — reading in the library, needlepoint in the salon, card games in the parlor — but Baldwyn made himself scarce the majority of the day. It felt as though he was avoiding her, and it took a valiant effort on Anastasia’s part to force the appearance of carefree enjoyment of her short holiday before having to return to the bustle of Town.

When the afternoon faded into evening, she excused herself to dress for dinner. She chose her favorite pale gold dinner gown, the one she knew drew out the flecks of gold in her eyes and emphasized her feminine curves. Trudy swept her hair up in grand fashion, with a few chestnut curls hanging loose, a soft, rich contrasting frame against her creamy, ivory skin.

Baldwyn would be at dinner. She would gain his attention once and for all.

With one last glance in the mirror, Anastasia nodded her approval, smiled confidently at Trudy, and hurried to the dining room.

Somehow, even for all her rush, Anastasia was too late to claim the seat next to her intended. Her stomach curdled as Lady Katherine smiled up at Baldwyn and accepted the chair he held for her on the other side of the table.

Standing near her, Banbury waved her over, and held a chair for her. Anastasia sighed in resignation, nodded her thanks and took the seat he offered, directly across from Baldwyn. His clear blue eyes met her gaze as she sat.

“Good evening, Paisley,” she said, refusing to be the first to look away.

“My lady,” he muttered, still staring at her, but seeming at a loss for words.

“Doesn’t she look lovely, your grace?” Lady Katherine interrupted, resting her hand on his forearm, stealing his attention away. Anastasia’s whole body tensed. Beside her, the Duke of Banbury shifted and cleared his throat.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Baldwyn replied, tossing a careless glance back to Anastasia. “My lady, you are quite fetching tonight,” he added, then allowed his gaze to dart away to the other end of the table, losing interest in her altogether.

So much for capturing his attention. Her hope deflated, and her heart fell.

Her appetite was gone. Still she had to suffer through the torture of dinner — watching while Lady Katherine kept Baldwyn’s rapt attention, and pretending to be interested in Banbury’s vain and somewhat vulgar conversation, and even he grew increasingly distracted by the display on the other side of the table.

It did nothing for Anastasia’s self-esteem having the particular attention of neither of the dukes, though truth be told, Banbury seemed to be in her very same predicament. So when he approached her just outside the dining room to aid him in finding his lost button, she felt somewhat sympathetic to his plight. And since Baldwyn had already retired with the other gentlemen to drink, smoke, and talk politics, Anastasia no longer felt compelled to keep up appearances.

Banbury had a reputation black as the devil’s own, but his request seemed harmless, and his eyes had been for Lady Katherine alone. If there was any unseemly motive behind his request at all, it was that the Devil Duke was using her to make his fiancée jealous.

She could understand the sentiment. Taking his offered arm, she allowed him to lead her down the hall toward her father’s study.

There was only one lit candle in the study, and the fire was mere embers in the grate when Baldwyn had entered. No one was there. He held the note up to the light to take another look. Lady Katherine wished to speak to him about Benedict, and he was to meet her here.

Why had he bothered to come? If Benedict was giving the lady trouble, it should hardly fall to Baldwyn to fix things. And he had trouble of his own. He squatted by the fire and picked up the iron poker. He thrust it into the dying sparks and stirred the smoldering coals, then reached for two good-sized logs to fuel the fire.

Standing again, he rested one hand on the mantle and stared into the growing blaze. The image of Lady Anastasia danced there among the flames, in her pale gold dress and golden brown eyes.

Baldwyn closed his eyes to block out the picture, but she remained there in his mind’s eye, tormenting him to his very soul. Her beauty, his desire — it muddled the line where his duty lay. And he was confused about how to proceed.

On one hand, his father had always insisted that personal feelings should never interfere with a man’s duty. But never once did the late duke tell him what to do with the feelings that didn’t.

His grandmother insisted that marrying Lady Anastasia was his duty. He had been understandably resistant at the initial shock of it. Since then he had accepted what was expected of him, but he never once expected that she would grow on him, that she would pique his interest. It was easier — it was cleaner — when he could see the line between duty and desire. She was blurring that line.

Her milky white skin set against her rich brown tresses, her wide almond eyes, framed with dark, dewy lashes. His self-control grew weaker with every moment in her presence, as he had proven the night before.

And that was the problem. His fear of losing control. Losing control meant to fail in one’s duty. And he refused to fail his father’s final charge.

Benedict was the one for losing control. Baldwyn simply couldn’t afford that kind of recklessness. Look where it had landed Benedict and his lady. Trapped. She had no choice now. In the eyes of Society, Lady Katherine was compromised. If she didn’t marry Benedict, she would be ruined.

Lady Anastasia was an innocent girl, with stars in her eyes, believing in the fairy tale. How would she feel when reality smashed her fantasy?

No. Baldwyn wouldn’t take her choice from her. And giving into desire would steal that from her.

Light footsteps entered the room through the doorway behind him. He turned to make an excuse to Lady Katherine. He had no wish to discuss relationship troubles with her.

But the lady standing before him wasn’t Lady Katherine at all, and her sharp intake of breath at recognizing him said she hadn’t expected him either. The door closed behind her and she spun around to grasp the handle, but not before the sound of the lock turning in the latch split the silence in the study.

The click sliced right through Baldwyn’s taut nerves.

The lady rattled the handle to no avail. Her head fell forward with a light thud to the back of the locked door. And she waited in silence for a moment before turning around, keeping her hands on the handle behind her. She eyed him carefully.

“Lady Anastasia, I presume?” Baldwyn heard himself say. The cold tone of his voice surprised even him.

“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 has 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 throat.

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.

The bitter wind whipped the flame within the glass, casting a flickering curtain of light against the freshly fallen snow.

He followed his feet, not certain exactly where they were taking him, but trusting they knew something he didn’t. The only sound was the frantic icy crunch beneath his boots as he broke into a trot.

“Anastasia!” he belted out. His voice echoed back at him.

He listened and heard nothing in return but the sound of his feet pounding the ground.

Again and again he yelled her name, growing more anxious with each unanswered call. It was only a little over an hour she had been gone, but it was so cold, and she had only a light shawl. What if she was injured, lying somewhere unconscious in the snow? Baldwyn’s chest constricted around his lungs, and he struggled for enough breath to call her name again.

“Anastasia!” he forced out with a mournful gasp.

Anastasia lifted her head. The cold air was a shocking slap in her face, stinging her cheeks and nose. What was that sad wail floating toward her through the darkness? It rang in the tree branches overhead — the call of the turtledoves flittering from tree to tree high above her.

They called to each other over and over. They must be lost in the cold and the dark as well. Somewhere in the frosty haze of her mind she recognized the faulty naturalism. Turtledoves didn’t muddle about in the English countryside in the winter, but her ears told her it was the same sad cry, the resounding despair of a turtledove searching for its lost mate.

“Anastasia!” The doleful moan hovered in the branches overhead. Was the turtledove calling her name? She blinked and looked up, scouring the inky black sky for signs of the unseasonable birds.

“I’m here, little turtledove… I’m down here on the ground,” she crooned in a sing-song voice, hardly more than a whisper.

“Anastasia!” Her name drifted to her ears again, growing closer and closer, like a bird spiraling down to alight by her feet.

She closed her eyes tight and rested her head against the trunk of the tree. This must be what death was like. And now the light shining all around, so brightly she could see it through her closed lids. Any moment she would feel the warmth of the angel’s arms encircling her, carrying her on to Glory.

“Anastasia,” the angel’s voice cracked. Nothing like she would imagine an angel to sound. “Anastasia, are you hurt?” An odd question for an angel to ask.

She struggled to open her eyes, finally earning a squinting glance. The bright halo trimmed an angelic face with eyes blue as cornflowers.

Warmth spread from her shoulders, as two strong hands grasped her and pulled her slightly forward, and then draped a thick blanket of heaven around her, wrapping her tightly.

“Your lips are blue, Princess.” The deep voice found its smooth timbre and ran over her like warm honey, heating her from the top of her head to the bottom of her toes.

“Is it you?” she whispered.

The angel nodded. “It’s me, Princess. Your loyal knight.” His hand smoothed her cold cheek in a slow, deliberate stroke. “I’ve come to rescue you.”

She smiled dreamily as he lifted a shiny flask to her lips. “Drink this. It will warm you.”

The liquid slipped down her throat, radiating heat all the way down.

Anastasia gazed at her rescuer. “Are you my turtledove?” “Yes, yes!” He laughed and scooped her up in his warm, protective arms, bestowing a light kiss on her forehead. “Your turtledove… and I’ve been calling for you, my lost love,” he crooned against her ear.

“And you have found me?”

“Yes, at long last, I have found you.”

She nestled her head against his broad shoulder and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Then… take me home. Take me home where I belong.”

Chapter Eighteen

Baldwyn wound the blankets tightly around Anastasia and poured her another tumbler of brandy. Hot tea was coming, but he was anxious for her color to return.

She lay against the divan peacefully, never taking her eyes from him as he worked. He lifted her hands gently, freeing them from the entanglements of the blanket, and examined them.

A deep cut creased one of her palms. She had wrapped one glove around it to staunch the bleeding, which was now congealed. He would have to soak it to dislodge the glove without reopening the wound.

Two or three maids hovered about, stoking the fire and such other fidgety tasks.

“Bring me a basin of warm water and some clean bandages,” he ordered the nearest one, startling her with the sternness of his voice. She scurried out of the room to do his bidding.

He carefully removed the glove from her uninjured hand and held her red fingers in his warm grasp.

Her brown eyes scrutinized his face, but she didn’t speak.

This was all his fault. Baldwyn knew it. He could feel her accusation assail him, though she neither frowned nor smiled.

“Can you feel your toes yet?” he asked, turning his attention abruptly to her thin shoes. He knelt beside her and one by one, slipped them off and warmed her feet with his hands. They were so cold, almost blue even now.

She shook her head and dropped her gaze to her feet propped on the divan, watching his hands knead the color back into them.

A clatter of excitement erupted just outside the door, and Lord Marks burst into the room, his eyes bright with both relief and concern.

“You found her!” The earl strode to his daughter’s side and knelt beside her. Tenderly he brushed a wayward curl of hair from her face and smiled.

“Is she…?” he began and turned to Baldwyn.

“Intact, my lord. Half-frozen, but all will be well again soon.”

Anastasia’s deep brown eyes cut to her father. Her expression remained unchanged.

“Hmm…” Lord Marks observed. “Still in shock I’d wager. What has been done for her?”

“Brandy, blankets, the fire… I’ve been trying to rub the sensation back into her fingers and toes, and I sent someone for dry clothes and warm water.” He gestured to her wounded hand, which lay atop the blanket, still wrapped with the blood-matted glove.

“Very good, very good.” Lord Marks smoothed Anastasia’s hair another moment. They stared at each other so intently, Baldwyn was certain they were communicating some deep message that words failed to express.

After a long marked silence, Lord Marks spoke to Baldwyn. “You seem to have this well in hand, Paisley. If there are any developments, send Bernard.”

“Of course.”

Marks rested a reassuring hand on Baldwyn’s shoulder before moving to the door. “I’m counting on you to take care of my little girl.”

“Not to worry, my lord. The lady is in good hands.”

“I know she is.” Lord Marks drew in a deep breath and set his jaw in resolute determination, and with one more pat on the shoulder, he turned and left Anastasia in Baldwyn’s care.

The servants arrived with a change of clothes and the basin of warm water. He would have to leave while they helped her out of her wet things, but he dreaded leaving her for even the short time that would take.

“Can you sit up, m’lady?” the maid asked. Baldwyn knelt beside the divan and slipped his arm around her, shifting her into an upright position.

“Your grace?” the servant prodded. She cast her gaze toward the door to indicate his place.

Grudgingly, he rose and whispered to Anastasia, “I’ll be right outside.”

She nodded in silence and forced a weary smile.

When he returned several minutes later, she lay across the divan once again, looking much more comfortable in her heavy winter housecoat. Someone had tucked her feet under several blankets along with a bed warmer.

“Well, then, shall we see to that hand, my lady?” He situated the basin of warm water on a stool beside her and knelt near her head. Gently he lifted her injured hand then submerged it in the basin, allowing the glove to soak until it was loose enough to pull away.

He struggled to focus on the task at hand, but his patient focused only on him. With careful strokes, he cleaned the deep gash and patted it dry with a towel, then he wrapped it in fresh bandages and laid it back on her chest, pulling the blanket up around Anastasia’s chin to cover her thawing extremities.

“Now that is done. Are you warm enough?”

A full-body tremor followed her unconvincing nod.

“Liar.” Baldwyn allowed the hint of a smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. Everything he knew to do for her had been done.

All but one thing.

He glanced around the room nervously. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he wiped his clammy palms on the sides of his breeches.

“Your grace? Is something wrong?” Bernard stood a few feet away from him, studying him with concern.

Baldwyn shook his head. “The lady. She’s still trembling. She needs… that is, I shall have to…” He swiped his hands down his thighs once more.

Bernard followed Baldwyn’s gaze to Anastasia who was racked with chill. “It is necessary, your grace,” he reassured the duke.

Baldwyn nodded.

The old butler stepped behind him to help him slip out of his fitted jacket.

“Ring if you need anything. I’ll be outside the door,” Bernard said softly enough for only Baldwyn to hear, then he raised his voice for the others. “That will be all. You are all dismissed to your regular duties.” He herded them out quickly and closed the doors behind him, leaving Baldwyn alone with Anastasia.

“Anastasia…” He laid his jacket over the back of a chair. She glanced at him, seemingly unaffected by the sight of him in his shirtsleeves. Her body trembled in time to the steady rhythm of her chattering teeth.

“Anastasia, you are quite frozen yet, and there is no time to lose. You shall have to share my warmth. Do you understand?” She stared at him for a moment without an expression, then slowly nodded her head.

Baldwyn fumbled with the buttons of his shirt as if he had ten thumbs. Finally succeeding, he slipped his shirt off and dropped it on the chair.

This was necessary. She was his betrothed, and Baldwyn was duty-bound to do all he could for her. Her own father charged him with her care. He took a deep breath, dried his hands on his wool breeches again, and slipped under the blanket beside her, pulling her against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against her hair as he wrapped his bare arms around her shivering form. She trembled against him, and he pulled her tighter, trying to infuse his heat into her body. Anastasia nestled against him, resting her cheek on his chest, buried up to her nose in the pile of heavy blankets.

When she placed her hand on his chest just below his collarbone, Baldwyn’s heart raced. Her light touch, the warmth of her breath on his skin, the fragrance of lilacs drifting from her hair — he was producing more than enough heat for both of them.

To think that here in his arms lay the same girl who had thrown mud balls at him to gain his attention all those years ago, the same girl who climbed up in a tall oak and needed him to rescue her. And here they were again. As if his path had always been directing him here, to this moment he wished would never end.

Perhaps it was true. Had been true all along.

She was his turtledove, and her heart has been calling out to his all this time, guiding him back where he belonged.

Baldwyn exhaled a slow breath of relief and rested his cheek against the top of her head, planting a soft kiss in her hair.

He would have been content to lie there forever, feeling the warmth gradually returning to her. But when her cold hand found its way to his face, and her gentle whisper floated to his ears — “Thank you” — that simple touch dissolved the last shred of self- control he possessed. Her mouth was only a breath away, and she closed her eyes the moment he leaned forward. Her lips were frozen, but he pulled her flush against him and breathed warmth across her lips through his own.

“We might stay another day. Perhaps you’re not up for traveling yet,” Baldwyn suggested when Anastasia approached the carriage dressed in her traveling dress. Her color was better, but she was still rather pale.

Her sweet smile warmed him. She rested her hand on his forearm, and her golden brown eyes melted his misgivings. What he wouldn’t do to spend the entire trip back to Town with her alone in the carriage.

Baldwyn covered her hand with his own and allowed his gaze to wander to her pale pink lips. Anastasia smoothed his cheek with her soft kid glove.

“If you think I’m letting you out of my sight now, Baldwyn Sinclair, you are sorely mistaken,” she answered.

Baldwyn raised an eyebrow and regarded her with amusement.

“In that case, Anastasia Trent, if you wish to travel in my carriage, you shall have to buy a seat.”

“Is that so? And what is the going rate for passage in such a broken down third-rate conveyance?”

“It is quite expensive, my dear. I fear you cannot afford it.”

“Then you have grossly misjudged me, your grace, for I am a lady of some means.” The sparkle in her eyes spelled mischief and mirth. How he loved her. What had taken him so long to realize it? “Name your price, good man. For I am in desperate need to arrive in London today.”

“Desperate need?” Baldwyn put his arms around her waist and pulled her close. “Very well. The cost for passage to London this day is one kiss. Payable in advance.” He lowered his head to hers, but she slipped one finger in front of his lips, stopping his forward motion inches from her mouth.

“I have not yet consented to your terms, sir.” A wry smile played on her lips. “I wish to offer a counter.”

“Anastasia,” Baldwyn whispered against her finger. “One does not say she is desperate and then expect to have bargaining power.”

She giggled. “No. No, I suppose not. But will you not hear me out?”

“What is your offer, Princess?” He placed a lingering kiss on the finger that blocked his path to her lips.

She brought her hand down to rest on his chest. “Two. One now…” She rose onto her tiptoes, meeting his lips with her own in a slow, warm caress that he could feel all the way through him. Baldwyn was breathless when she pulled away. “…And the second payable upon safe delivery.”

He rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. “Sweet Anastasia,” he whispered hoarsely. “You have much to learn about bargaining.”

“Perhaps so. Do we have a deal?”

“Heavens, yes.” He lowered his mouth toward hers again, but she retreated suddenly, setting him off balance so that he stumbled a step forward with a jolt.

“Oh, no you don’t! Upon safe delivery, your grace. Try that again, and I’ll have you arrested as a charlatan.” The devilish glint danced in the golden hue of her brown eyes once more.

“Baldwyn!” A sharp pain landed on the back of his legs, and he turned in shock to find his grandmother standing behind him wielding her brass handled cane. “Mind yourself, boy! You’re standing in broad daylight! Now, be a gentleman and help an old lady into the carriage.” She lifted her hand into the air beside him, expecting him to take it and do as she bid.

“Ah, Grandmother, I’m delighted you’ll be making the trip with us today.” It was a bald-faced lie, but now he had two excellent reasons for this to be the swiftest trip to London ever recorded.

Chapter Nineteen

The trip was torturous. Reminiscent of Dante’s Seventh Circle.

The first hour was spent listening to the dowager drone on about the virtues of needlepoint until abruptly falling asleep and promptly adopting a steady cadence at an unearthly volume, making any conversation impossible. Next to her sat Lady Anastasia, stifling a laugh at his expense.

Baldwyn slid to the side directly across from Anastasia and held out his hand to her without saying a word. She studied him suspiciously, a single eyebrow raised in question, then shrugged and took his hand.

With a firm grasp on her wrist, he tugged her to his side of the carriage in one fluid motion, depositing her on the seat beside him.

“Really, your grace, it isn’t proper,” she whispered, a mock derision playing in her voice.

“To blazes with proper.” He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her closer.

“Whatever will the dowager say?”

“I don’t care.” He kissed her neck.

“That doesn’t sound like you. Are you ill?” She slipped a glove off one hand and felt his forehead, then slid her soft hand down to his cheek.

Baldwyn grasped it in his and pressed it to his lips. “No. No, I am well. And the dowager is fast asleep.” He laid another kiss on her neck. Her nearness made him dizzy — her fragrance, her velvet touch, the taste of her skin — and he was drowning in the haze of desire descending on him.

Raining light kisses along her jaw line, he blazed a hot trail toward her mouth. Her pulse raced beneath the touch of his lips.

Breathlessly, she whispered, turning reluctantly away from his advance, “Remember our bargain, your grace. Upon safe arrival.”

“Hang the bargain.” He gasped for breath against her neck and gingerly laid a hand on her cheek, drawing her face toward his. Angling his own head, he closed the gap between them with fervent passion. Her hesitation alarmed him, but he persisted, brushing her mouth once, twice, a third time, coaxing her lips apart until she indulged him. Her bare hand slid to the back of his neck and tangled in his hair, driving him deeper into the fog where Anastasia was his only focus, more of her his only goal.

A distant rumbling raked his brain, and he felt Anastasia tense in his arms. He tried to ignore the persistent interference, tried to draw her back into the trance with him, but she pushed at his chest, and the rumbling grew more insistent. Then he heard it.

Not the constant rhythm of his grandmother’s snore, but the erratic cough of the dowager clearing her throat in disgust.

He slowly released his hold on the lady next to him and sat back, allowing his gaze to take in Anastasia’s mortified look before turning to the old woman who traveled with them.

The dowager’s lips were set in a stern line. She clicked her tongue to shame him and with a voice laced with consternation said, “Can’t a woman take a few moments’ rest without worry that you will accost the maiden under your protection?” Beside him, Anastasia struggled to compose herself, steadying her breathing and fighting with the fingers of her glove to tug them back into place on her right hand.

“I believe an apology is in order, Baldwyn.”

“I apologize, Grandmother.”

“Not to me, you dolt.” She cast a nod in Anastasia’s direction.

Baldwyn glanced at her. He could think of several ways to apologize, but none of them involved speaking.

“Oh dear, for being such a responsible fellow, you do fail in so many areas. What would have happened, I shudder to think, had I not been present?”

“I daresay a great many things would be different were it not for your presence, Grandmother.”

From the corner of his eye, he caught Anastasia’s quick look at him. He turned to make the necessary amends, but an inhuman gasp interrupted him.

The dowager clutched at her chest and her face drained of all color, leaving a ghostly pallor. Baldwyn’s heart leapt to his throat, and he knelt in the moving carriage, grasping at his grandmother’s shoulders. She reached for his arm and fell forward into his chest. He caught her and lifted her back into the seat, sliding in next to her.

“Grandmother! Are you ill?” When she did not respond, he shouted it louder, closer to her face. “Grandmother! What is it?” Her eyes seemed to roll back in her head — her skin was ashen.

“Your grace!” Anastasia pleaded, grasping one of the old woman’s hands. Her eyes were wide with fear. “Oh, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

Baldwyn twisted in his seat, still clutching the dowager in his left arm, and pounded the wall of the carriage with his right. “Faster, Michaels! Faster! Do not spare the horses!” He knew they weren’t far out of London now, but she was languishing.

Anastasia sat shaking her head and crying, patting the dowager’s hand vigorously. “Wake up, your grace,” she whimpered.

The carriage sped recklessly down the primitive road, jolting in the ruts and finding every pothole. And yet the trip seemed interminable.

“Faster, Michaels! The dowager is failing!” he bellowed again, but he knew the driver wouldn’t hear him over the din of the rattling carriage. This was his fault. All his fault. This was what came of choosing desire over duty. Why could he not have waited until they were safe at home?

After what seemed like an eternity, though in truth it was only minutes, the carriage clattered to a halt in front of the Durbin residence. Baldwyn bolted from the carriage and called to the gathering servants. “Send for the doctor! The dowager — help me!”

Anastasia sat frozen in her seat, but he had no time to deal with her. Three footmen retrieved his grandmother and hurried her up the stairs to the house.

“See the lady home, Michaels!” Baldwyn shouted and turned without another word. His only thought was to see to his grandmother.

One of his cousin’s men stood near the door in apparent shock. “Go! Fetch his grace! Tell him to make haste!” Baldwyn commanded, then charged through the front door and up the stairs to the dowager’s room.

As the carriage jolted forward, away from the dowager’s house, Anastasia stared out the window at the scene in their wake. Baldwyn tore up the steps to the front door without so much as a glance back. But it was selfish of her to wish it. He was worried for his grandmother.

The grandmother who’d raised him, who had taken him under her wing as a boy. Yes, she was a surly demanding woman — a woman full of machinations and schemes… her conniving, manipulative, wonderful schemes.

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 without 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 a USA Today bestselling author and 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 four children and teaches English.

Books By Leah Sanders

Waltzing with the Wallflower Trilogy

Waltzing with the Wallflower

Beguiling Bridget

Taming Wilde

Two Turtledoves

Sacred Ring

All We See or Seem

Discord

The Parting Gift

The Trouble with Frogs

The Devil Duke Takes A Bride

The Devil Duke Takes A Bride

Renwick House

by Rachel Van Dyken

Copyright © 2015 RACHEL VAN DYKEN

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

THE DEVIL DUKE TAKES A BRIDE

Copyright © 2015 RACHEL VAN DYKEN

ISBN: 978-1-942246-58-9

Cover Art by P.S. Cover Design

This one is for all my readers who have stuck with me since the first regency in the Renwick House Series, The Ugly Duckling Debutante. I hated to let that series go and after many conversations over Facebook, Starbucks, and Twitter, all of you inspired me to write another story based on those characters I loved so much! Thank you so much for your kind words, inspiration, and support! It’s been great meeting all of you at conferences and book signings. I would not be where I am today without you! I love you all from the bottom of my heart, thank you for making my job the best job in the world. ☺ Enjoy!

Chapter One

An Unfortunate Turn of Events

Cough, cough, cough. “So, you see, my boy, there isn’t another option. I am at the end of my life and in need of this final boon in order to pass into the land of our ancestors.”

Benedict Devlyn, Duke of Banbury, was determined not to roll his eyes as he squinted at his more-than-healthy aunt. “Forgive me, but I highly doubt the sniffles will be the death of you. Unless you have some other sort of illness that has you spouting off nonsensical death wishes. Oh wait, yes, did your dog bite you? And it’s become infected? Yes, must be it. That’s why you’re dying, certainly not from sitting too near Lady Renwick when she was ill last week.”

“Impetuous man, look at me!”

He was looking at her. And all he saw was a woman at the prime old age of one and seventy, with the uncanny ability to hug a man so tightly he nearly lost whatever food he’d managed to shovel in during tea while the witch discussed the importance of her dog. Well, that and he had the sneaking suspicion that for one reason or another, she was lying through her teeth. For his aunt, of all people, to summon him wasn’t normal. Nor was answering her every beck and call something he made a habit of doing.

For one thing, it was common knowledge that she was slightly mad, and for another, he and his aunt hadn’t been on speaking terms since last season when he’d decided he would not take her dog to Almacks — to her great disappointment. She’d been feigning near death ever since.

Her coughing brought him back to the present. Peculiar that it was now changing to a more drastic coughing fit than before. “Is that all then? You wish for me to go find a girl and be done with this whole Devil Duke business?”

“Before I die!” Aunt Agatha interrupted, thrusting her hand into the air. “You are a stain upon the family name.”

The witch didn’t mince words, did she?

“I see,” he said, though truthfully he didn’t see. After all, his reputation had been legendary. Every young buck wanted to be him, and every high-stepping mama who threw her debutante his way was given ruin and disaster in return. After ten years of his infamous exploits, women not only gave him the cut direct, but he had it on good authority they now placed his name next to devil on all of the finishing school lists when warning debutantes against ruin. In his mind, it was an accomplishment of gigantic proportions.

She trained a cold glare on him, momentarily giving Benedict pause. “Is that it then? You will never marry, even if it’s my dying wish? And you plan to enjoy the short years you have left living a life that even the devil himself wouldn’t approve?”

Truly, it wasn’t as bad as all that. She was given to exaggeration. If he was that bad, well, he wouldn’t be accepted into Society.

And he was accepted everywhere.

He lifted his eyebrows silently prompting her to continue speaking. When she didn’t, he said, “Well, as you can see, I am firm in my belief that I will not change. Good day.” He made a move to leave.

She coughed and held up her hand.

Patience was not one of Benedict’s virtues, nor was being used by any sort of woman, especially one who still held a grudge the size of London. Devil take it, a blasted dog at Almacks? To see him married before she died? Clearly his aunt was mad. Perhaps they had room in Bedlam for one more…

“I truly am dying.” Agatha held a trembling hand to her face and winced.

“Ah yes, forgive me for forgetting that minor detail.” He took a seat opposite her and waited.

“Hmmph.” Agatha crossed her arms and coughed again. “I need to see you settled down before I die, Benedict. My acceptance into heaven depends on it.”

That, he believed.

“And what will you give me in return for my obedience? After all, who knows what kind of notion you’re bound to get, considering you’ve been cooped up in your bed all day with a head cold What’s to say you won’t demand I suddenly begin sprouting children all over the place? Or take up dog breeding? Or, heaven forbid, offer a smile?”

Aunt Agatha had the good sense to blush before answering. “Believe me, Benedict, finding a bride may prove more difficult than you realize. The idea that you think this to be easy is quite laughable, if I do say so myself.” Cough.

Laughable? Truly? Biting back a curse, he turned around and ran his fingers through his hair. Mad, his aunt was truly mad. Either that or she had a death wish. How was it that his aunt had the nerve to insult him when the rest of the ton was so deathly afraid of him and his reputation that he was rumored to be the spawn of Satan himself?

Not that it kept any sort of married female away from him. Laughable? His aunt didn’t know what she was talking about. Perhaps she was truly dying, for the day a woman had the audacity to say no to the Devil Duke would also be the day he would promptly eat his shirt and buy a lap dog.

“And I’ve already done all the work for you, my boy!”

Why was he not surprised? She probably had a special license underneath that dratted chair she was sitting in, as well.

“And who is to be the victim, Aunt?”

Did her eyes just twinkle? Impossible! The woman was seldom amused. “Lady Katherine Bourne. I do believe you are acquainted, though I also have another female in mind, considering Lady Katherine is a little high in the instep for you, my boy, but not so much for another young fellow I know.”

If he’d had a drink in his hand this would have been the opportune moment for him to throw back the remaining contents or slam it against the floor. As it was, he was having a devil of a time keeping himself from cursing in the presence of his aunt, even though one could hardly call her a lady with the way she threw around French expletives.

“You truly mean for me to align myself with that, that…” Obviously his mind was having trouble conjuring up an adequate word to describe the girl in question. So much, in fact, that he could only concentrate on the simple idea that his aunt wanted him in the same room as the chit.

“She’s lovely,” his aunt pointed out. “And need I remind you that she’s a Kerrington? Why, every young man within the city wants to be with the Kerrington family. They are, after all, closely related to the regent himself, and I’m not one to brag—”

Benedict stopped listening when the word lovely was mentioned. It seemed this would be the opportune time to remind his aunt of her need for an heir, or at least nieces and nephews to dote on. It certainly would not take place with the Bourne chit!

“Absolutely not,” he interrupted, or at least he hoped he was. Nothing made him happier than interrupting his aunt when she spoke.

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand.”

Typical, the word no wasn’t in her vocabulary.

“I mean,” Benedict sent up a silent prayer for strength, “That I wouldn’t marry the chit if you offered me all the money in the world!”

“She’s beautiful!”

“She’s as clumsy as she is mad!” Benedict roared.

His aunt squinted and tossed her head from right to left, most likely trying to give him the impression she didn’t agree, though it seemed that she was closer to having an apoplectic fit than arguing.

“I disagree.” She lifted her chin in the air and sniffed. “You have no proof she did those dreadful things. After all, it has been three years since you’ve seen her! She’s a girl of three and twenty now! Nearly on the shelf.”

“I wonder why,” he muttered under his breath.

“Oh posh, how much harm could she have done?”

“Harm?” Benedict repeated. “Harm?”

“You said that.”

“Harm,” he said again, mainly to provoke his aunt. At her scowl, he continued, “She nearly killed me—”

“Truly you exaggerate.”

It was obviously time for a drink; Benedict walked to the sideboard and poured three fingers of brandy. “I hardly exaggerate the story. Need I remind you there were witnesses? The girl followed me home. Hid, Aunt! Hid in the bushes and nearly scared my horse out of its wits, tossing me from its back! I was bedridden for a week!”

“Silly accident.” His aunt waved it away.

“On our second meeting,” he continued, gaining more courage to argue from the amber liquid swirling in his belly, “she decided to race Lord Rawlings through the fields of the estate and nearly fell of her horse! I had to rescue her, naturally, because Rawlings had so obviously bested her, and when I came upon the fair damsel, she told me to stop, and at that precise moment, I was hit in the face with a tree branch!”

“Again, I’m sure it wasn’t on purpose.”

Benedict growled low in his throat. “Bedridden, again, three days. Need I go on?”

“Oh, please do.” Aunt Agatha sipped her tea. “I do love to hear of your exaggerations. It’s as if someone is telling me a bedtime story.”

Benedict held up his finger and pointed at his aunt. “The third and final time I was in that girl’s presence, and notice I say girl because to call her a woman would be an insult to the sex, I offered to dance with her. Wanted to bury the hatchet and all that. We danced, she was amiable, and then she looked faint. I, being the gentleman that I am…” Aunt Agatha coughed. Saucy wench. “Took her to the outside air. Upon reaching the balcony she leaned over and dropped her reticule. I leaned down to fetch it and managed to topple over onto the ground. Somehow hitting my head a third time. Truly, I’m lucky to be alive.”

“Aren’t we all so thankful that you are,” Aunt Agatha said dryly.

“I won’t do it.” He poured some more brandy and repeated that same sentiment over and over again.

And when he left, his head ached something fierce. Even the girl was plaguing him from afar. He wouldn’t do it. Couldn’t do it. He would simply have to find someone else. And fast, for his aunt had something up her sleeve this Christmas, and he wasn’t all that sure he wanted to be caught with his drawers down.

Benedict approached the following night’s ball with as much enthusiasm as a criminal facing the hangman’s noose. At this point, he would have welcomed such an end.

He wore his ducal frown, and managed to get in a few distinct growls at his footman before he made his way up the marble steps into The Duke of Montmouth's townhouse.

It was to be the first ball hosted by the duke and his bride, and although it was a time of merriment, all Benedict could truly think of was the fact that the word merriment began with merry, which of course reminded him of being married, which then made his head hurt, and for some odd reason gave him the distinct impression that he was about to be injured for the fourth time.

Benedict made his way directly to the whiskey and poured himself a healthy glass, not turning to his right or left to make conversation. His sole focus was on the dry liquid as it poured down his throat. It was his job to be scandalous. He knew drinking so early in the evening would be frowned upon, but he didn’t give a whit about anything except forgetting he had to participate in the night's festivities.

“That bad?” a male voice said next to him.

“Rawlings?” Benedict could hardly believe his eyes. The once-rakish Lord Rawlings was said to be in the country with his wife. “What the devil are you doing here?”

“Oh, a favor. It seems one of our mutual friends is to be in Town, and my wife hadn’t the heart to say no to showing some interest in the girl and showing her about at the parties.”

“Ah.” Benedict gave a quick smile. “Thus, she is floating around the social circles, and you’re next to the whiskey?”

“Did I mention that the girl is naught but sixteen? And has the distinct pitch of a lap dog getting hit by a carriage?”

Benedict let out a hearty laugh. “Then cheers, old friend.”

“Old friend?” The Duke of Tempest approached with a cheery smile on his face. “Just what are we toasting to, and who’s trying to steal my friends away?”

Benedict gave a short bow. “Benedict Devlyn, Duke of Banbury.”

Tempest laughed, his eyes twinkling. “That sounds about right. What brings you into Town, Devil Duke? I haven’t seen you about this Season.”

“He avoids it,” another male voice cut in.

Truly it was as if the entire male sex could sense that Benedict needed support and were now coming to his aid in throngs.

“Lord Renwick, a pleasure,” Benedict said.

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you knew who my wife was talking to at this very moment.”

“Please do not finish telling me that story if it has anything to do with my—”

“Lovely aunt?” Renwick finished. “Perhaps I overdid it when I said 'lovely'. I’m sure we can conjure up a few more words to adequately describe the—”

“Chit?” Tempest offered.

“Meddlesome bag?” Rawlings input was quite useful.

“Incorrigible, quick-witted, opinionated piece of…” Benedict stopped himself when his eyes set on the vision in front of him.

A beautiful woman had walked into the room. Her profile was perfect, as if an artist had conjured her from heaven. Her lips, though he could only see the sides, were plump and a pale pink. Golden hair cascaded loosely around her shoulders, falling out of her messily placed bun. A silver dress wrapped around her perfect form as if it was sewn onto her.

As if his mind had communicated with hers, she turned and looked at him. His stomach dropped as did his whiskey. He cursed in every language he knew, not caring that the men around him probably thought he’d caught some sort of madness from his aunt. But he knew, even as she walked toward him, and his stomach clenched, and his head pounded like the devil… This was the very same “girl,” who had nearly stolen his life three times. The only question hanging in the air between them was whether or not he’d leave this party dead or alive…

Chapter Two

A Matter of Honor

Katherine glanced at the Devil Duke. His face was a combination of smooth planes and perfect form. A muscle twitched in his jaw when he set his eyes on her, and for a minute they darkened, causing her to feel like a nervous girl still in pigtails. Then his once-smoldering face turned to something much more predatory. Nostrils flared, fingers clenched at his sides, and then he raised his hand to touch the back of his head as if it ached.

Drawing a steadying breath, she straightened her shoulders and made her way toward the man. An apology was surely in order after three years. After all, it hadn’t been her fault that he had suffered so much trauma at her hands, he just seemed to have the worst timing and balance out of any man she knew! The man was a walking scandal, sin incarnate. She only hoped she wouldn’t be ruined by merely associating with him, for his reputation with debutantes was clearly marked with scandal. Lucky for her, she wasn’t some debutante, but practically on the shelf, an old woman. Surely he wouldn’t find her the least bit attractive, and if he did? Well, if he did, she would simply have to ignore his virility and handsome face. Perhaps if she closed her eyes she could forget his handsomeness. She tried it.

Of course it did nothing but make her more curious if her mind had conjured up the same image she had just gazed upon.

She stole a cautious peek. It hadn’t.

He was far more attractive than a man of his reputation should be. She straightened her shoulders and shook the foreboding thoughts from her head.

Regardless of his reputation, she needed to at least acknowledge that all those silly incidents were her fault and her fault alone. Especially if she was to catch the eye of the duke's cousin, whom she knew would be in attendance this very night.

The Dowager Duchess of Durbin had said as much in her letter. And Katherine was thrilled that she would finally get her chance with the Scottish duke. The only man standing in her way was the Devil Duke himself, and she wasn’t about to let the obviously negative man get in the way of her happy future.

She swallowed and gave a quick curtsy, slowly raised her eyes toward him, and waited. It was most improper for her to even use his last name instead of his title, but to her, the name fit. His last name of Devlyn described him quite perfectly for he was most assuredly descended from the devil himself. Dark hair, dark eyes, wide unforgiving lips, and a sneer fit for a true aristocrat. His eyebrows furrowed as a mocking smile danced across his face.

“Lady Katherine, it has been too long.” If she was a betting woman, which she most assuredly was not, she would have half expected him to continue in that same sentiment, adding that it had not been long enough. Banbury bent over her hand and bestowed a kiss upon it.

Quickly, she tugged it away and rubbed the spot where his lips had touched. Perhaps she was catching a chill? That was why her hand was still shaking when she placed it back at her side. Or maybe she really was frightened of the man.

“Yes, yes it has.” Katherine sighed. “I was wondering, if it would not be too bold to ask, your grace, might we take a turn about the room?”

He grimaced. Lovely. Always nice to know a gentleman enjoyed her company. “I believe that would be acceptable.” He turned slightly to the left and nodded to the men behind them. Each one of them was a beautiful male specimen, and oddly, looked slightly foxed. She shrugged and took his arm when he offered.

Heavens, her heart was beating out of her chest. Apologies did not come easily to Katherine, and an apology to such a menacing man, even if he did deserve it, was on the bottom of her list.

Banbury paused, allowing a couple to walk by in front of them, and when he did, his other hand reached out and lightly touched her arm as a warning to stop. It should not have meant anything; in fact, he was probably just worried she would somehow cause him to trip and hit his head for the fourth time. Instead, a shiver ran up and down the length of her body, and her heart seemed to take flight as if she were ready to faint.

Truly, the man was so fearsome even her heart was growing weary. They continued toward the back of the room where less people crowded around, and finally she opened her mouth to speak.

“I have something that needs to be said.”

“Then say it.” His voice was smooth and held no anger, merely impatience.

“I must apologize for any bodily or mental harm I may have caused you in the past. Please accept my sincerest regrets that I have been the cause of so much pain.”

Banbury’s lips moved into what could possibly be a smile and he brought his hand up to the back of his head. Did he have a headache?

“Do you have any further plans to cause me physical harm, my lady?”

“Not that I am aware of, no.”

“Well, just in case, I’ll be sure to give you a wide berth when we dance. Now, shall we?” He held out his gloved hand and winked.

Warmth pooled in her belly as she took his hand and joined him in a dance. Truthfully that could not have gone any better! Well, other than the fact that there was a resounding gasp when she allowed him to take her onto the dance floor.

But she paid the onlookers no heed. Now all she needed to do was inquire about his cousin. He turned her around and faced her again.

“Do you often travel to your cousin's estate in Scotland?” she asked.

Banbury narrowed his eyes. “I cannot say that I do. I much prefer my estate near Bath. Though I’m sure my cousin wouldn’t be against a familial visit come this spring.”

Lost in thought, she merely nodded. Heavens, she hadn’t remembered him being so boring or dry. Thankfully she wasn’t going to have to be leg-shackled to the man for the rest of her life. Suddenly, she felt quite sorry for the poor miserable woman who would have to share his bed every night. Granted, he was a beautiful male specimen to gaze upon, but looks could only take one so far if he had no sense of humor to speak of and didn’t know how to smile if his life depended on it.

As the song ended, her foot caught and twisted in the bottom of her skirt, sending her reeling into the duke's arms, but she was in so much pain and so mortified, she could only whimper as he helped her off the dance floor and out into the cool night air of the balcony.

“Where does it hurt?” he asked gently, kneeling down at her foot.

Unfortunately she lost her balance and kicked her injured foot into the air trying to regain it, landing a very hard blow to the duke's head.

He let out a curse and fell backward onto the ground with a thud.

“Oh my! Heavens, are you all right?” Momentarily forgetting about her injury, Katherine tried to walk toward the duke on her bad ankle but lost her footing, landing on top of him with her skirts up past her knees. The only reason she knew this was because cold air bit at her calves.

“Get off!” Banbury bellowed.

“I’m trying!” she argued, pushing away from him, but it was nearly impossible to skitter away when his arms were flailing about.

And then all pandemonium broke loose. A gasp was heard from the doorway followed by a cry, and then applause.

The Dowager Duchess of Durbin was sniffing and holding a handkerchief to her eye as if she was shedding tears over their obviously compromising situation. And the three men she had seen earlier drinking with Banbury were now grinning ear to ear, all of them clapping their hands as if they had just witnessed a comedy of errors.

“This isn’t what it looks like!” she wailed, peeling herself from the duke’s body and accidently kneeing him in the shin as she made her way back to her feet.

The duke didn’t speak, nor did he yell. Instead, he closed his eyes and began mumbling things under his breath.

“Is he praying?” the dowager asked.

A blond-headed fellow piped up. “Most likely to be struck by lightning.”

“Sounds familiar,” a man she now recognized as Lord Rawlings with dark features and crystal blue eyes said, looking quite amused. She hadn’t seen him in years, but he still held that rakish air.

She hadn’t a clue as to the identity of the other men, mainly because she had been in the country for so long. Assuming they were friends, she felt even more embarrassed that they had all just witnessed such a catastrophic event.

“So,” a tall gentleman who hadn’t spoken yet said, “When is the wedding to take place?”

Rawlings laughed. “I think he’s still praying God will strike him where he lies. Doesn’t work that way, fellow. Believe me, I’ve tried. Now, Renwick, Tempest, let us leave the Devil to his evil doings and have a drink on his behalf. It seems he’ll need it.”

Katherine wasn’t so sheltered that she didn’t now understand who the men where. Lord Renwick? The Duke of Tempest? And Lord Rawlings? Two of the most notorious rakes of the ton and the Angel Duke himself.

Well, it seemed there was no escaping matrimony. But by George, she was going to try.

Chapter Three

Down for the Count

Perhaps he could merely pretend to have had an apoplexy. How long, he wondered, could a person hold his breath before he did permanent damage to his body? Perhaps if he passed out, he could make up a story about how the woman, who he would now refer to as Eve, tricked him, tripped him, and clobbered him over the head.

He kept his eyes closed just in case his ridiculous plan would work.

It didn’t.

Another throat cleared. He stopped his prayers and opened one eye, then two. His aunt's icy blue stare seemed to penetrate his body with such irritation that his head began to hurt again, or was the throbbing merely a happy coincidence with getting hit by Lady Katherine? Saints alive, she was going to be the death of him.

“Look what you’ve done.” Aunt Agatha shook her head and sniffled. Well, at least she was over her imaginary head cold; now it seemed she had nothing but tears and outrage.

“I did nothing wrong, I merely fell after being struck by a blunt object. You cannot fault me in the matter!”

“You compromised that woman! What the devil is wrong with you? Have I not raised you to at least woo a woman before you lift her skirts? Heavens, we are in public!”

“I was accosted!” he yelled.

“You were seducing her!”

“I was unconscious!” He blinked his eyes and cursed. Pain was now throbbing at his temples. Truly, if God were to call him home, he wouldn’t fault Him one bit. He’d merely lift his arms heavenward and thank the Lord for taking him. Then again his thanks would be twofold, for he would be grateful to even be near the pearly gates, let alone given free entry.

Aunt Agatha sighed. “Either way, it was bad form, Benedict. Truly bad form. I shall announce your impending marriage at once. Now, run along and have yourself some brandy. You look awful. Hmph.”

With swift movements, she left him on the cold ground, alone and upset. One thing was for certain, he wasn’t going to marry the girl. He would rather jump into the Thames in the dead of winter! Although, on second thought, jumping into the Thames would mean he would die of a head injury, considering it was frozen over. Perhaps he could cut out a little hole and jump into it. Sadly, the smile on his face was entirely brought on by his suicide plan, an unfortunate circumstance that. Was marriage truly that ghastly to him?

The woman was a plague, a disease he could not rid himself of! It mattered not that she was beautiful, or that she had grown into those luscious lips and curves. She was still the devil's own to deal with. And he would not align himself with such a lady for the rest of his life. Imagine! Lady Katherine? A Duchess? Married to the Devil Duke himself?

He pushed away from the ground and examined his body for dirt and smudges. Satisfied, he cracked his neck and walked back into the ballroom. A resounding hush fell upon the people dancing and then the whispering commenced. It was the first time in his existence that people had dared talk about him. Most were too afraid to even utter his name, not that he was a rake of any kind. No, he was merely frightening for most women to talk to. He was dark and brooding and according to the debutantes, fiercely handsome. Rumor was that he would most likely marry a woman and kill her in the bedroom with all of the force of his evil presence.

He let out a long sigh and walked in the general direction of Lord Rawlings, but was intercepted by Lady Katherine herself.

Chapter Four

Innocent as the Driven Snow

“How dare you!” Katherine pointed a shaking finger at the duke, biting back a curse. “I cannot marry you!”

“Finally, something we agree upon,” he countered then looked around them. Muttering a curse, he grabbed ahold of her arm and tugged her toward the back corner of the room where they were given more privacy. “Did you think to trick me into marrying you? Was that it?”

Katherine burst out laughing. Banbury did not seem pleased, his eyebrows furrowed. Looking quite offended, he crossed his arms and scowled. “I assure you, I am quite the catch.”

“I’ll just have to take your word for it, now won’t I? Regardless, you’ve ruined everything and now your cousin won’t even give me—”

“My cousin?” he interrupted. “What about my cousin? Don’t tell me you hold a secret tender for the Scottish duke.”

Heat flooded Katherine’s cheeks.

“Oh, so he is the object of your affection. I would say he was lucky, but it’s painfully obvious that luck is never on your side, nor would he be lucky to be chained to you the rest of his days. Imagine the scars he would receive, the bloody noses, the black eyes. Gads, it would look like he boxed at Jackson's every day!”

“That is quite enough!” Her ivory colored glove flashed in the candlelight as she pointed her finger at his and poked him in the chest with her hand. “He is sweet, and kind, and doesn’t scowl. At least he knows how to smile!”

“I bloody well know how to smile.” Banbury winced.

“Were you trying just now?” she asked sweetly.

His answer was to curse and run a gloved hand through his dark locks. “We cannot allow this to happen. You must cry off.”

“Me?” Katherine tightened her hands into fists, but Banbury quickly pulled her aside, shielding her from whomever had just passed by. Quickly, he pushed her away, as if she were diseased.

“I cannot simply cry off,” she whispered, her voice wavering with emotion. “I would be ruined! Who would want me?”

Banbury rolled his eyes. “It isn’t as if you’re the belle of the ball currently, is it? What does it matter if you simply cry off? Tell everyone I scared you, that I barked or growled, or simply glared and you fell to your knees in horrified hysterics.”

“Yes, because you’re simply terrifying when you’re unconscious.”

“Apparently it’s the only way you can get me on my back, now isn’t it?” His hot breath fanned her neck as he stepped closer. Instinctively she moved in, undeterred. “Oh believe me, Banbury. If I wanted you on your back I could get you on your back without any sort of violence.”

What the devil was she saying? Was she carrying on a flirtation with the Devil Duke? And to say such things aloud! But he was so provoking!

His eyes took on a lazy look as they appeared to darken and almost close completely. And then, he smiled. All white teeth and dimples on either side of his face. Katherine felt her face heat even more as her eyes widened to take in the male beauty in front of her.

“Are you quite sure?”

“Positive.” Clenching her teeth, she nearly touched his lips when she breathed out the word. Never would she back down from such a ridiculous man.

His amusement faded as he grabbed her arm and pulled her flush against his body. “Then I would have to say I agree.” His lips curved into a devilish smile as they tentatively touched hers. It was a question of a kiss, almost as if he was shocked he was participating. And then as their breaths mingled, he groaned and his lips pushed against hers, molded across her mouth. Need shot through her.

This was how girls were ruined.

This was what her instructors had warned her about.

Dark corners, virile smelling men, and the wet heat of a scorching kiss.

Not knowing what else to do, she held on to the lapels of his coat, but that forced her to lean completely into him. Banbury’s arms came around her, his hands slowly moved down her back. With a gasp she prepared to scold him, but the hot invasion of his tongue made her lose all thought. It was wicked and delicious. He groaned and she, in purely unladylike behavior, pushed him further into the alcove against the wall.

“I, ahem, do hope I’m not interrupting anything,” a clearly masculine voice said from behind them. With a shriek, Katherine pulled away. Banbury was smiling from ear to ear, his breathing ragged as his dilated eyes looked up. Cursing, he pushed Katherine behind him.

“When did you arrive?”

Katherine lifted her eyes, her stomach dropped at the same time. In horror, she looked into the eyes of the same man she had minutes ago told Banbury she had set her cap for. With a sob, she ran off, away from Devil himself and from the man she hoped to marry.

“Classic.” Baldwyn Sinclair, Duke of Paisley, shook his head at Benedict and burst out laughing. “Tell me, was your plan simply to assault her in order to win her favor or had you not fully thought through your attack?”

Benedict cursed. “I don’t know what came over me, and she’s just so blasted irritating. She struck me and then provoked me.”

“Well then.” Baldwyn folded his arms across his chest. “By all means make her cry. It seems you earned a bit of revenge.”

Benedict groaned aloud. “What the devil are you doing here, Baldwyn? Don’t tell me—”

“Agatha.” They said in unison. Both as if her name was an expletive on their lips.

“She got to you, too, I imagine?” Benedict asked, though it was difficult to stay on topic after the feel of Katherine’s lips on his own. He hadn’t meant to hurt the girl’s feelings, but she was so blasted… provoking. He’d said it aloud and continued to think it in his head.

Baldwyn snapped his fingers. “Woolgathering or planning to attack another virgin?”

“My apologies. You were saying?” Benedict shook his head and began walking in the direction of the whiskey with Paisley in tow.

Baldwyn had been raised alongside Benedict when they were children. Agatha was Baldwyn’s grandmother and Benedict’s aunt, making them cousins and, unfortunately, related to the same horrid woman that continued to meddle in the lives of the men in her family.

Benedict could think of only one reason why she would summon Baldwyn all this way.

“She’s going to ruin the both of us.” Benedict reached the whiskey and cursed. “Don’t tell me she’s turned her matchmaking sights to you cousin…” He waited, in vain, for Baldwyn to deny the accusations all together.

“I shall marry Lady Anastasia.”

Benedict burst out laughing, sloshing his drink within the glass and nearly spilling it onto the Persian rug. “Truthfully? You are to marry her? Tell me, do you still have mud stains on your person? One would think they were permanent. Delightful creature that one. I have half a mind to cage her up with Katherine, at least they could torture one another instead of—” As the words came flowing out of his mouth Benedict realized in one horror-stricken moment, just what his aunt had done.

“She’s betrothed us to…”

Baldwyn swallowed all of his brandy in one gulp. “Our enemies? Childhood nemeses? The only woman in London I could never imagine myself sharing a bed with? Yes, perhaps Agatha delights in having no heirs to speak of, for if I have to share a bed with that — that hoyden, then I’m quitting.”

Benedict scowled. “One cannot simply quit marriage.”

“Did I say marriage? I meant quitting the continent.”

“And your tenants will simply do without you for the remainder of their lives?”

Baldwyn poured another brandy. At this rate he was going to be foxed before he even had a dance, which surely would not do. “Must you be so logical when I’m this upset? At least try to see my plight. The girl probably still has pigtails. Do you remember the way her bony little hands used to pull at my coattails? She wasn’t a bonny lass, and you know it. I think I may be sick.”

“Yes, well…” Benedict took the empty glass from his cousin’s hand. “Whiskey on an empty stomach will do that to you. Now, why don’t you run along and find something to soak up all that alcohol while I have a nice friendly little chat with Agatha about your situation. There isn’t much to be done about mine considering we were found…”

“Compromised?”

Benedict growled low in his throat. “As I said before, to everyone who would listen that is, I was unconscious, on the cold hard ground, with nothing save a lump on the back of my head for my troubles. I did not seduce her!”

“Perhaps you’ve just gotten better at it.”

Benedict lifted a brow.

“Just a thought. Perhaps your sexual prowess is that of such brilliance that you are able to seduce women in your sleep.”

“What a cross to bear,” Benedict said dryly not finding his cousin amusing in the least.

“Yes well, I was trying to look at the positive in a very dreary situation. After all, the woman you have to marry nearly killed you thrice! Not counting tonight of course.”

“Ah, yes. Thank you for the reminder. I shall be sure to shout ‘til death do us part quite proudly, knowing it will be quite soon in seeking me out.”

“Speaking of the devil,” Baldwyn mumbled and sauntered off in the other direction leaving Benedict alone in the room. He looked up and cursed fluently before downing the rest of his drink.

“Agatha.”

“Benedict, I have just spoken with Katherine’s parents and they have denied your suit.”

Odd, how such information could make one feel elated yet offended all at once. “Whatever do you mean?”

Agatha lifted an eyebrow and took a seat on the nearest chair. “They find the idea of you marrying their only daughter quite offensive. In fact, they’ve instructed me to find her a suitable replacement considering you’ve already ruined her.”

Appalled, Benedict could only stare slack-jawed. “But that’s ridiculous! I ruined her, and I should be the one to pay for it! Granted, I wasn’t necessarily awake for the entire act, but I’m pretty sure when a woman has her skirts up past her knees it’s considered improper! What kind of parents are they? To subject their only daughter to such ridicule. And all because they find me offensive? Me? I’m a blasted duke!” He sliced the air with one hand as his temper broiled and spilled over into an outright tantrum “What in blazes is so awful about marrying me?”

Other than the obvious.

His reputation for ruining debutantes.

His favor for strong drink and gambling.

And the rumor that he often walked around his manor naked in order to offend his valet, which might or might not have been true.

“That, my dear boy, was my exact question.” Agatha inspected her gloves and shrugged as if she didn’t know all the reasons a family would be less than thrilled to align themselves with him.

Did that mean the witch was actually siding with her nephew? Impossible!

“And?” Benedict prompted.

“It isn’t so much the parents whom object as it is the girl in question. She claims you are the most boring creature to walk the face of the earth. She also finds your inability to smile quite taxing.”

Benedict’s blood boiled. “For the last time, I know how to smile!”

“Don’t shout, my dear, I’m sitting right here.” Agatha shuddered. “Either way, I’ve taken care of it for you.”

Devil’s teeth. Those were words one never wanted to hear from one’s insane aunt. The same aunt who thought it stylish to fasten feathers to her lap dog.

Agatha smiled. “I’ve merely suggested you pay court to their daughter until the Kringle Ball in two weeks’ time. If, by then, you’ve failed in all aspects of intelligent conversation and of course, managed not one smile, which I do think will be a challenge, then the betrothal is off.”

Benedict opened his mouth to curse, as well as tell his aunt exactly what he thought about her little deal, but her loud voice cut him off.

“She was found, on top of you, Benedict, at a society function. Have a care for her reputation and at least see this through. Imagine what your mother would say.”

With that, Agatha rose to her feet and exited the room. The slamming of the door sounding much like the final nail in his bachelor’s coffin. For Agatha, manipulative little thing that she was, knew his weakness. The one weakness he had.

His deceased mother.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered and followed Agatha out of the room.

Chapter Five

Foxed

Katherine wanted to cry, but to waste tears on such a horrid man seemed truly ridiculous. Dabbing at her eyes, considering they were going to turn into watering pots at any minute, she took a deep breath and walked back into the ballroom.

Her father and mother had just spent the past half hour trying to convince her of the smart match with the Duke of Banbury. She had argued until he throat was sore, giving every excuse under the sun, violence not included for obvious reasons, that they were ill-suited for one another.

When, in desperation she finally did mention the accidents that befell the duke every time in her presence, her mother merely asked, “Could you at least try to be less clumsy? Perhaps if you practiced.”

“I do not think I understand your meaning,” Katherine had said, as dread writhed in her stomach.

“What your mother is trying to say…” Her father cleared his throat and looked off into the distance. “Perhaps if you tried to be more feminine. You know, learned how to properly walk instead of stomping all over the place. Decided not to speak your mind. You know what I’m saying.” He cleared his throat again. “Lower your threshold of intelligence so that other fellows don’t feel so intimidated, then you would make a good match. The Devil Duke would have to marry you then. He’d have nothing to object to.”

“It is I who object to him!” Katherine said through clenched teeth.

“Of course, my dear.” Her mother patted her hand. “So what shall we tell him?”

In the end, they had come up with a compromise. If he could win their daughter before the Kringles’ ball, they would marry. If not, well, if not then Katherine would still be in a pickle, because by all accounts she was still ruined.

Unless, the Duke of Banbury denied all accusations. But even if he did, people would still stare and wonder what did go on that night.

Her parents left her to make herself presentable, which was quite difficult considering she had a blasted headache, and her ankle hurt. In the end, she only managed to pinch her cheeks and walk out into the ballroom.

And now she was trying not to cry for the third time that night. What she wouldn’t give to punch the man in the face. He didn’t want her, and it seemed nobody would now that she had been ruined by the very man mamas warned their daughters about.

Who would want a girl that even the Devil chose not to marry?

She took a shaky breath. Lovely first meeting. Tonight she’d had every intention of gaining the attention of the Scottish duke. Now, she was limping, betrothed, and ready to yell at any man who dared cross her path.

“Hullo there! You must be Lady Katherine!” an irritating voice bellowed behind her. Slowly, she turned. A man, a very attractive man, stood not five feet away from her. Cheeky grin in place, he gave a quick bow. ”May I steal you for a dance?”

She wanted to say no, she really did, it was on the tip of her tongue, not that the man was disagreeable; he was actually quite handsome, if one liked dark red hair and blue eyes. But, the last thing she wanted was to have a meaningless conversation when she was still trying to keep her eyes from tearing up.

And then, she saw him. Across the room. Lips in a firm line of hatred. Lovely, perhaps he would smite her with his smolder. One could only hope, at least in heaven she wouldn’t be betrothed.

“I’d love to,” she heard herself say, then glared back at Benedict. His scowl said it all. He actually kicked the floor before disappearing behind another couple.

Unbelievable.

Katherine returned her gaze to the man she’d just agreed to dance with. His beauty was actually quite flawless, if one liked dandies or perhaps fops. His waistcoat glowed, causing her eyes to burn just slightly. But that was the result when one was wearing a bright yellow piece of clothing. Perhaps he was color blind? He led her to the middle of the ballroom floor and bowed. She stifled a snort when the couple next to them scowled. Truthfully, it wasn’t necessary to bow that low unless she was royalty.

He was still facing the floor as the music started, and then with a sweeping gesture he pulled her into his arms.

Winded, for they were moving vigorously in the wrong direction of the steps, Katherine managed a tight smile and grunted when they stepped toward one another and he stepped on her toes.

Goodness, did she have to endure an entire dance with this man?

Apparently, she did. Perhaps this was her punishment for succumbing to the Devil Duke’s charms. Truthfully, she had no idea what had come over her, and then to have Baldwyn see it all, well it was turning out to be the worst night of her life, and then…

“May I cut in?” the Duke of Paisley’s deep timbre sent a shudder down her spine. She paused in the dance and looked up. He was making an absolute scene. Mayhap he did have feelings for her? But hadn’t his engagement just been announced?

So, she was to be the pity dance.

Lovely.

Always great to know when she was wanted by the man she loved the most.

Her dandified partner, whose name she still hadn’t been given, glared, and hopped off. Literally had a hop in his step as he tried to storm the room.

The music continued to drift, dancers swirled around her and the Scottish duke held out his gloved hand.

So this was what it felt like to want and not have.

Reluctantly, she put her hand in his as he gently pulled her into the dance with a smoothness unmatched by any man except his cousin, the very man she did not wish to think of. Paisley had always been the kind one when they were little, and now he was looking upon her the same way Banbury did — pity and not an inch of attraction. Had she really changed so little? The thought darkened her mood; perhaps that was why she was labeled a spinster. She’d had offers, but none of them were from her heart’s true desire. Suddenly depressed, she grimaced.

“Are you alright?” he asked smoothly. His face was turned away from hers as if watching. With his red cheeks and blazing eyes, she wasn’t sure if he was foxed or just plain irritated.

“I’m fine, th-thank you,” she stuttered as she took another sweeping step.

“Don’t know why it’s my lot in life to have to save every simpering female within the realm. Have you any idea who that man was?”

“A dandy?” she guessed.

He did not look amused; instead his eyes took on more fury, drilling a hole through her very person. “That was Sir Elliot himself, the very same man, who just a few weeks ago, was found ravaging the very young Lady Lillian Derby.”

“Him?” Katherine tried not to look amused, but the idea of that man ravishing anything was inconceivable. “And here I thought it was Banbury who did all the ruining.”

“Looks can be quite deceiving, and believe me, Banbury isn’t without his faults, but when it comes to women, he has more of a mature taste.” His eyes scanned her from head to toe as if to say, Pity, you aren’t one of them. He shrugged and continued to glare in the opposite direction toward the wall.

“How is the girl?” Katherine asked needing to change the subject before she burst into tears. Is that how all men saw her? First she was a spinster, and now she was hardly a woman! Not even good enough for the Devil Duke to freely ruin and not good enough for Paisley either.

“Ruined, at the young age of one and six. You would do well to stay away from him.”

At least he would try to ruin her, whereas everyone else found her disagreeable.

“Noted.” She gulped and took one last turn just as Benedict’s voice rose above the music.

Paisley searched the crowd, his eyes darting back and forth and then suddenly stilled, a smile lit his face. Katherine followed his gaze and with a sinking stomach spotted the last man she wanted to see—Benedict. Cheeks ruddy and stance not at all sturdy, the man was completely and utterly foxed.

What a grand night this had turned out to be.

Katherine pulled away, thoroughly disgusted with not only her behavior but that of her betrothed, and to be honest, a little heartsick that the very man she had loved since she was a small girl was doing nothing but a small favor. Protecting her as if she was still a girl of nine years.

Had nobody noticed that she was a woman? Did she need to shout it just as Benedict was shouting now?

Though he wasn’t using words, merely grunts, and thankfully the music was loud enough to drown out some of his bellow.

He reached her side and pulled her aggressively across his body, sending a seething glare to Paisley before using her as a crutch to leave the room.

She said nothing.

Katherine kept silent, which was a small miracle in and of itself, and helped Benedict to the doors leading outside. It was when she reached the double doors that she stole a glance back at Paisley, whose eyes were trained on Lady Anastasia as if she was his water in a drought. Katherine suppressed a sigh of longing. Would any man ever look at her with such hunger? For she did not miss the way his eyes hooded the minute they set upon Lady Anastasia. She felt herself blush as she looked back down at the ground feeling suddenly very much an imposter.

Heartsick, she swallowed the lump in her throat and helped Banbury down the remaining stairs.

He slurred for his carriage.

Katherine rolled her eyes.

This was her life. Helping the drunken Devil Duke into his carriage while licking her wounds from the other duke who was too pigheaded to do anything worthwhile and thought her nothing but a schoolgirl.

The fact that they were both foxed and angry just irritated her all the more.

The carriage seemed to take years. The footman jumped down to help the duke into the carriage.

“Good riddance,” she uttered under her breath as she turned on her heel.

“Wait,” Banbury called, his voice strangely quiet.

Against her better judgment, she stopped in her tracks. With a resigned sigh, she turned back to the carriage and leaned in.

“I forgot…” Banbury ran a gloved hand through his perfectly dark hair.

“What did you forget?”

“My betrothed.”

With strength of a god, he pulled her into the carriage, causing her to tumble across his lap just as the blasted horses took off.

If she wasn’t ruined before, she was good and ruined now. Her last thoughts before the Devil Duke brought her to his lap and kissed her.

Chapter Six

To Dare the Duke

One kiss, just one blasted kiss.

Blind rage had engulfed his entire body when he saw Baldwyn dancing with Katherine. An emotion he had never before experienced slammed into his chest, stealing the breath straight from him. Unable to speak, he had resorted to bellowing in the large ballroom rather than politely walking up to the couple and punching his cousin in the face.

Truthfully, everyone within the vicinity was lucky he’d been foxed, for even he was not drunk enough to falsely believe he would be a good shot. Not with how heavy his body had felt.

It was all Rawlings’ fault, for he had found great amusement in goading Benedict to drink more. And then Renwick had joined in, and some other gentleman who had a twin, and to be honest, it was all quite fuzzy after that.

Montmouth told him he should sleep it off.

And he’d been planning to.

Really he had been.

Until he saw her.

Heaven above, she was beautiful, and she really didn’t have a right to be anything but disagreeable and ugly. After all, she had nearly killed him and then ruined him, a renowned scoundrel of all people, in front of his aunt!

Without logic entering into the equation, he grabbed the minx by the arm and brought her outside.

His only goal to scare her and warn her of dalliances with other men. If he was to placate her family, he needed to have his two weeks without any competition. Not that he was worried he would lose, it just didn’t seem fair.

But once he opened his mouth, her vanilla scent bombarded him nearly sending him to his knees, and once again he was filled with a violent lust that left him wondering what it would feel like to lick her bare skin.

Unfortunately, he was too foxed to use any of his usual tactics.

Meaning… he resorted to trickery.

Not one of his finer moments.

She didn’t even fight him.

Which, according to his drunken haze, told him she desired him as much as he desired her, which according to his calculations, also meant she would be receptive to his kiss.

She wasn’t.

Instead, she pushed against his chest and kicked until, with a curse, he pulled away.

“What the devil was that for?”

“You pompous, arrogant, son of a—”

His hand covered her mouth before she made a fool of herself by insulting a peer of the realm, one who ranked higher than she, if only by a tiny hair.

“Cease from speaking, you insulting wench.” Well, he could have said that better. He blamed the whiskey, and those wretched twins. What were their names again? Anthony and Ambrose, something? Why the devil had they kept pouring that whiskey? Terrible idea to begin with. He needed a clear mind, not one muddled with alcohol.

He shook his head.

Katherine slapped him, offering her assistance no doubt.

“Well, that was helpful, my thanks.” He scowled and touched his cheek where he carried a painful mark of her assault.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” Katherine’s nostrils flared. He didn’t need to be sober to know she was upset, but he did need to be sober to be able to concentrate on her face rather than the swell of her breasts.

Damn, but she had nice breasts. He had a brief vision of freeing them from that ridiculous dress, tasting them, exploring them, a pinch here, a lick there.

“Benedict!” she screamed his Christian name quite loudly. Why the hell had she done that? Had she no care for the foxed?

“Stop yelling!” he yelled.

“Why did you kidnap me like that? I’m completely and utterly ruined now! My parents are probably already announcing our engagement, elated that I left with you! Oh, this is so horrible!” She sat back against the cushions and punched the seat with her hand.

“Yes well, I obviously hadn’t thought that through very well,” he admitted touching a hand yet again to his throbbing face.

“You don’t say,” she mocked.

“Now see here.” His head felt much clearer when he was enraged, funny that. “We will marry and that is that.”

“Hours ago, you wanted to murder me, and now you want to marry me?”

“Yes, well no, I’m not sure.”

“I feel so desired, la, I’m going to be a puddle at your feet if you keep speaking to me with such delicate words and phrases.”

“You don’t want to marry me,” he stated boldly. “You’ve told your parents and my aunt, though you grudgingly admitted to allowing me two weeks to court you.”

“I thought it a kindness.” She smiled sweetly.

Minx. “No, you thought to inflict more torture on my person. But not again, I will not be ruined and then jilted out of a proposal.”

“Pardon?” She leaned forward.

“You heard me, I was quite ruined tonight.”

“What?”

“Ah, so she lacks intelligence as well as hearing?” Benedict grinned at his brilliance. “You ruined me, not the other way around. It was you on top of me, and you who clumsily fell into my carriage; all it would take is one word from me to your family and you’d be stuck with me.”

Katherine folded her arms across her chest, giving him another lovely view he wouldn’t mind staring at for the remainder of the evening. “Smarter when you’re foxed, hmm?”

His eyes darted back up to her face. He really needed to stop getting so distracted. “I’m always smarter, and don’t you forget it. The way I see things is you have no choice but to marry me. But never fear. I will allow you to earn the right to choose and court me as you see fit.”

“Me?” Katherine laughed. “Court you? A man? How much whiskey did you consume?”

Not near enough, not near enough. Blazes, her smile was beautiful. Why was it so blasted hot in that carriage? He cleared his throat. “I’ll call upon you tomorrow, and you may court me as you see fit.”

“Or else?” she asked in a tiny voice.

“Or else I’ll ruin you even more than you’re ruined at this very moment. You won’t be accepted anywhere, and my slip of a cousin will be sorry he ever danced with you.

A defeated look washed across her features as her eyebrows drew together and her mouth gaped open. “I know what you’re doing.”

He sure hoped not.

“You, you!” She pointed at him and pounded the cushion again. Poor, sad, little cushion seat. “You mean to make it look like it’s my fault when the engagement doesn’t work! You mean to salvage your pride, you hateful man!”

He sneered. “But of course. It works for the both of us. Your parents see that you truly tried to make it work, you put forth such a gallant effort. And in the end, when it still isn’t enough to win over the most infamous duke of the ton, they’ll nurse your broken heart, and you will be free to do whatever you like.”

“But—” She chewed her lower lip. What he wouldn’t give to be that lip.

Plump.

Red, with just a hint of pink in the middle.

Wet.

Hell, her lips looked wet didn’t they? One tiny taste would satisfy any sort of curiosity, now wouldn’t it?

Water, he needed some sort of water to get rid of his foxed state. He was starting to feel… sentimental.

“But I’ll still be ruined, won’t I?”

“Of course.” He grinned. What did he care if she was ruined? He’d already planned on ruining her, ravishing her, and then leaving. That was to be her punishment for all the torture she’d put him through, and she was more than deserving. He would enjoy every single second.

She took a deep breath and cursed — quite impressively for a young lady — ending with, “You’re the devil.”

“So I’ve been told, love. So I’ve been told.” He picked up her hand, though she tried to keep it at her side, and bestowed a kiss across her knuckles. “And always at your service should you need to make another deal with the devil.” With a wink, he pulled back, chuckling.

Chapter Seven

The devil is in the details

Katherine narrowed her eyes at the man. Surely he was the devil himself! The injustice of it all. By all appearances it would look — well, it would look like she was besotted with the man, and then when it would be time for them to announce their betrothal, there would be no betrothal to announce. Her parents would be livid, she would still be utterly ruined, and Benedict would get away scot free, Devil Duke reputation intact, and if anything, even more famous throughout the ton!

But worse of all, her heart dropped as her mind played the truth over and over again in her head. The Duke of Paisley would be out of reach, for even if he wasn’t already betrothed to Lady Anastasia, what would he possibly want with a ruined girl?

So, it was in that moment, when she looked at the choices laid out before her, that she became selfish and impulsive. If no one was to have her, if love would never be her destiny, perhaps she could make the duke's life a living, waking, hellish nightmare. For it was his fault that this was all coming to pass.

“Why are you smiling?” he asked, grinning and leaning forward to receive a kiss, no doubt.

“Oh, because.” She gave him her most coy look and blinked her eyes, resting them finally on his lips as her eyelashes fluttered. She looked back up, into his piercing gaze.

Eyes dilated, his gaze was ravenous, dark, sensual. She gulped and leaned forward. His lips met hers in a frenzy. She reciprocated, allowing herself one moment of weakness before biting his bottom lip, hoping she would draw blood.

“Damn it! What the bloody hell was that for?”

“Ruining my happiness, that’s what,” she spat. “It seems we have two weeks to become acquainted. Get your beauty rest, for you’ll need it.”

He cursed again as the carriage came to a halt in front of her house. “Oh, and Banbury?” She stepped out of the carriage and turned. “Consider yourself warned. I never back down without a fight.”

“Been nearly killed four times to prove that very true statement,” he muttered begrudgingly.

“Exactly. Good day, your grace.” She winked and walked into the house.

Not typically one to throw any sort of tantrum, Katherine stomped up the stairs and quietly closed her bedroom door, all the while forcing her mind to forget the feel of the devil’s lips as they’d caressed her own.

Why was he nicknamed the Devil Duke anyway? Granted, he leaned toward rakish tendencies and did have a slight obsession with horse racing, but didn’t all fashionable young gentleman?

The way things looked tonight, the men of London were drinking whiskey as if it was going out of style and slapping one another on the back as if being a man was such a brilliant privilege that they needed to keep congratulating one another on their sex.

Katherine knew she needed to get her rest, for tomorrow would be the most trying day of all. At dawn, she had to begin courting the devil himself, and every able-minded person in London would sit back and watch the entertainments, for she would be the first woman to ever gain a proposal from the duke.

Knock, knock, knock.

Benedict lifted his pounding head, rising slowly from the warmth of his bed. The knocks began anew.

He cursed.

“I know you’re in there!” the voice boomed.

His stomach rolled and clenched as a giant unseen hand seemed to squeeze his chest like a vise.

Agatha.

Well, now it was final. She was singlehandedly trying to kill him. Had she no respect for the inebriated and half dead? He blinked several times and rubbed his eyes just as the door burst open. Agatha entered with Percy, his irritated valet, in tow.

“How could you?” she screamed again affirming his earlier assumption that she was planning his demise.

“How could I, what?”

“Be such a man!”

He wasn’t sure if he should be pleased or horrified that his aunt had accused him of such. He looked down to make sure at least half of his body was covered and sighed in relief that it was.

“Did you want me to be a woman?”

Percy coughed.

Agatha narrowed her gaze. “Your very presence irritates me.”

Benedict sighed. “So it seems. I take it this is the reason for your intrusion? My offensive sex and irritating presence. Pray, if I offend you so, why don’t you simply leave?”

She snorted and stomped her heel onto Percy’s foot.

Eyes wide, Percy clenched his teeth and slowly lifted his eyes heavenward.

God does not hear our pleas my friend, believe me, I’ve tried, Benedict thought.

“You are not listening to me!” Agatha yelled.

Any louder and his head might explode. Then again, if he died, he wouldn’t have to listen to Agatha screeching anymore.

“Apologies, you were saying something about irritation and my offending sex?”

“You’ve made a horrible mess of everything! Do you even know what people are saying? It’s all over the gossip rags. Oh, my heavens. You’ve done some terrible things, Benedict, but this is truly worthy of a prize!” She thrust a paper in his face and lifted a handkerchief to her eyes.

Benedict took the paper and scowled.

It was Mrs. Peabody’s blasted gossip rag. Everyone read it. He would be lying if he said this was his first offense, the chit clearly had it out for him. With an exaggerated sigh, he read the words:

This should come as no shock to the rest of you. This author, however, was utterly appalled. To think! The Devil Duke ruining an innocent, and at the holiday’s first ball! Shamefully, I was beginning to think rumors of this dark duke’s demeanor were merely exaggerated. Now I believe we can all see firsthand what type of man he is.

For a man who not only ruins a woman in front of his own flesh and blood, but has the audacity to capture her and enclose her within the confines of his carriage sans chaperone, can only be one thing. A devil in disguise. This author only hopes that the matriarch of that particular family will do something before the devil does more damage. La, I have it on good authority that it would take the fires of hell licking at his heels before the duke would say yes to an engagement. In case you were keeping track, dear readers, this brings a grand total of ten ruined debutantes over the course of three years. This author shudders to think of the disgrace heaped on both families. Well, it is positively not done! If he is given more invitations for the holidays, this author may eat her quill!

—Mrs. Peabody’s Society Papers

Benedict laughed, amused that the lady would accuse him so hotly of something that was truly not even his fault.

She had accosted him.

She had fallen on him.

She had leaned in and kissed him.

Fine, so the last part was slightly exaggerated, but still, she was just as guilty. No woman should have such soft lips.

“What will you do?” Agatha asked, arms crossed.

By the look in her eyes he knew he had one of two choices. Laugh it off and kick her out of his home with a hearty farewell or make her privy to his true intentions. After all, he did have some pride to salvage. To think, a woman denying him… and a spinster no less!

“I’m so pleased you’ve asked, and to think I was just readying myself to come over to your house and tell you of my plans.”

Agatha rolled her eyes. “Which is why you were still sleeping when I knocked on the door.”

“I was merely meditating on the sweet words I would utter to my beloved.”

It was Percy’s turn to snort, and Agatha coughed behind her hand.

“Besides,” Benedict added with a stretch, “to say what happened against my door was a knock would be a terrible injustice. It was more of a bang, or something akin to a cannon exploding in my bedchamber. Now, if you will be so kind as to excuse me, I have a call to make.”

With determination, he offered a smile.

He wasn’t sure if it was the smile or the speech, but his aunt promptly fainted.

Three hours later, after an ungodly amount of smelling salts, tea, and instances when he saw his aunt's ankles, she was packed into a carriage and sent home.

“Do you think she was feigning illness?” Baldwyn said beside him. Apparently Benedict hadn’t been the only one to be roused from his sleep in the early morning. In fact, Baldwyn had smartly chosen to break his fast at Benedict’s home while Agatha stormed into Benedict’s rooms to scold him.

Baldwyn had it easy, however. He simply needed to speak to the girl’s father and all would be done.

Benedict had to fight.

But he was used to winning.

And how difficult could it be to win a spinster’s heart?

Chapter Eight

Try Again

Katherine pleaded with her parents to allow her to return to the country. Instead, it seemed the more she begged, the more resolute they were in their decision.

Distressed, she had taken to her rooms.

A knock sounded at her door.

Please let it be a thief coming to steal her away or perhaps knock her senseless? And then she could wake up confused as to how she had become ruined the night before.

She wanted to forget any of it had happened.

It was too mortifying.

Too horrible.

Everything, except the stolen kisses.

But they didn’t count. Everyone knew kisses only counted when they were given in earnest, and if Benedict was earnestly kissing her, well, the whole idea would be ludicrous.

He was merely competitive and a seducer of innocents and truly the worst sort of man. Well, he had been successful in ruining her, and now the only course of action was to go about a betrothal and wait for him to inevitably end things. Then she could go back to the country and die alone.

Splendid.

Not exactly how she had imagined her life would turn out.

Another knock came, this one a bit more insistent.

“Enter,” she said, thoroughly disgusted with herself for entertaining dreams of the rogue's kisses.

“He’s here,” said her maid Nancy in a tiny voice.

Katherine picked a feather off of her pillow and huffed. “Who?”

“You told me not to utter his name,” whispered Nancy.

Shivering, Katherine sat up. “You mean he’s here?”

“The very one.”

“Well, who let him in?” she all but screamed.

“Your mother. Seems she was overwrought after the scandal sheets were delivered. Allow me to speak frankly?”

“Always.”

“It is worse than you thought upon your return last night, my lady.”

“How much worse?” Katherine asked, sick with dread.

Nancy drew a deep breath,“Much.”

Well, that was descriptive and helpful. She had to think. Her eyes darted to the window.

“I fear the fall would kill you.” Nancy read her thoughts.

Drat.

Allowing herself a few minutes of silent pity, Katherine closed her eyes and sighed. Things could always be worse. She could be deathly ill, or perhaps crippled, or blind, or…

She shuddered. After all, it was never a good sign when one had to think of death in comparison to her current situation.

Katherine managed to make it down the stairs, though she took great pains to methodically count each step, for in her mind, it was a reminder of how many steps she would take until she entered the inferno.

How was it, she wondered, that God allowed such a man to live?

Upon entering the room, she was given her answer.

For like Lucifer himself, the man was too beautiful to kill.

Curse him.

“Ah, my dear, there you are!” Her father embraced her and patted her on the head. But Katherine’s eyes never left the duke’s.

“Your grace.” She curtsied quickly and walked behind the sofa to put distance between them. Merciful heavens, why weren’t there any windows open?

“If I may be so bold, you look extravagant this morning, my lady.” Benedict gave her a stare that made her heart flutter in all the wrong places. Treacherous body! Perhaps she should have taken her luck with the fall out of the window.

“You may not be so bold,” Katherine clipped. “Especially when you freely give such compliments without as much as smiling.”

“Apologies.” He grimaced, though to be fair it was probably the closest to a smile she was going to get.

“Yes, well, as long as it doesn’t happen again.”

“Katherine!” her mother scolded. “After everything that has transpired, do you not think you should show a little more favor to the duke? After all, as of an hour ago, you are officially engaged.”

Suddenly glad she was leaning on the settee, Katherine sputtered, “S-surely not!”

Benedict’s eyes shimmered with merriment as he narrowed his gaze and approached her. “But, my dear, you seemed so much more keen on the idea last night.”

Fists planted firmly at her sides, it took every ounce of strength not to lash out at the man. He wanted this marriage less than she did. What the devil was he up to? What happened to the two weeks' time in which she had to court him, and he was going to cry off like the fool he was?

“Then perhaps you should refresh my memory, for I do not remember hearing any sort of proposal from your lips.”

“No,” he leaned in to whisper in her ear. Why weren’t her parents doing anything? She looked from left to right. Drat, they had abandoned her, and the door was closed. Well, there was no way out of this one. She would just have to fight.

She pushed against him; he grasped her clenched hands. “So you want me to refresh your memory, do you?” His breath tickled her ear.

“If you touch me, I’ll scream.”

“Not the first time a woman’s felt the need to do that in my presence, I assure you. Besides, with my certain skill set, your mother will simply blush profusely all the while fanning herself, and your father would be more likely to pat me on the back than shoot me.”

“How can you be so sure of yourself?”

“Because.” A smug look crossed his chiseled face. “I promised to fix everything.”

Interesting that he would do anything so noble. “Just what do you intend to fix?”

“First, I’m going to fix this business about ruining you. Second, I’m going to pretend to be infatuated, though it won’t be terribly hard considering you kiss like a courtesan. And third? Third, I’m going to get to the bottom of this business with my aunt trying to pair us up.”

Katherine burst out laughing. Oh, the poor deluded man. “Your aunt was doing nothing of the sort, you arrogant beast!”

“Clearly, you’ve hit your head.” Benedict stepped back and folded his arms across his chest. “She told me I was to be married, and mentioned you’d…”

Suddenly his face went very white.

“Mentioned what? Our names in the same sentence? Believe me, your aunt would never align us. She had much higher aspirations for me.”

Benedict grabbed her shoulders turning her ever so slightly closer to his body. “Explain.”

“She penned a note about the Winter's Festivities and mentioned to my parents how eager she was for me to meet the Duke of Paisley.”

“Paisley? But he’s to be with…”

While he was making calculations, she stepped back out of his reach. The man was too handsome by half, and it seemed near impossible to think in his presence. It was why she was always so clumsy around him. Paisley had always been kind to her as a child, and Benedict, well, he brooded and girls swooned.

At least now when he brooded, they guarded their virtue with fans.

“Look at it this way, your grace. It seems your aunt deemed Paisley good enough to have a choice between me and Lady Anastasia. I’m sorry all I have is the information given me, but I do not believe she was trying to trap you, at least not with me.”

“Why not with you?” he roared.

Why the devil was he allowed to be offended?

Why not, indeed. “Because I’m a Kerrington, and we do not associate with rakes.”

“You’re a spinster.”

“I’m a woman.”

“I think we’ve established that at least four times.”

“The same amount of times I’ve accosted you. Interesting.” Katherine moved to the door, but his hand slammed across the knob.

“Am I that blackened? Tell me you didn’t dream of my kiss, don’t want my hands on your body. Tell me you don’t desire me, and I’ll restore your reputation and cry off, forgetting this whole business.”

Her body screamed for her to give in to his touch, his masculine scent of soap and tobacco, the gleam in his eyes that promised wicked pleasure.

But as soon as she allowed herself the image of what it would be like to be in his arms, her mind conjured up Paisley. If there was a chance, however slight, that she could be with him…

She cleared her throat. “The only thing I feel for you is revulsion, and that is the truth.”

He blinked at her before stepping back, and looked again at her face as if confused. Without another word, he opened the door and took a deep breath, giving her one final glance. It didn’t seem possible, but his eyes held pain.

Perhaps the man had feelings after all.

Chapter Nine

Impossible Suddenly Quite Possible

Benedict walked to his carriage in silence.

He couldn’t find the words to say anything, not even “Whites,” which was exactly where he wanted to go, but truthfully if his footman suddenly had an inkling to go to the moon, Benedict would have been more than willing.

Anything to get rid of this ridiculous itch on his chest.

Well, perhaps it wasn’t on his chest.

More like inside his chest, not truthfully an itch, more like a feeling, cursed word that that was.

And if he was being honest with himself, it felt quite a lot like the day his nanny chose to give Paisley a new toy and scolded Benedict for being naughty.

Then again, this feeling was much worse. It was hard to breathe, as if each time he opened his mouth he was only able to suck in so much air before his lungs collapsed altogether.

His footman waited patiently.

“Whites,” he finally croaked, thankful he was able to at least get that much out.

When had that chit gained the upper hand?

His mind was fuzzy as to how a person could outsmart him, and a woman no less. Had she any idea who he was? What he could do to her if he so chose?

Perhaps he felt positively ill because he knew exactly what Agatha was up to. Never would he consider her mad again, for she had played her cards well.

She had set up a trap, and he had fallen quite perfectly for the bait. Whatever she was up to, he would find out.

The rub, it seemed, was that he truthfully could do nothing to salvage Katherine’s reputation. It was good and ruined, which really was a pity. Reputations should be ruined for good reason, not stolen kisses or happy accidents, or in his case, assault.

No, it seemed only fair that she be well and truly ruined, the way a woman with lush curves and pouty lips should be.

In bed.

He laughed.

Most likely his footman now thought him mad, but he didn’t care.

His conscience nagged at him, stupid thing that it was. He had tried to dispel it years ago to no avail.

How was he to ruin a girl already ruined, who despised him and to whom he was also engaged?

Well, he was always one for puzzles.

Now all he needed was some very strong tea and a few hours to come up with a plan. Yes, she would rue the day she told the Devil Duke she had no feelings for him. She would rue the day she told him "no".

That night, as Katherine sat opposite her parents in the carriage, she could not shake the feeling of dread in her belly.

Benedict would be attending this night’s opera.

She was still ruined.

The ton would be waiting for a scandal, and worst of all, Paisley would be given a front row seat.

“Here we are.” Her mother beamed when their carriage pulled up to King's Theatre.

Katherine bit her lip, trying to keep the fluttering of her stomach at bay, and slowly made her way into the opera house.

It was too loud for her to be noticed, with too many people fluttering about.

“…and he has been ever so gracious to let us use his box!” Her mother clapped her hands together.

“Who?” Katherine loudly asked, for she could barely hear herself think.

“Why, the duke, of course.”

“Which one?”

Her mother paused. “Have you so quickly forgotten the name of your fiancé?”

Oh, him. “No, apologies. It seems I’ve become quite… flushed.”

Her mother scowled. “I knew I should not have left you alone this morning with that dreadful man. His reputation is black as sin, but surely you know there is no other choice?”

Katherine nodded.

“Did he… make advances toward you?”

Eyes wide, she could only shake her head no and pray her blush wasn’t as bright as it felt. It would do no good for her mother to know the specifics. Besides, it wasn’t as if she wanted her mother to die of an apoplexy.

No, she’d leave the dying to Benedict.

But then again…

Why wouldn’t her heart stop fluttering?

“This way.” Her father directed them to the box. At least there were only six seats. Enough for her parents, herself, Banbury and…

“The Dowager Duchess of Durbin,” the lady introduced herself to her mother and father, then quickly darted her beady eyes in Katherine’s direction.

“My dear, you look ever so lovely.”

Katherine blushed again, and reached out to grasp the dowager’s outstretched hands, leaning in to kiss both of her rouged cheeks.

“Your grace, it has been an age. I’ve missed you dreadfully.”

A cough emanated from near the front of the balcony.

All heads turned in the direction of the interruption.

“Apologies, seems I’ve come down with a cold.” Benedict shrugged and winked at his aunt, whose icy glare caused the group to take a step back.

Benedict didn’t seem the least bit affected. “We are so pleased to have you with us this evening.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. The man was a conundrum, from his black attire, to the way his eyes scanned each person before him as if studying them.

Katherine cleared her throat and moved to take a seat on the opposite side of the box, but a hand stopped her.

“Katherine,” her mother whispered harshly in her ear. “It will look dreadful if you do not sit next to your fiancé. Do not make this worse than it already is.”

It could get worse. It could get much worse. For one thing, Benedict could have her skirts lifted merely by crooking his pinky finger.

She was a wanton hussy.

The man had no shame, and no right to be as attractive as he was. Why was it that men who had impossible personalities were gifted with good looks? Should it not be the other way around?

Then again, Paisley was quite handsome and kind and…

You’re not marrying Paisley, you nitwit!

“Your grace.” Katherine curtsied before taking a seat next to Benedict. The lights soon dimmed, and she found herself in quite an interesting position.

For the close proximity seemed to cause a sensual current between the two of them. His thigh barely brushed hers, but he didn’t seem the least bit affected. He crossed his arms and leaned back as if bored. While she, well, she was near trembling.

And then the odious man stretched, just grazing her shoulder as his arm flew above his head. When his hands came down, a finger brushed hers.

This was why they called him the devil. This very reason, for he was able to conjure up nonsensical feelings with a mere touch.

“Tell me.” She jumped as his lips barely touched her ear. “What is it you’re thinking of? We both know you haven’t even glanced at the performance.”

“If you must know,” she hissed, “I was just wondering where Paisley was located. Your aunt expressed her desire for us to continue our acquaintance.”

“Paisley?” he all but spat. “He’s engaged, as are you.”

“According to you, all I had to do was deny my attraction, and you would cry off.”

He shrugged. “I lied. Besides, you’re already ruined. The way I see it, I’m doing you a favor merely by sitting with you.”

She hated that he was right.

“Does he make you feel… things?”

“Who?”

“Paisley.”

“Of course. I feel quite happy when I am near him, which is more than I can say about you.”

Benedict chuckled, his finger drawing a slow circle on her arm. “I do not want you to feel happy when you are near me.”

“What a dreadful thing to say—”

“I merely want you to feel…” He paused. “…alive.”

Any more alive and she would be quite dead from want.

“You cannot force a person to desire you, as you well know,” she said haughtily, her voice jumping a few octaves to prove her offense. She refused to look at him and kept her gaze on the performance.

“My dear, who said anything about forcing?” His teeth nipped her ear just as she gasped and the crowd broke out in applause.

The first act was done.

She wasn’t so sure she would make it through the rest.

Benedict couldn’t see straight, and it had nothing to do with whiskey, but everything to do with the minx sitting next to him.

Had a courtesan dressed her?

By Jove, she looked like… like… His mind was having trouble processing large words, and he struggled to remember to breathe at the same time, And considering he wanted to go on living, thank you very much, he chose not to think of an appropriate word.

“Beautiful,” he muttered aloud without thought.

Her head snapped in his direction, which then made his snap back to the stage where the second act would be starting soon.

Well, now he looked like an overeager lad. Splendid.

A commotion ensued to his left a few boxes down.

Paisley.

Katherine flinched at his side. Was he imagining things or was the girl actually trying to slouch further into her seat?

Ridiculous.

“Hiding?” He jerked her upright with one fluid movement.

She glared. “Perhaps.”

“It would never work, you know.”

“What wouldn’t?” The flicker of emotion in her eyes told him she knew exactly what he meant.

“You and Paisley. Unlike myself, he’s a man of honor. Aunt has already announced his betrothal. You’d have to kill the girl in order to gain his hand in marriage, and even then I’d wager against you.”

“Do you always offer such pretty compliments?” Her lower lip trembled. Blast it, was the chit going to cry now?

“I’m merely telling you the truth. He is the honorable one.”

“What does that make you?” Surprisingly her lip stopped trembling, her glassy eyes pierced him with such longing, he nearly forgot to breathe.

He swallowed, gaining time to gather himself. “It makes me the defiant one, I suppose.”

She continued looking straight through him, making it deuced uncomfortable to do anything but stare back.

“Besides…” He leaned in and prayed Agatha wasn’t watching. “Do you truly believe he could bring you pleasure after you’ve experienced it with me?”

The minx smiled tightly. “Do you believe yourself to be the expert in that certain area, your grace?”

“I don’t believe. I know.”

She snorted.

Did she doubt him?

Of all the hair-brained notions. Had she any idea what type of man she was frivolously playing with?

“Come on.” He jerked her to her feet and made apologies to the rest of their company. “The lady wants to take some air… absolutely stuffy in here.”

Heads nodded emphatically, and then she was out into the hall with the duke, utterly pinned by his predatory stare.

He stretched out his arm, giving her no choice in the matter but to take it and hope they would return soon.

Dread filled her with each step away from the box. Swallowing her fear, and if she were being honest, her excitement of being alone with the man, she continued on until he stopped in a darkened corner and pulled her in with him.

“Watch.” He turned her toward the wall. Oh no, why hadn’t she tried harder to fight him, or at least pulled away when he jerked her to her feet.

Trembling, she had only the option of hitting him in hopes to escape. Of course she had known him since he was a child, but obviously the man was different than the boy, and she always had a sort of fear of him.

“You’ve proven your point, now let me go.” She moved to elbow him, but he slithered away.

“Point? What point?” He sounded quite confused.

“That you’re not above terrifying innocent maidens into submission in order to gain what you want.”

At that, he laughed, throwing his head back and then finally meeting her gaze, an actual smile of amusement on his face.

Katherine didn’t mean to gasp, nor did she mean to lean forward to study the beautiful lines that made up this remarkable change in his demeanor, his deep set dimples, his wide smile.

Slowly, she lifted her hand and delicately touched his jaw.

Breath hissed between his teeth as he pushed her back against the wall she had just been just facing. “Am I terrifying now?”

“Dreadfully.”

He needn’t know that she was more astonished at his smile than truly terrified.

“Good, though that wasn’t why I went to all the trouble to bring you here. Now turn around like a good girl.”

What in the blazes was he doing? Katherine slowly turned, aware of his every breath as Benedict's lips grazed her ear, his gloved hands moved to either side of her head, one lifted, and a small light entered into their alcove, enough to gain her bearings.

“We’re so close to the stage.”

“Yes, funny thing that, it seems this box hasn’t been used for near a decade.”

“Why?”

“Well.” He pulled the curtains back even wider but not enough for them to be viewed by anyone. “It was said that Count Von Luxemburg killed his wife in this very box. Nobody has taken it since. It is also quite close to the middle class, which is of course, frowned upon.”

Katherine nodded. “I see.”

He tensed behind her.

“So you’ve taken me here to frighten me? To explain that if I don’t marry you, my fate will be the same as the countess, is that right?”

“My, my.” His hot breath scalded her neck. “What a fun little imagination you have packed up in here.” His hand dipped into her coiffure, brushing her skull and causing tremors. “Unfortunately, I brought you to this abandoned box so you wouldn’t need to stare at Paisley all night, and also so you could enjoy the opera.”

“I am enjoying it,” she fired back, clearly irritated.

“Really?” His whisper mocked her.

“Yes.”

“Then what, pray tell, is the name of the opera?”

Katherine swallowed. Blast, she had no idea. Not one clue, but surely all operas were similar? “I don’t remember, but it is very romantic.”

His body shook with laughter behind her. “It’s a comedy, minx. Le Nozze de Figaro to be exact, and I suspect that if you were truly paying attention, you would be quite entranced by the entire performance.”

She grinned, and focused back at the stage. “What’s happening?”

He didn’t move during the entire act as his lips spoke delicately into her ear translating each movement, each song, as if it was his second nature. When she gasped and began laughing, he laughed with her, his body steel behind her.

The curtains closed for intermission, leaving them once again in utter darkness.

“We should return,” Katherine whispered. “Surely, they will start to worry about us being alone for so long.”

“Do you truly think it could get any worse?” he joked.

Katherine stifled a laugh. “Well, considering most of the ton saw my skirts up past my knees…”

“Glorious looking knees, by the way. I would love to see them again,” he interrupted.

“I thought you were unconscious.”

“Perhaps I stole a peek.”

“Rogue.”

“Always.”

Katherine shivered as his body left hers. She rubbed her arms at the sudden chill. What in the world was wrong with her?

The white of Benedict’s gloves was visible in the darkened box. His hand slowly moved in front of him and then reached for the back of her head.

All was lost.

For she went willingly and quite wantonly into his arms. Not at all sure if it was he who had made the first move or she, and not caring even if she was the guilty party.

His lips parted, a hungry moan escaped them as he plundered her mouth with his tongue. A yearning shot through her at his erotic kiss, causing her hands to clench and tug at his hair. His mouth was hot and sweet, demanding in its pursuit.

Logic had nothing to do with the way she arched her back into his embrace, allowing easier access, and then when his hands began purposefully caressing down her chest, she was again lost. Sensations she never knew possible caused her knees to weaken.

Benedict nipped at her neck, and then cursed. “I cannot ruin you at an opera…”

She kissed him hard across the mouth.

“Devil take me… I so desperately want to try,” he mumbled as he nibbled on her lower lip. “I doubt you would thank me come tomorrow morning, nor would you be ecstatic to face your parents once they see you completely disgraced.”

She stiffened and retreated.

“Good choice,” he uttered, mumbling another oath before taking an unsteady breath. “Hell, what the devil is wrong with me?”

Was he speaking rhetorically?

He cursed again, this time kicking something. “I cannot be walking around like some besotted fool, my aunt will have me by my b—” He coughed. “My neck, she’ll have me by the neck, and I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Your grace,” Katherine spoke up.

But he was truly having a one-sided conversation, so he continued in justifying his actions. “It’s your fault! If you were not a woman…”

Katherine snorted. “Would you rather I be a man?”

“No!” he sputtered. “No, no, no, no. Heavens, no.”

“I believe you.” She covered her laugh.

Was he pacing? She could see movement but wasn’t sure if he was pacing or merely throwing his fist in the air repeatedly.

“I know!”

She had an idea this was not going to end up being an intelligent end to their conversation.

“Hit me.”

“Pardon?” she choked.

“Hit me, or trip me, anything really. I need to be reminded how utterly wrong you are for me, so that when I have moments of weakness — and don’t deny it, I’ve had quite a few as of late — I remember that we will not suit, we cannot suit.”

“So your answer is violence?” she asked.

“Precisely. After all, you’ve threatened my life four times before, why not add a fifth”

“Why not?” Katherine felt anger rise in her chest. The absolute cad! He would rather she strike him down than admit any sort of attraction?

Fine. He would get exactly what he asked for.

“It will be an honor, your grace.” With that, she brought her fist back and landed a blow across his eye that would have done her father quite proud.

Chapter Ten

If Only Women were Allowed at Gentleman Jackson’s…

To his utter shame and complete humiliation, Benedict took at least five minutes to regain consciousness. At least he suspected as much based on the expectant hush that had fallen over the theatre whil waiting for the second act. He refused to entertain the thought that it could have been longer. Being a man, it just wouldn’t be kind.

The throbbing on his cheek and around the tender flesh of his eye screamed in protest as he gently touched the area where Katherine had hit him.

Clearly, she didn’t need to be told twice to inflict pain. Though, to be fair, he had expected she would merely give him a light pat across the shoulder or mayhap even kick him in the shin.

Not, to his great humiliation, give such a remarkable punch that he was rendered senseless for longer than he’d care to admit. Were they allowing women at Jackson's these days? He needed to stop underestimating the chit, his nemesis, his future wife. Bitter pill to swallow, that.

Breath whistled through his teeth as he set himself to rights and checked his body for any other sort of bruising. Naturally, he wouldn’t put it past her to give a good kick after she sent him sailing to the ground.

Although sore, nothing else seemed worse for the wear, but he did have a sneaking suspicion he looked as if he had been on the wrong end of an opening door. With one final oath for good measure, he took another soothing breath and made his way back to the box.

Thankfully, everything was still blanketed in black. Unfortunately for him, he had the devil’s own luck, so it wasn’t all that surprising that the minute his booted foot stepped into his box, the stage lights came to life as the second act began.

And he, the wounded, was no longer in darkness.

Rather blinded by the spectacle in front of him. His eyes focused on the stage and then to his horror, Agatha. Of course the witch was laughing.

“What the devil happened to you?” Agatha said between giggles. At least have a care for the company! What were they to think when she was not even a trifle concerned for his welfare!

“I took a stumble,” he lied. His eyes quickly darted to Katherine.

The minx coughed. “And where pray tell did you stumble, your grace? Dare I ask the condition of the object that ran into your face?” She lifted her hand innocently to touch her cheek and winked. Not a blasted hair out of place. Gloves pristine.

He suddenly had a very vivid image of his hands shaking her tiny little body until she apologized.

Then again, he couldn’t very well have her apologize for something he’d told her to do.

Stupidity seemed to blare in front of his eyes like a bloody sign.

“Benedict!” Agatha scolded. “Really! To leave Lady Katherine all by herself! Heavens! The poor dear was lost for near an hour while you were out fighting imaginary dragons!”

“I was attacked!” he shouted, bringing quite a lot of attention to their box. He swore and quickly took a seat so nobody would be the wiser to his bruise.

“Attacked?” Agatha’s eyes narrowed. “Seconds ago you were most unfortunate to allow your clumsiness to get the best of you, and now you were accosted? By what, a child? A door?”

Katherine snorted behind her hand but kept her eyes dancing with amusement. Lord and Lady Kerrington were staring at him as if he had just sprouted an extra head near his ear.

“Well?” Agatha prodded.

“Both.” He closed his eyes. “It was both. You see, I was trying to find Lady Katherine amidst the crowds—”

“—there were no crowds, Benedict, we were all seated.”

“You did not let me finish!” He shifted in his seat. “The crowds of er… air.” Cough, cough. “You see, the air was quite crowded with… dust, lots of dust, and you know I am sensitive to dust, Aunt.”

“Indeed.”

At his silence she leaned in. “Oh, do go on, I believe your tale has just trumped my interest in the opera.”

Lord Kerrington nodded his head in agreement. All eyes on him. He scratched nervously at his neck and cleared his throat. “As I said, the air was crowded with—”

“—dust, yes you’ve said that already,” Katherine piped up cheerfully.

“Right.” He clenched his teeth. “And by the time I was able to set myself to right and go in search of Katherine, who surely must have been confused because of all the…” He choked on his lie.

“Dust,” they said in unison.

“Yes, dust,” he said emphatically. “I wandered into a darkened corner, many of those in the theatre, you know, and promptly took a stumble. My eyes had not yet adjusted to the dust-free area.”

Devil take him, he truly was the worst liar that had ever lived. Plain and simple. Didn’t help one bit that he was sweating through his jacket, nor that his aunt seemed to get more agitated by the minute.

Benedict leaned forward hoping to gain the attention of everyone and end this mortifying night. “I heard a scream.”

“No!” Lady Kerrington gasped.

He smiled cheerfully. “Why yes, and I being the strong, courageous…”

“—Don’t forget dust sensitive,” Katherine piped up again.

“Dust sensitive,” he ground out. “Ahem… man that I am, I went in search of the damsel. I’m happy to announce I made it just in time to save the woman in distress no worse for the wear!”

Odd nobody was clapping. Should he not be honored for his bravery, fake though it may be?

Agatha chuckled. “Interesting. For Katherine said both of you were merely lost and in a moment of panic she accidently hit you in the face because she thought she saw a rat.”

“But,” Benedict sputtered. “You asked…”

“Bravo!” Lord Kerrington slapped Benedict hard on the back. “Your Grace, my daughter was just regaling us with your ability to tell stories. I say, jolly good one! My dear,” he looked to Katherine. “You were right. He does possess a certain talent. Thank you for allowing us to see it firsthand.”

“Of course.” She winked at Benedict and crossed her arms.

He gave a nervous laugh. “Ah yes, I do enjoy telling falsehoods in order to entertain others.”

“Good man, good sense of humor, good man.” Lord Kerrington was still chuckling.

Benedict scooted closer to Katherine and grasped her hand hard within his.

She squeaked but otherwise made no movement.

“I have half a mind to strangle you.” He felt his jaw clench in frustration.

“But, your grace?” Katherine turned her deep blue eyes toward him and whispered, “Then you would no longer be able to kiss me, and you do enjoy that, don’t you?”

Before he could speak, she shushed him. “No, no, you’ve had quite the ordeal tonight, your grace. Pray, do not exert yourself any further. Besides, you’ve kissed a woman, lived through a fight and apparently a terrible bout with dust. You deserve your rest. Just remember this one thing.”

“What’s that?” Curse his voice for being hoarse with need.

“This round goes to me.”

“Minx.”

“Rogue.”

“Flirt.”

“Devil.”

He sighed. “Agreed. I have been bested.”

“Why, your grace!” Her eyelashes fluttered. He couldn’t take his eyes away from her face if he wanted to. “How sporting of you.”

And then, the woman, the very same one who had threatened his life so many years before, managed the impossible.

She didn’t sneak, but rather stomped right into his heart, threatening something much more dangerous than his life.

His absolute and utter devotion.

Devil take him, he’d be shocked if he lasted the two weeks without his heart, soul, life, and everything else he possessed on a platter before the girl.

The whole idea that she could enter into his life so quickly and steal his very small heart made him deuced uncomfortable. She was more than a pretty face, and despite his desire to bed her, he found himself wanting to wed her. Perhaps he was going mad? It may be the only explanation as to why he continued to stop himself from fully ruining her, from making her his. Though his body ached with need, for the first time in his life, he was putting another human being ahead of himself. It was such an odd feeling that he found he almost needed to sit before his knees buckled beneath him sending him to the floor.

What was this foreign feeling? Would it ever go away? Or was the only cure the very same girl that both provoked and inflamed him?

He wasn’t going to last a week.

Then again, she wasn’t sure she was going to last the carriage ride home. The man was altogether too large to fit in that stifling carriage.

After his aunt accidently tread on her father's foot with her cane, well, he’d felt a bruised foot as well as a bruised ego, no doubt.

Meaning, her parents had left the opera early.

Thanking the heavens that she still had Benedict’s fire-breathing aunt with them, Katherine soon realized her joy would be short-lived. When the very dragon toppled over in her chair.

“Oh, you two stay, stay! After all, you are betrothed.”

“I will see that Lady Katherine reaches her home this evening,” Benedict had drawled, his smirk giving way to the utter satisfaction he most likely felt with Katherine in his clutches again.

“Well, if you insist.” The dowager looked to Katherine.

“I would be delighted to stay and watch the remainder of the opera with his grace.”

“Well, that’s settled!” The dowager nodded her head slowly. The poor thing did look quite put out; perhaps she was coming down with a cold? Which is exactly what she had suggested to Benedict.

He laughed, and stated that she was known for having a list of ailments, all of which were nonexistent but always helpful in her manipulations and strategies.

They were silent during the rest of the opera.

And in the carriage.

Until, all of a sudden Benedict stopped the carriage a block from her house. “You cannot be silent!”

“Why ever not?” she near shouted.

“It isn’t like you!”

“Pardon?”

“Silence? Beauty? Intelligence? Devil take me, it isn’t at all like you! Be disagreeable. Saints alive, help a man out! It would be so much easier to marry a woman who was… was…”

She must have hit him harder than she thought.

“Let me see if I understand you correctly. You desire for me to be undesirable.”

“Bloody hell, yes!” He lifted his eyes heavenward and sighed happily. “Do you not understand? I was just getting used to the idea of being married, of being forced — nay, coerced, perhaps manipulated is a better word? Yes, manipulated — into marrying you! At least then, I knew I could keep my distance. After all, you’d probably send me to an early grave, and then I wouldn’t have to suffer along side you in holy matrimony.”

“How romantic.”

He shrugged. He would shrug at a time like this. Devil take him.

“But now, don’t you see how much more difficult it is going to be for me to be… Well, to be…” He bit his lip and scowled.

“Selfish?” she offered.

“Yes!” he roared. “Now wait one minute, I wouldn’t necessarily say it’s selfish for a man to want to live his life without the irritation of a woman by his side.”

“Your words are like poetry,” she gushed mockingly.

Banbury glared. “I do not want marriage. Least of all with a woman who can throw a right punch with the best of them, nor one who I can’t imagine without pigtails. Besides, she picked you.”

“By she you mean the dowager? Were we not just discussing this last night? She picked me for your cousin, not for you. Truly, you need to learn the art of humility.”

“She tricked me,” he said, ignoring her. “Besides, you’re stuck with me. Forget the courting, hang it all! You will marry me, and you will be boring!”

Perhaps she should tell the footman to take them to Bedlam instead of her home. “Are you unwell?” She leaned forward and lifted a hand to his cheek.

“Why the blazes would I be well? A few days ago, I was happily drinking the night away at a gambling Hell. And now, now, I’m… going to the opera with my aunt of all people! Along with my soon-to-be wife. By God, I’m going to have a wife…” He leaned his head back against the seat.

“And an apoplectic fit if you don’t calm down,” she added.

He glared. “My thanks. That was ever so helpful in putting my mood in a better state.”

“I don’t love you,” she stated rather boldly.

He opened his eyes and burst out laughing. “Truly, a man can’t hear that enough. It is akin to a woman confessing that she only has days to live and has never been with a man, or when the proprietor suddenly announces that the whiskey is free.”

“You don’t love me.”

He paused.

Good God, why was he pausing?

The air in the carriage swam with tension.

“No?” The word hung as a question between them. He blinked his eyes a few times as if trying to ascertain that they were still functioning, a side effect of the dust no doubt.

“No.” She nodded and leaned forward. “But, your grace. We are stuck. Let us think nothing more of crying off or trying to best one another. Can we not simply be friends?”

“Marriage and friendship?” He looked skeptical as his eyebrows drew together.

She nodded.

“I guess this means you won’t try to be boring.”

“I cannot be what I am not.”

His eyes narrowed.

She cleared her throat and patted his hand. “Just like you cannot help but be disagreeable and grumpy with a nasty habit of forgetting to smile.”

Banbury opened his mouth to speak, but she kept talking.

“And let us not forget your horrid talent at telling a fib. Gracious, my three-year-old niece could do it better. Dust? Really?”

“In my defense, I am sensitive.”

She grinned. “Remind me to bring dust to our ceremony.”

“Wouldn’t shock me at all if you arrived with pistols firing, let alone dust.”

“It would be less than you deserve,” she added.

“Minx.” He tapped the roof of the carriage and sighed. “Friends?” His hand was outstretched in a manner signaling a peace of sorts. So why, when her gloved hand touched his, did she feel that she had just made a deal with the devil?

He smiled.

She gulped. Because the truth hit her full force. She didn’t feel like she had made a deal with the devil. The deal was already done, and the devil looked quite pleased.

Chapter Eleven

What’s a Devil to Do?

He was worse than a woman. His own mood swings were driving him mad; he could only imagine how Katherine felt. That was, if he was one to care about others’ feelings, which of course, he wasn’t.

He was the devil after all.

It was morning, precisely two days since the dreaded ball where his life had been changed forever, and less than twenty-four hours since his last erotic kiss with the woman that was to be his wife. By his calculations, he had less than two weeks before the Kringle Ball. The very same ball that would seal his fate as a leg-shackled duke.

When had he lost control of his life?

Was it the day he’d stepped into Agatha’s house? Or perhaps the very second he decided to accept her invitation?

And now he was stuck.

With a wife he didn’t want. Well, that was to say he didn’t emotionally want her. Wanting her physically was quite another topic entirely. His body replayed images of her responsive kiss over and over again until his only solace was whiskey.

He finished half the bottle. Not a proud moment since he wasn’t one to normally drink alone.

The problem was he saw no way out of this predicament. Contrary to popular notion, he truly did possess a heart, though it was small, and at times he did wonder if it worked properly. Especially considering he rarely felt guilty for ruining women left and right. It had always been a sport, a way to pass time, an entertaining amusement.

But now, he had one woman. One irritatingly attractive woman who was depending on him to make one right decision amidst all the bad ones.

He swallowed, suddenly wishing he wasn’t nursing a headache or nausea, for the whiskey called out to him again.

There was no way out of the mess.

It would be helpful if the chit would at least be agreeable. His demands were straightforward and honest, but in the end, it wouldn’t have mattered if she tried to be boring. Her eyes shone with intelligence.

Nor if she tried to be indifferent; her mouth often curved into a mischievous smile when she thought nobody was watching.

But he watched.

He noticed.

Devil take him, he was actually falling for a woman who wasn’t his mistress.

Which meant he was in danger of creating the biggest scandal the ton would ever see or talk about for centuries.

The Devil Duke was successfully becoming besotted with the very woman he was going to marry.

Wonders never ceased.

He smiled, despite a herculean effort not to, and took a slow sip of coffee.

“Your grace, this just came for you. It is urgent that you respond straight away.” His butler bowed, but made no move to leave.

Benedict took the letter into his hand and broke the seal.

A house party.

Gads, he hadn’t been to a house party in years.

He continued reading.

The party was to be thrown at Lord Marks' estate just outside London.

A holiday party.

His mind worked sluggishly through the details. It would be endless days filled with ice-skating and games.

It sounded like the exact opposite of something he would normally agree to.

Which was why, when he wrote his acceptance, he nearly banged his head against the table in order to conjure up part of his old self.

“Deuced idiot is what I am,” he mumbled as he closed his eyes, and contemplated returning to bed.

But then a thought struck him.

A devilish thought, one that brought a cheerful smile to his face and did wonders for his headache.

Katherine.

What he needed was to put her in situations where she would yet again prove disastrous and dangerous, and would successfully kill any sort of attachment he had for her. It would remind him that she was not any type of woman he wanted to marry. This was so simple! The girl was as clumsy as she was beautiful. Put the girl in skates and she would find the thin ice.

He laughed aloud nearly scaring himself in the process, for he had just laughed over the thought of a girl falling into an ice pond.

His smile faded. Did he truly just imagine her beautiful body falling into an icy hole? What in the blazes was wrong with him? Perhaps she could just take a tumble, reminding him again that she was not fit to be a duchess and certainly unfit to be wed.

On the other hand, considering his imagination had run away with him again, mayhap he should return to bed?

No, no, he scolded himself. He had preparations to make.

One day later

Katherine glared at the man sitting opposite her. The carriage hit a bump; she glared harder. Could he not feel the penetration of her stare?

“You’re going to hurt me if you keep glowering at me in that fashion, or worse your eyes will be stuck in that position, and we both know how offensive you find me.” He grinned, his dimples mocking her every nerve.

Drat the man! Days ago, she had not thought him capable of emotion, let alone smiling! And now he was practically enthusiastic. When she agreed to be his friend despite having to marry him, it seemed the best course of action.

In her defense, she had thought to only see him a few more times before the Kringle Ball, and at worse, every day.

But now, she was to spend four days in his company.

In his cousin’s company.

She’d be shocked if she didn’t expire from the emotional turmoil of it all.

Add in ice skating and other games, and she was a ball of nerves. It had been pure luck on her part that she had managed not to accost the duke in the past three days.

Surely her luck was running out.

Benedict grinned again. Yes, it was most definitely running out.

“Am I to understand that you’ve never ice skated before?” he asked, looking idly amused. If she could call inspecting her gloves and smiling amused.

“I am quite skilled at ice skating, your grace.”

He cursed aloud and leveled her with a glare so intense, she was surprised her face didn’t go up in flames.

“We are to be husband and wife. I believe you can cease from calling me your grace, at least in private.”

“Sorry, Benedict.”

His teeth clenched. “Don’t know why you’d have such trouble saying my name now, you were deuced good at screaming it when you were busy trying to plan my demise.”

Katherine bit her bottom lip trying to keep from smiling. “I was concerned for your welfare.”

“Concerned?” He tilted his head and leaned forward. “Pray tell, were you concerned before or after I was knocked out from a tree branch those many years ago?”

She managed a stoic face. “After.”

“And when I fell off the balcony?”

“Before.”

“Why before?”

“Your aunt was hunting for you that night as well, Benedict, and if memory serves, you had just wagered a thousand pounds that it would rain before morning.”

Benedict’s face turned serious. “How did you know my aunt was chasing me?”

“Oh, you looked quite frantic, which is why I offered you an escape.”

“The escape being my ultimate death?”

“I didn’t say I planned it well,” Katherine argued. At this point, her smile was going to freeze onto her face, permanent that it was.

“Minx, you’ve been trying to ruin me your whole life, admit it.”

Katherine laughed. “Perhaps you’re just upset that I ruined you first, Benedict.” His name came out as a whisper.

Eyes darkening, he leaned forward. “I didn’t know you could ruin a devil.”

“And I didn’t know you could redeem one, yet here we are.”

“Yes.” His hands moved to her shoulders and then her neck. “Here we are.”

His lips were just a breath away from hers, but the carriage jolted them out of their moment, putting a stop to whatever spell had descended upon the carriage.

“I’ll just be reading then,” Katherine said.

“…must catch up on my sleep, you understand,” he answered at the same time and quickly closed his eyes.

Catch up on his sleep? More like experience firsthand torture. Confound it! Benedict had again almost kissed the girl!

It wasn’t necessarily the kiss that upset him.

No, it was the way his body responded to her laugh, her every word, as if she wasn’t just conversing with him but making love to him.

Which was sheer madness! Speaking was not making love.

And yet, with Katherine it was.

Every word formed with her delicate lips, every sigh that escaped without her notice, every bat of her lashes.

Mad. He was going absolutely mad.

But kissing her? It would make things exponentially worse, for he wouldn’t stop at one kiss. He would not insult his own intelligence by justifying such an action.

With Katherine, a kiss had never been a kiss, but sheer ecstasy like he had never known. Her smell, her taste, everything about her unique and spiced.

Better than whiskey. Blast it, better than sex.

Madness. When a man compared kissing to sex and kissing won out, he needed to embark on a weeklong stint of debauchery.

Yet, all he could think about was her kiss, her lips, and the simple idea that in a few short weeks she would say yes, and he could spend his days and his nights finding out what was so intriguing about the saucy minx sitting in that carriage.

Yet, a part, a small part, warned him that once he began that discovery, he would never want to stop.

Chapter Twelve

A Snowball For a Duke

Katherine was jolted awake by Benedict’s hand.

“Well? Are you going to wake up, or do I need to carry you?”

Ah, just what she needed — a reminder of why he was called the Devil Duke, why he was disagreeable, and why she was upset she wasn’t with his cousin. Katherine had needed that reminder, for her heart had felt lost on the journey, and she wasn’t sure what was happening to her. Something larger than friendship was blossoming between them.

And she wasn’t sure her heart could take the devastation of what a man like Benedict would bring. Surely she could marry him and keep herself indifferent if he was disagreeable. But what if she began to like him, to befriend him, to love him?

He would destroy her.

It would start slow. Most likely Benedict would show her firsthand exactly why women whispered about his sexual encounters. But after a few weeks or even a few months, he would get bored. His eyes would wander in the general direction of the courtesans, and he would be lost forever.

His laugh, gone.

His smile, nonexistent.

And she would be heartbroken.

Which was why, when he woke her up with a smile on his face, she nudged him out of the way and stepped out of the carriage on her own.

What she didn’t know was that the ground was far closer than she realized, and she nearly lost her footing.

Thankfully, Benedict was close behind her and caught her arm, but not before it hit him square in the face with a resounding thud.

The footmen gasped.

But Katherine laughed.

Benedict cursed. “And there she is. I was wondering when your clumsy self was to make another appearance.”

She curtsied, because really there was nothing else to do in such circumstances, and wonder of all wonders the Devil Duke laughed heartily, causing the footmen to gasp for an entirely different reason.

Naturally his laugh was followed by an excessive amount of throat clearing and chest thumping. After all, the devil was to never laugh in public. Benedict had always tried to keep his manners indifferent when in the presence of the ton, far be it from them to discover he actually had a heart. The mamas would be relentless in their pursuit if they thought him anything but disagreeable.

Katherine wasn’t sure what possessed her to indulge the man in a bit of playfulness. Maybe it was the way he cloaked his merriment with a devil-may-care attitude, or the line of his shoulders when he brought them back and tried to escort her into the large house.

Perhaps, she thought as she looped her arms within his, childhood never truly leaves you. Maybe your physical body grows into what society deems acceptable, but those dreams, the itches you get to do something adventurous and dangerous never die. If anything, they are more intense in their drive, for the minute you decide to give in to the immaturity that plagued you when you were small, you are able to be free, to laugh, and to fly.

“Benedict,” she whispered out of earshot of the footman. No doubt they would expire on the spot if they heard her addressing him as such.

“Hmm?” He turned his large body toward hers. Eyebrows drawn in as if he was contemplating the meaning of life.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? Whatever for?”

With a quick tug, she had him on his back against the snowy powder of the ground.

“What the devil!” he shouted.

And then Katherine grabbed a touch of snow in her hand and drizzled it on his face as if it were sand.

He became very serious then.

Almost too serious.

Making her think she had finally gone too far.

And then with a roar, he jumped to his feet firmly packing a snowball in his hand as his eyes turned to steel. “Run.”

So she did.

As fast as her legs could carry her, she ran around the outside of the estate laughing the whole way. Snowballs flew past her head. Giggling, she found it nearly impossible to keep running as she heard him yelling threats from behind.

And then his large arms came around her, and he whispered hoarsely in her ear, “Now, it’s my turn to be sorry.”

“For wh—?”

Benedict pushed her to the ground and pounced near her in the snow, he pinned her to the cold wet earth and leaned in. Panting, he lifted the snowball in his hand and laughed. “What will you give me for a truce, my lady?”

Giggling, she pushed the escaped hair away from her face and gazed into his eyes. It felt quite like she was falling, only she was nowhere near a cliff or in danger. Yet her heart screamed jump, jump, jump. “Will a kiss be acceptable?”

“No.” He threw the snowball down to the ground.

Her heart thudded, slow and heavy, in her chest and finally came to a near stop.

Benedict’s hands threaded through her hair pulling her head closer to his until their breaths were mingled. “Just one kiss is never acceptable.”

At the first touch of his lips, her world spun. His kiss was playful, as his tongue wrestled with hers and then slid out of her mouth. He tilted his head at a different angle, his cold nose lighting her skin like a fire, and then warmth met her again, as he tugged her head tighter and pressed his lips harder until it was difficult to breathe.

“One kiss is never acceptable,” he repeated, out of breath, and held out his hand. Unashamed, and still flushed from their little game, she took his arm and walked with him back to the front of the house.

“I fear we’ve caused a bigger scandal than when the ton saw my knees,” she said, changing the subject — anything to rid herself of the odd tingling sensation Benedict’s mouth had left on her person.

Benedict pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head. “I’m a duke. Believe me, the footmen will be silent, and as for everyone else, it appears we are the first to arrive.”

“But what about Lord Marks? Surely he’ll see the state of our dress?” She looked into his eyes and tried to calm her rapid gasps of excitement. Handsome to the point of stopping hearts, he merely shrugged. “That part, I already have figured out.”

“What do you mean?” Katherine asked.

“You’ll see.”

Fifteen minutes later, standing in front of the fire in her room, she knew exactly what the devil had meant. For the second Lord Marks had greeted them, Benedict had gone into detail of how Katherine, in all her clumsiness, had tripped him, causing them both to fall into the snow. He added that she often fell and took others with her, so it would be wise to watch his footing throughout the week. And then he winked.

“I should have known,” she said before they parted ways to their rooms.

“But of course, my dear. You know how I love telling falsehoods.”

“Touché.”

“Does this mean I win this round?” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed each knuckle. His eyes danced with merriment as he licked his lips.

“Yes.”

“Then, I believe we’re even. Now change out of those clothes before you catch a chill. After all, I cannot in good sport play a game with someone who’s ill.”

She withdrew her hand and curtsied but not before rolling her eyes at the handsome man. He paused, focusing on her lips and then her eyes.

“Minx.”

“Rogue.”

“I shall see you at dinner.”

“You shall.”

And again they paused, words left unsaid. But weren’t actions louder than words, for their very actions must have led everyone to believe that a minute without one another was like a thousand deaths.

And so, Katherine was the first to turn on her heel and enter her chambers.

She smiled at the memory of the day then cursed herself for being so infatuated. All was lost, for he already had the better part of her heart.

“Please don’t break it,” she whispered into the fire and closed her eyes as her chest constricted with that all too familiar pain of rejection. Benedict never said he wanted her, and it was clear that Paisley had still thought her a little girl. Fear squeezed the walls of her throat threatening to close it all together. Was he toying with her? Or did he truly enjoy their flirtation? And if he did, was it enough for him to marry her in earnest?

The flames licked into the air as if mocking her. The very flames that the Devil Duke was born out of no doubt, yet a small part of him it seemed was not the man he wanted everyone to believe he was. The more moments they had together, the closer she was to understanding the man behind all the rumors.

He was actually fun.

Invigorating.

Beautiful.

She cursed. A decision needed to be made. Her heart was already lost, her body his. So, it was without pause that Katherine decided on giving in to the very thing she as most afraid of. If he denied her, refused to repay her vulnerability with his own truth, then at least she‘d have tried and would have no regrets, save the absolute horror of falling without the proof that he would be there to catch her.

Chapter Thirteen

Erotic Dinners and the Like

The evening of the first day of the house party was upon them, and already Benedict was feeling lost.

A snowball fight? Whatever had he been thinking? Or her for that matter! Then again, he hadn’t remembered a time since he was a boy that he’d laughed so hard, or felt freer.

It was her fault.

She even turned her clumsiness into a private joke between the two, smiling at him, making him feel warm inside as if her smile held the secret to the sun’s rays.

The secret to the sun’s rays?

And apparently, in his mad state, he was turning into a poet.

Heaven help him.

He was losing not only his sanity but also his heart. Benedict could only hope that Katherine would do something, anything to make him remember the girl she once was, not the seductive woman he currently saw.

It had taken the power of God alone to get him to stop kissing her in the snow and the strength of angels to push his feet toward the house.

He made his way down the stairs to the dining room and cursed his eyes for scanning the room in hopes of seeing Katherine.

She was nowhere to be seen.

Perplexed, he didn’t even see Lord Marks until the man cleared his throat. “Say, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you so distracted, your grace.”

“Yes well, I…” Benedict felt off balance, as if someone had pushed him onto ice without skates. “Have an aversion to cold weather,” he offered, wanting to slap himself for such a ridiculous excuse.

“Do you now?” Lord Marks looked amused, his brown eyes twinkling as he folded his arms across his chest.

“Yes.” Benedict stood his ground and promptly began to sweat. He still felt odd as if something was off, perhaps the universe was trying to communicate with him that he needed to stop being a besotted fool and kissing girls who would rather fillet him alive than marry him. And then, his eyes again scanned the doors to the dining room. They opened.

His jaw slackened.

Lord Marks cleared his throat. “Close your mouth before you scare the poor thing. She is not to be the meal.”

Saints alive, let her at least be the dessert then.

Katherine walked in with more grace than she ought to possess considering she had only hours ago tripped out of the carriage and started the most arousing snowball fight he had ever had the pleasure of participating in.

His eyes openly admired her form in the blue dinner dress. Had she any idea how much skin she was showing? The poor thing was going to freeze to death! Suddenly irate and irritated that she would think nothing of her health, Benedict stomped over to where she stood and grabbed her arm roughly, placing her hand in the crook of his elbow and covering it with his own. A feral growl rumbled in the back of his throat.

Yes, like a dog. He growled to show his displeasure. Was he now at odds with his body? It seemed to instinctively do things it ought not do. Poetry? Growling? Staring? Salivating? Sweating?

Cursing, he clenched her hand and gave her a tight smile. “Beautiful dress.”

“Why thank you. I—”

“Where would the rest of it be? Hmm?” His eyes flickered to her breasts and then back up to her face, and to his ultimate shame, back down to her breasts where they stayed for a painfully long time until Katherine nudged him in the ribs.

“Manners, you devil.” She winked.

His stomach did an odd sort of flop.

His heart increased his blood flow to all the wrong areas of anatomy, and when he made introductions to the rest of the dinner party, he felt such a stab of jealousy when Sir Constantine’s gaze flew to her bosom, he thought his head would explode.

If not for Katherine being on his arm, he would have ripped the man's head off and beat him with it. But the minute he tensed, Katherine looked up through dark lashes and smiled brilliantly, striking him dumb and immobile.

“Shall we sit?” she whispered, her lips only inches from his.

Why did her simple invitation seem to be one of sin rather than common sense? Shall we sit? Why the devil would he sit when he wanted nothing more than to lie down, plunder, possess… Truly he could think of any number of actions he would rather give his full participation to than sitting.

Alas, he was in public, and though his reputation laughed in the face of propriety, he couldn’t bring himself to ravish the girl in public, no matter how badly he desired it. Katherine’s eyes crinkled at the sides as she offered a small smile and brought her hand down her neck to her chest.

Minx.

Dessert, yes she would be his dessert if he made it through dinner. But about the likelihood of accomplishing that, he had his doubts.

By the time the third course was served, Benedict had imagined all sorts of ways to kill oneself with a fork.

There was of course, the slow death of pounding one’s head against the sharp object. Naturally, he could slice his skin with the knife if he felt so compelled. And his personal favorite, trying to swallow the thing and hoping death would come swiftly in the form of asphyxiation.

None of those options, however, provided him a fast enough escape from his current predicament.

It had all started with the soup.

And went downhill from there.

There was nothing particularly wrong with the soup. It was hot, and he was hungry, but his damned eye had the ridiculous notion that it needed to pay attention to the woman on his right.

Katherine, to be exact.

And hell if that eye didn’t train on her very lips as she held the spoon near them and closed her eyes in ecstasy.

He had shifted in his chair.

Deuced uncomfortable dinner to be honest.

He prayed the soup would be taken away and fifteen agonizing minutes later, it was replaced with something new.

Ah! Yes, at least roast goose would give him respite. For what woman in all creation could make roast goose look erotic?

Oh, how wrong he had been.

Even now his body tightened at the thought.

And he wasn’t quite sure eating dinner would ever be enjoyable again, at least not when he had guests surrounding him and Katherine dropping pieces of meat into her delicate mouth. He nearly wept as she would close her eyes and moan when no one was looking, no one but him unfortunately. Her vulgarity knew no end, yet he found it fascinating as the low rumble would start in her throat and spread until he nearly dropped his fork each time she brought food to her lips. Finally, she would swallow and take a sip of wine, what he wouldn’t give to be glassware in that moment.

Well, he hadn’t eaten anything at all, which of course caused a ridiculous amount of questions. Was he not feeling well? Had the ride from town been rough? If only, he thought, if only it was anything but demure.

Voice hoarse, he had merely shook his head and prayed for Katherine to spill her wine or do something clumsy.

Instead, his unsteady hand hit the wine causing it to topple onto the white cloth. Once dessert was served, the women retired away from the men, and he was finally at peace with his cheroot and brandy out on the balcony.

And then he felt her.

Benedict couldn’t help but think it had to be some sort of sixth sense, that every time she was near, he would begin to shake and lose control of his calm exterior. His body would heat, thinking on her until he wanted to begin stripping his clothes.

“Am I interrupting?” she asked, lightly falling beside him, her dainty arms leaned across the balcony, breasts spilled over her dress, and again he was struck dumb. Why in blazes hadn’t she worn a coat?

“You’ll catch your death out here,” he grumbled, disgusted with his lack of bodily control. As it was, he was having a devil of a time keeping his arousal in check, and he hadn’t even touched the girl.

“Well, good thing I have my fiancé nearby to warm me up.” Katherine looked up at him with merry eyes and patted him lightly on the shoulder.

It was his undoing.

That one touch.

The one gaze from her eyes.

And again he found himself falling, as if he could no longer see straight or stay in balance if his life depended on it. His need was so great that he wanted to yell and laugh at the same time.

Instead he just kissed her.

But to say it was just a kiss would be like saying the ocean was just a mass of water, or the sun was just a star. No, this kiss was unlike any other kiss he had ever experienced in his lifetime or hoped to experience.

Because, he thought as his lips danced with hers, it was shared with his other half.

And in that kiss, as she sighed into his arms, as his tongue dove deep into the velvet moisture of her mouth, he knew he wanted to continue to fall if it meant she would be the one to catch him.

In the end, was that not what everyone else wanted?

With the strength of a god, he pulled back and muffled a curse before raising his eyes heavenward. “She’s won, by Jove, she’s won.”

“Pardon?” Katherine’s lips were still swollen from their kiss, her eyes barely visible through her thick lashes. “Who won?”

“The devil.”

“I thought you were the devil?”

He snickered. “From where did you think I descended? Thin air? And I was referring to my aunt.”

“Oh?” Katherine squinted at him as if he had in fact turned into a pink unicorn. To be fair, he was acting like a complete idiot, spouting nonsense into the sky like a fool. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Are you unwell?” she whispered near his face, too near, for it caused him to jerk back and trip. He hadn’t the grace or common sense to break his fall as he collapsed onto the hard ground and looked up into her amused eyes.

Gracefully, she knelt down and felt his head. “You’re positively flushed, shall I take you to bed?”

“Please,” he begged, wanting much more than she was offering, innocent that she was.

“I meant,” she scolded, hitting him with her hand, “should I help you to you room then promptly leave you to suffer alone?”

Well, at least she hadn’t offered to kill him. He had been quite forward with her all evening, and he deduced he was already on some sort of borrowed time considering his behavior was appalling. Not that he wasn’t used to offending others. But not her.

Not her.

Suddenly, he wanted much more than to give in because his aunt desired him to marry.

He wanted to.

Devil take him… he wanted to treat her…

Why was it so hard to say in his head?

He wanted to court the girl, to do right by her.

He waved in the air, literally lifted his hand and waved, as all of his best laid plans flew into the night sky. There would be no ravishing, no ruining, no laughing in the face of marriage.

No, he imagined he was the type of man that once marriage took him prisoner, he would happily, if not drunkenly, offer his leg willingly to the ball and chain and boast about it for the rest of his days.

Such a nuisance that.

Katherine felt his forehead again. “You do not feel feverish. Tell me, what is your name, and where are you?”

Oh, he could have fun with this one. Perhaps just a little ruin never hurt anyone? He gave a goofy grin and shrugged.

“Oh, my!” Katherine helped him to his feet and immediately began reprimanding him as she led him into the house. “And to think you would get so foxed! My goodness, have you any care for your reputation? Never mind. I momentarily forgot with whom I was speaking. But we both know how accident-prone you can be. Imagine if you had fallen from the balcony! Whatever would we do!”

He smiled smugly. Of course she cared for his welfare. It felt good.

“I mean…” She cursed under her breath. “Imagine the mess the servants would have to clean up, and then I would have to tell your dragon of an aunt that I led you to your death, and she would most likely say finally, considering I have brought you quite close at least three times.”

“Four.” He coughed then slapped the silly grin back in place.

Her eyes narrowed.

He purposefully tripped on the first stair.

Shaking her head, she helped him up the stairs and continued her tirade until she pushed open the bedroom doors and laid him across the bed.

Surely in his drunken — albeit falsely drunken — state, one could not blame him for taking full advantage.

And take full advantage he did. With a sigh he pulled her onto his body and closed his eyes.

Chapter Fourteen

Seduction by Moonlight

“Oomph!” Katherine fell across his hard muscled body with a thud. Well, now he’d done it. She was in somewhat of a pickle. How the devil was she to pry her body from his when the man's hands were pulling her tighter and tighter against him?

Honestly, she’d never seen him so foxed before. Was he that upset over the marriage? Perhaps it was boredom. He was, after all, the devil. Meaning he was used to much more lively entertainment than eating a casual dinner and smoking a cheroot.

She sighed and tried to pry her body free.

Benedict’s response was a moan. His lips somehow found hers again and he worked his spell, his wicked magic over her body until she was sure she was going to go to a very fiery place.

They were not married.

They were only betrothed.

Accidently, of course.

And now she was in his bedroom. His bedroom! Acting the absolute wanton, but oh, the things he did with his tongue.

“Benedict,” she whispered against his lips. “Benedict, you must let me go.”

“No.”

“No?” His lips moved to her neck, his warm tongue traced the curve of her jaw.

Oh, the wicked things he did with his tongue. “Yes, you want me to let you go, or no, you want to stay?”

“Yes. No!”

“Wait, do you mean yes or no? Sorry love, I’m somewhat foxed and need you to be a little more direct.”

She kicked him with her foot.

He laughed. “I deserved that. It appears when I asked for you to be direct, you were under the impression I wanted violence.”

Katherine closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against his. “You are impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.” He sighed and then miraculously released her. Only, she wasn’t prepared so she fell off the bed and landed with a thud on the floor.

Benedict chuckled then peeked over the edge. “Take a tumble, did you?”

“Sometimes I wish I could slap you.”

“Believe me, love, it would only encourage me more.”

She smiled despite herself and righted her skirts, so she wasn’t again flashing her knees to the duke, and then stood on wobbly legs.

“Goodnight, your grace,” she said in her haughtiest voice.

“Goodnight, my love.”

Rolling her eyes, she walked to the door. He was most definitely foxed, for everyone knew the Devil Duke did not love. He was more likely to jump off the highest balcony in London than admit any sort of emotional attachment.

That really was a pity, considering her heart did a tiny clench when he uttered those sacred words.

“Goodnight,” she said again before stepping quietly into the hall.

The next morning, Katherine was slow to rise. By the time she made it down to break her fast, nearly all the guests were already seated and eating.

She took a plate and began to fill it.

As she reached for the toast, a hand slipped beneath hers and took the plate away. “Allow me.”

She looked up and nearly fainted dead away. The duke of Paisley began filling her plate with every available dish, all the while glaring at her as if she had suddenly announced that she was fighting for Napoleon.

“Thank you.” she said trying to take the plate from his hands.

“What the devil did you do?” he seethed.

“Pardon?”

“You heard me.” His Scottish brogue was fighting to break through the words. “Last I left my cousin, he was debauching the better half of London, and after nearly a week in your presence he’s… he’s… well, look at him.”

Perplexed, she looked in the direction Baldwyn pointed. Benedict was sitting at the table, conversing with everyone around him and laughing. Everything looked as it should. Perhaps Paisley was the one with the issue. Was he foxed this early?

She turned back to the Scottish duke. “I have no idea what you’re referring to. He’s acting perfectly fine.” She shrugged and continued piling food onto her plate.

“Fine!” Paisley roared, gaining attention from everyone in the room including Benedict, whose smile very quickly faded as he pushed away from the table, his chair scraping the floor. “Drinking, scowling, prowling, devil take it! Stripping naked in public! Those are the things I come to expect from my cousin, not this… this lightheartedness! I want him back. Give him back.”

“Give what back?” Benedict interrupted.

“Good morning, your grace. It seems your cousin would like me to give back your scowl, prowl, drink, and what else? Oh yes, he would prefer if you were naked.”

Paisley blushed. “That is not what I meant.”

“Wasn’t it?” Katherine winked.

“It’s just… Benedict.” He turned to his cousin. “Why the devil are you so happy? It’s as if she’s won.” At Benedict’s sheepish look Paisley cursed fluently. “Don’t tell me. Do not tell me. You, you, you…”

“Use your words.” Benedict slapped him on the back.

“Y-you are happily marching to the marriage drum! And with her!” He pointed at Katherine. Honestly, was she so bad?

“Yes.” Benedict turned to her and grabbed her hand placing a kiss across the knuckles. “Her.”

Well, that was nice. With a smug grin, she glanced back to Paisley and lifted an eyebrow.

“I cannot believe this.” Paisley shook his head. “I…I…”

“Your grace?” Katherine tilted her head. “You wouldn’t be afraid of the same fate, now would you?”

“Ha, ha!” He laughed and slapped his leg. “Now that is absolutely ridic—”

He froze, the words died on his lips. His eyes glazed over, Katherine fought the urge to wave in front of his face. Instead, she looked in the direction that Baldwyn was focused on. Lady Anastasia entered the room, looking much like a fairy princess. That was when Katherine knew. The poor man had already fallen. He just didn’t know what to do about it.

“Go.” Katherine pushed him. “Tell her she looks pretty.”

“What?” he scoffed.

“Try kissing her hand,” Benedict offered. “And do attempt to keep the drool from dribbling out of your mouth.”

With that, they both pushed him in her direction and sighed in unison.

After a few minutes, Katherine felt Benedict’s hand on her back, and then his lips near her ear. “Ice skating?”

“Yes.”

A loud commotion at the door interrupted their moment.

Suddenly servants were rushing out of the dining room.

And then running.

Several stopped and began to mumble prayers.

Were they under attack?

Had something happened?

“Hurry!” the butler yelled, then stopped and pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his perspiring face. “It must be perfect!”

A footman quickly opened a flask and gulped its contents. Another began to cry.

What the devil?

And then she heard it.

But she was convinced rather than hearing the familiar female shrieking, Benedict felt her presence.

“Am I too late to join the party?”

The voice was unmistakable. In fact, it seemed the entire room went tight with tension and mumbled under their breath in unison, “Agatha.”

Chapter Fifteen

The Visitation

If lightning struck the very ground he stood on, Benedict would only give thanks to God for the rescue. Of course, he would push Katherine out of the way and take the brunt of it. Then again, she would be left to face Agatha without him.

Sometimes it was better to be the selfish cur.

Struggling between his two lofty dreams, Benedict decided it was time to face the music, or in this case the dragon. So he stood his ground, pulling Katherine firmly by his side.

Agatha hobbled in, rather than walked. It seemed her health truly had taken a decline. Either that or she was a splendid actress and belonged on Drury Lane with the rest of them.

Most likely the latter.

“Ah, Aunt! How splendid to see you!” The lie fell easily off his lips as did his smile, stunning his aunt so completely that her jaw dropped and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

“I knew it!” she shouted. Did she need to shout her victory in front of an audience?

“Knew what?” Katherine asked.

“That he would one day remember to smile. He just needed something to smile about. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

Katherine blushed profusely.

“Am I interrupting the morning meal?” Agatha peered around Benedict to see everyone sitting stiffly at the table.

“Not at all, Aunt. Join us?” He held out his hand as a sort of peace offering.

Grinning, she took it and tucked his arm close to her frail body. Had she been losing weight? She smelt of his family, of memories, and he was suddenly feeling like an absolute cad for his treatment of her, his one remaining female relative.

“Do tell me you shall go ice skating on the pond.” Her eyes glistened.

“Yes,” he answered unable to pull his gaze away from her face. When had she begun to age? And why was her skin so pale?

Katherine joined them and kissed Agatha on the cheek. He never thought he’d see the day that his aunt would blush. “Actually, would you care to join us? We were just going to grab our skates.”

Agatha smiled and patted Katherine’s hand. “I would love to, dear.”

Dear? Benedict fought to keep the shock from his face.

“It is such a beautiful house, and a perfect day for the outdoors!” Agatha announced. At that precise moment, the butler collapsed, and a footman exhaled, thanks to God, while servants slumped against the walls. As if the woman had just declared that Parliament was in session and everything was as it should be.

She gave a jolly laugh and walked out with Katherine. Benedict followed, his heart warming at the sight of Agatha and the woman he cared for chatting about ice skating.

Chapter Sixteen

Dukes on Thin Ice

Katherine held Agatha’s hand and placed it on her arm until they reached the frozen pond. After setting the dowager on a bench and wrapping her frail body in blankets, Katherine was shooed away to join the festivities.

Benedict wasn’t far behind. Paisley and Lady Anastasia soon followed. Several couples were already skating on the pond, and Katherine didn’t want to wait to join in the fun.

Quickly, she attached her skates, and began to wobble along. Everything was going perfectly well until the ice seemed to jump up and catch her skate, causing her to stumble. Soon her arms were waving frantically, and she could already feel the pain slicing her bottom if she were to fall.

Strong arms surrounded her, and then warm breath grazed her ear. “May I be of assistance, my lady?”

Katherine regained her balance and looked at her rescuer.

The joke was obviously on her, for God hadn’t sent her a guardian angel. No, something quite the opposite.

If anything, Benedict’s devilishly handsome looks seemed to only intensify with the white snow in the background. Curse the man.

“My thanks.” She smiled.

He held out his arm. With a laugh, she hooked her arm within his and skated alongside him. They pulled up right next to Paisley and Lady Anastasia.

“Paisley, you skate like a woman,” Benedict called out in good humor then nudged Katherine. “Looks like one, too, with the way his skates are tied on. Poor soul would be better off sitting on the bench, I fear.”

Katherine stifled a giggle while Paisley accepted Benedict’s challenge to race.

Apparently, he felt he was defending not only his own honor but that of his fiancée’s, for he asked to carry her colors. As if he were a knight about to joust in the tournament.

Benedict rolled his eyes and released his hold on Katherine. Her arm suddenly felt cold. Why hadn’t Benedict made a similar offer? Sighing, she took a seat on the bench next to Lady Anastasia and tried not to slump or do anything to outwardly show her displeasure, though she was slightly disappointed. And then Paisley turned his beautiful eyes toward her. “Lady Katherine, might I wear yours as well?”

His mouth widened into a breathtaking smile. By Jove, she had forgotten how handsome he was! Yet, her reaction wasn’t the familiar fluttering that she was so used to with Benedict. If anything it was amusement, not attraction. Odd? With a relaxed giggle, she offered a handkerchief as well, smugly satisfied as Benedict’s face seemed to contort with jealousy. Served him right for ignoring her. Well, what could she expect when a man such as he was faced with competition?

The race was fast.

Paisley was faster.

But unfortunately, Benedict was slow, though it could have been in part to the fact that Baldwyn tried to trip him around the first circle nearly sending the Devil face first onto the icy surface.

Never had she heard so many curses and oaths during a children’s game.

By the time both men returned, they were breathing heavily and slapping one another on the back.

“A pleasure as always, your graceless.” Paisley smirked.

Benedict’s eyes glowered, his usual mask of anger, until a small smile began to tug at his lips. Katherine knew that smile. It held secrets and manipulations. Oddly enough, it looked exactly like the smile the old dowager had when she was planning on doing something malicious. Not that she would ever tell Benedict that, for fear that he would stop smiling altogether.

“Speaking of graceless, did any of you happen to hear that commotion out in the corridor last evening?”

To say the conversation took a definite change into uncomfortable territory would be an understatement. Paisley laughed off the noise as if a vase had fallen, and Lady Anastasia looking so mortified she might have been ready to go up in flames despite the low temperatures.

A change in subject was needed.

But before Katherine could open her mouth, Lady Anastasia requested some mulled cider, successfully pulling Baldwyn away from the group, but not without giving Katherine a chilly stare.

“Care to skate, Kate?” Benedict held out his hand.

Katherine rolled her eyes. “Promise to behave?”

“I’m not sure I understand the definition of the word.”

“Promise?”

“No, behave.” He smirked and tugged her body so close to his she began to perspire.

“I imagine there are many words you lack the experience of hearing. Take for example—”

“Tsk, tsk, Katherine, don’t go spoiling our little outing, not after I’ve been watching the wind pick up your skirts enough to glance at your ankles. Think of the terrible mood you’ll put me in when you begin to repeat all the words I so despise hearing.”

“As in?”

“No. I despise the word no. It is so final, so cruel.”

Katherine laughed. Oh, the man was ridiculous. “And when was the last time someone told you no, Benedict? If ever?”

“Well, I recall a certain someone saying no to my proposal, and a certain someone also saying no to courting me, which I’m still terribly distraught over. To think I missed any chances I would have had at being skillfully wooed by a woman.”

“My heart aches for your loss, your grace.”

“Does it?” He stopped skating, and pulled her flush against his body. “And what, do you think would cause it to beat, just a bit faster? Perhaps a kiss? Or mayhap, a tiny taste, right here I think.” His hand reached out and touched her chin. “I find myself fascinated with your skin here, maybe your heart shall begin to heal if I kiss right here.”

“Or…” Katherine pulled away from him, feeling flirtatious. “I’ll merely say the word you despise the most in all of the world, sending you into fits of hysteria.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve caused mental and physical harm.”

“And dare I say it won’t be the last.” She winked.

Benedict threw his head back and laughed. It seemed to silence the skating around him, causing stares to come from every direction. Suddenly uncomfortable, Katherine blushed and darted next to his side. But he wasn’t totally balanced, he took a topple so hard that her own bum hurt.

Letting out a string of curses, he looked up at her from the ice and grimaced.

Katherine tried to keep from laughing. Really she did, but the look on his face was so pouty, she couldn’t help but outright laugh at the picture he gave. Benedict’s brows drew together, his lips formed a grimace, and his face reddened just slightly.

“Very funny,” he hissed through his teeth as he tried to set himself to rights. With Katherine’s help they were able to slowly make their way back to the bench where Lady Anastasia and Paisley stood, mulled cider in hand.

Once Benedict was safely on the bench, he smiled and refused to release Katherine’s hand. “How about a kiss for the wounded hero?”

“Wounded? Hero? Where, your grace? All I see is the devil being brought back down to earth.”

Paisley burst out laughing; then, at Benedict’s piercing gaze, he found his mulled cider even more fascinating than before.

“Please?” Benedict pulled her closer, but at that precise moment her skate caught on a chunk of ice. Her body seemed to hang suspended in the air, her arms flailing at her sides and then with a grimace she fell, but didn’t touch the cold hard ice as she thought would happen.

Instead she was in the arms of the duke. Again.

The wrong duke. Paisley.

Mulled cider had spilt all over his clothes, but he didn’t seem to care a whit. “Are you well, my lady?”

She gulped and nodded her head. “Yes, apologies. I didn’t mean to ruin your cider.”

“It’s the cup I’m more concerned about.” He looked down to the broken mug lying across the ice.

“Sorry.” Shaking off the embarrassment of nearly taking another man down with her, Katherine tried to pull away, but Paisley kept his hand firmly grasped around her waist. “On that note, I believe it is time for us to skate.” He flashed her a smile and tugged her into the line of graceful skaters.

It felt different holding his hand.

As if they were opposites trying to attract one another. It was warm and comforting but nothing more.

There was no nervousness at being near Paisley, no tension as there was with Benedict.

Perplexed she looked up at his face and squinted, perhaps getting too close, for he suddenly stopped and looked at her as if she had lost her mind.

“Did you hit your head?” he asked politely.

“No.” Katherine blushed. “I was merely, er, examining you.”

“For?” He lifted an eyebrow.

“Imperfections?” she offered.

“And the consensus?”

“None.”

Paisley put a hand to his heart and sighed. “Imagine my relief.”

Katherine bit her lip. “I’m terribly sorry. It was rude of me to examine you so closely, it’s just that…”

“What?”

They continued skating in circles, lazily falling behind the groups racing around and around.

“I used to have a frightful tender for you.”

That stopped him. Perhaps she’d said too much.

“And now?”

“Now?” She lifted an eyebrow amused that his smirk didn’t seem the least bit offended or wounded. “Now, I find you perfectly perfect.”

“Yet perfectly wrong for you?”

“Absolutely. So glad you understand, Paisley.”

He rolled his eyes. “Far be it from you to use any sort of propriety with a man you find so repulsive.”

“Not repulsive.” Katherine nudged him. “More brotherly than anything.”

“Music to every man’s ears.” He laughed aloud, this time stopping in order to catch his breath. “And dare I guess where your affections lie?”

It was Katherine’s turn to blush. But Paisley stopped her, his hand cupping her chin in an intimate yet brotherly fashion. “Do me a favor. Considering you find me perfectly brotherly, take my advice. Tread carefully with my cousin, alright?”

She nodded, and they continued to skate, falling into easy conversation and laughing the entire time.

Chapter Seventeen

A Plan Forms

Benedict watched, perplexed how his plan could go so utterly awry. His brilliance was, in fact, not so brilliant when his ploy of being injured left him alone on the bench pouting, and Katherine skating with his cousin.

The same cousin she used to desire.

The more they talked and laughed, the angrier he became until a soft sigh on his left stole his attention.

Lady Anastasia looked quite ill. “Are you unwell, Lady Anastasia?”

She sighed even deeper. “I’m lovely, just lovely,” came her dry reply. If he didn’t know any better, he would think she was being sarcastic.

He reached out and touched her arm. “You are quite pale.” Perhaps she would take the hint and tell him why she looked so troubled. If anything it would take his mind off of shooting his cousin in the arm for touching Katherine.

“Am I?” She slumped. Never had he seen Lady Anastasia slump as if totally defeated. “Perhaps if your grace is recovered enough, might you consider taking a turn with me around the pond? I believe the cold is settling into my bones.”

A conundrum. If he skated, Katherine would know he wasn’t injured, but anything was better than sitting, so he hobbled along with Lady Anastasia and pasted a smile on his face, though he could have sworn it felt menacing.

What the devil did Baldwyn find so amusing about Katherine? And why was she leaning in toward him like that?

He took Lady Anastasia’s outstretched hand into his, and limped while trying to appear a graceful skater, around the outer perimeter of the pond.

“Careful,” Lady Anastasia said to his left. “Or you’ll fall on your injury.” Her smirk told him she didn’t believe for one second he was injured.

“What gave me away?”

“You were limping on the other foot not five minutes ago.”

Benedict cursed. “Perhaps I have a small desire to be nurtured. Is that so wrong?”

“So even the Devil desires good deeds? Interesting.”

Well, when she put it that way…

“How are things progressing with my cousin?” Benedict asked politely.

A blush crept up Lady Anastasia’s cheeks as she jerked her attention away from staring at Baldwyn. “I’m afraid, they aren’t.”

“Aren’t?”

“Progressing. In fact things seem exactly the same as before, well, I guess that isn’t entirely true after last night’s…” She clamped her mouth shut.

Benedict laughed heartily. “Your secret’s safe with me, though I wonder why the blasted man needed to be so inebriated to do something he’s been craving to do for days.”

“I doubt that.” Lady Anastasia looked down and stopped skating.

Benedict wanted to strangle his cousin. How dare he make this woman feel unwanted? It was safe to say that if it was him the girl would already be ruined.

Katherine was a shining example of the way Benedict handled women. But this was different, so he reached over and touched her face, careful to slow his movements enough to gain attention.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Lady Anastasia sputtered.

“Giving you progression, my lady, in the basest way I can.”

“How?”

“Jealousy.” And with that Benedict leaned down to whisper nonsense into her ear about laughing and managing a tiny blush.

The timing was perfect. Baldwyn’s head snapped to attention, and Katherine’s eyes narrowed. Benedict shook his head slightly and Katherine nodded. How was it that by that simple action, he knew Katherine trusted him? In that very moment?

He was about to skate to her, to steal her away from his Scottish cousin, when shouting commenced from the bench.

“I want to skate, and I’m going to skate!” Agatha wailed.

Merciful heavens above, was it too much to ask for God to have at least given her a quieter voice? Or perhaps the ability to practice patience?

“Crazy old woman,” he muttered as he deposited Lady Anastasia on the bench and made his way toward his aunt, praying a cloak of invisibility would suddenly find a way to shield him from her pensive glare.

She yelled again, “Gentlemen!”

Benedict swallowed. She was referring to him and Baldwyn, like little boys being punished, they slowly skated to her side, each taking an arm.

“I wish to skate,” she announced.

Benedict rolled his eyes at Baldwyn who looked ready to cut himself a tiny ice hole and jump into it. “Yes, I believe the entire pond has been made aware of your desire to skate, Aunt.”

“Hmph.” Her usual response.

“Don’t argue with me, Benedict. Take my arm,” she demanded. “Baldwyn! Look alive there, boy! I’m not growing any younger.”

Clearly, thought Benedict.

“Take my arm and let’s be off!” She waved wildly in the air as if they were planning on flying rather than skating, not that he would say it aloud lest she get ideas that they should figure out a way to catapult her into the icy air.

“If you’ll just hang on to us, I’m sure we can take a turn about the pond, nice and slow now.”

Baldwyn looked heavenward then back to Benedict as if to say, “Do you think we have a chance of leaving her in the middle and feigning memory loss?

“Faster,” Agatha demanded.

“Aunt.” Benedict cleared his throat. “If we go any faster, I believe you’ll lose your breath and have one of those very real coughing fits.”

Very real his a—

“I said I would desire for you to take me faster, now do as I say.”

Or reap the consequences, Benedict added mentally.

“As you wish.” He increased his speed, as did Baldwyn and soon the dragon was smiling.

“This is my favorite part.”

“Pardon?” Benedict nearly tripped. Was she just being polite?

“The wind, I miss the wind on my face. Makes an old woman feel alive.” Her pale eyes looked at Benedict and a smile curved her lips. For such an ancient thing, she was quite beautiful still. His heart clenched as she turned her face upward and sighed.

Inwardly scolding himself for being so rude, Benedict tightened his grip on her arm. If she trusted them enough to close her eyes, if she was so completely within their clutches, he was going to do a blasted good job of keeping her standing straight, even if it killed him.

After a few minutes, Agatha sighed. “Stop! I’m cold, take me back to the house at once!” Agatha paused, and released their arms. “Baldwyn, Lady Anastasia looks quite frozen over on the bench. Please see to her needs.”

Benedict opened his mouth to speak, but Agatha interrupted, “And Benedict, do be sure that Lady Katherine is brought back to the house soon. She so desired to read this afternoon, and I would hate to see her too frozen to do so.”

With that, Agatha, frail little Agatha skated off, at top speed, alone.

The little witch.

She knew exactly how to skate.

Why the devil did she…?

Separation. Benedict tossed his head back and laughed, torn between the desire to applaud her genius or strangle her for misinterpreting everything going on that afternoon, for she should know him well enough to know. His attraction was to Katherine, not Lady Anastasia.

He skated to Katherine and held out his hand. “Oh, no you don’t,” she teased. “Last time we skated, we both fell, and you were peeking beneath my skirts.”

“It isn’t peeking if the skirt flies up.”

“Says who?” Her eyes widened with indignation.

“I do.”

“And let me guess, you’re a duke, so your opinion has to count for something?”

“Look how well we are communicating, love.” Benedict pulled her into a tight embrace, not caring that everyone around them was most likely staring. “So if I kiss you right now, it will not matter.”

“B-because you’re a duke.”

“Precisely.”

Katherine leaned in, her eyes half-closed.

“But,” Benedict said when their foreheads touched, “I would hate to subject you to the whisperings and gossip, so another time, then.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed each knuckle before slipping her arm within his.

She tripped, nearly losing her footing.

“My, my, and to think I didn’t even kiss your lips. I wonder if you would be able to walk in a straight line.”

“Obviously I did before.”

“But my kiss is different now,” Benedict argued.

Katherine let out a loud sigh. “You’re baiting me again. You want me to say, ‘but how, Benedict? How is it different?’ Then you’ll lean in and wax poetic about how you’d love to show me Then I’d be breathless, you’d still be the Devil, and I’d kick you in the shin. Sound about right?”

He shuddered. “Sometimes you frighten me.”

“Perfect, so let us just skip ahead to the part after where you tell me all about why you felt the need to make Paisley jealous.”

“Straight to the point. I like it.” Benedict smirked. “At this rate, that of a snail or that of a disabled tortoise, Paisley will be happily engaged in holding her hand by the end of the year.”

“I take it by your tone they need to be doing more than holding hands.”

“Considering they will be married, yes that is the idea, nay the point, don’t you think? One cannot beget an heir by endosmosis.”

“Endosmosis?”

“The practice of—”

“I know what it means, I’m just curious as to why you used that particular analogy.”

“We are on ice you know.” Benedict quirked. “The examples are perfect. Besides, I have a plan.”

“Of course you do.”

Benedict grinned devilishly. His plan was more self-serving than he let Katherine believe. Could he help that he wanted her all to himself? So tonight, after dinner, he would make an absolute spectacle of himself, gaining her attention for the remainder of the evening. Hopefully after several bottles of port, his cousin would loosen up enough to attempt to converse with his fiancée. One could only hope that he wouldn’t have to get the man foxed in order to do so.

Chapter Eighteen

The Christmas Carriage

Katherine left Benedict and went to her room to take a nap before dinner. However, the minute she closed her eyes, all she could see was his face. Foolish of her really, but it was impossible to concentrate on anything else.

Besides, he hadn’t exactly told her his brilliant plan for the evening meal. She actually doubted he knew what he was going to do. His plan, it seemed, was to somehow separate the couples so Paisley was stuck with Lady Anastasia with no means to escape.

Sounded a lot like desperation, but if that was the only way to get them to pay attention to one another, then so be it. She still wasn’t sure why she was helping, other than Benedict had asked it of her, and she soon found out that when the man smiled, when he leaned in and touched her arm just so, well she would most likely give him anything.

Which did not bode well for any future dark corners or hallways.

She did have some morals, though she felt them crumble every time she tasted his lips.

She shuddered and closed her eyes. Sleep, she just needed sleep.

Dinner started pleasantly. Benedict and Paisley sat across from one another at the head of the table, near Lord Marks, and Katherine and Lady Anastasia were across from each man respectively.

After the first two courses, Katherine began to wonder if Benedict had lost his nerve.

And then, he leaned in toward Lady Anastasia and mumbled something that made her blush so brightly Katherine was ready to throw wine in the woman’s face. Benedict pulled back, looking more pleased than he ought, then nodded to Katherine.

Clearing her throat, she leaned over and whispered nonsense about the weather into Paisley’s ear, but at the last moment when his eyes turned to gaze into hers, she very gently placed a note in his hand.

He looked down, then up. She shook her head and reached for her wine.

The bait was set, now it was up to her to see if both parties would take it.

Once dinner was finished, Katherine kept a close eye on Paisley. He retired with the rest of the gentlemen, but as planned, within minutes he was walking down the hallway toward the far end of the study.

Perfect.

Katherine went in search of Benedict who was at that very moment walking down the same corridor with Lady Anastasia.

“You see, I cannot find the button, and it means the world to me!” Benedict pleaded with her. Though Katherine thought he was laying it on a little thick.

Most likely Lady Anastasia thought the only way to escape his presence was to actually go into the study and look for the blasted button.

“I’ll just be here waiting, shouldn’t follow you in, isn’t proper and all that.” Benedict coughed.

Katherine rolled her eyes from her hiding spot in the hall.

Once the door clicked shut, Katherine hurried to his side. “Tell me you have the key.”

“Oh, I have the key. Did you know…” Benedict turned the lock. “…that Lord Marks is quite the fellow? He offered to pay me to get those two together in such circumstances. Jolly fellow, should probably send him a Christmas ham.”

Katherine stifled a laugh when she heard Paisley’s voice begin to rise.

“How much port did he drink?” Katherine asked.

“Enough to hold her hand, possibly enough to be tempted to kiss her.”

“What’s wrong with you!” Katherine pinched him in the arm. “You had one job, well two. Get him foxed and find the key.”

“Listen,” Benedict pushed her against the wall playfully, his hands resting on her hips. “I did the best I could. What were you thinking wearing a dress like this?” He seemed mesmerized as his hands slowly caressed the satin.

“What?” Utterly confused and a bit tipsy from the many glasses of wine she drank at dinner, Katherine could do nothing but stare at him in disbelief. ”What the hell does my dress have to do with anything?”

She covered her mouth with her hands. Where had that come from?

“Heavens, I love your dirty mouth.” He winked, his hands still playing with the fabric, twisting the ribbon around her middle with his fingers. “Your dress, my lady, is distracting. You’re lucky I was able to concentrate on the mission, let alone not drink myself into oblivion without touching you.”

“Oh.” She wished in that moment that she would have thought of a better response, but she was yet again dumbstruck by his dark sensual looks, his hooded eyes, and full lips.

“Shall we?” His voice was husky as he offered his arm.

Telling herself it was silly to shake or be nervous around someone she was marrying so soon, Katherine nodded and gave him her arm.

Thinking he would lead her back to the party, she began to get somewhat alarmed when he escorted her outside.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” he mumbled in her hair before bestowing a kiss on her temple.

Far be it for her to argue a surprise.

Such a stark contrast between the glowing white snow and the dark sky. The moon hung in the sky like a picture. Benedict led her around to the front of the house, where a carriage was waiting.

“What’s this?”

“Your Christmas surprise,” he answered sweeping her into his arms and placing her in the seat. Fur blankets were stacked to the right, a bottle of wine and glasses in a basket to the left.

Grinning from ear to ear like a small child, Katherine managed not to throw her arms around his neck and laugh.

He remembered.

She had no idea he had listened that night when she was but seven years of age.

“I want my own Christmas carriage!” she wailed and wailed, until her father announced he was going to sell all the carriages if she kept complaining.

“Silly goose.” Benedict sat next to her. At fourteen, he seemed so much older, darker, and of course wiser.

“I’m not silly.” Katherine crossed her arms and lifted her chin into the air, trying to prove to him that she was absolutely an adult who could make her own decisions, and at that point in her short life, she wanted her own Christmas carriage. “It just isn’t fair.” She sniffled and wiped her nose with her sleeve.

Benedict laughed then, a boy laugh that was more amused than mocking. “Then we shall just have to get you one, but not now, for your father looks ready to shoot anything that speaks.”

Katherine giggled. “When, Ben? When can I have my own Christmas carriage?”

He pulled her to his side; she tucked her feet underneath her and sighed as the weight of his arm held her in a warm embrace. “How about I tell you a story, and in that story you’ll see. Hmm?”

“Oh, yes!” She clapped her hands with glee.

“One day when you are all grown up and going to lovely parties with sparkling ball gowns and handsome men…”

“Like you?” she asked, for she thought him quite handsome.

“Yes, like me.” He blushed. “One of these days, you will catch the eye of one of those men, and he will proclaim his undying love to you. He’ll offer to buy you any dress in the world if only you will love him. He’ll offer to sail to the moon.”

“That’s silly!” Katherine covered her laughter with her hand. “One cannot sail to the moon!”

“Exactly my point, Kate, one cannot sail there, but his love will be so deep, that in his mind, he has already decided that if it is within your desires, he will find a way to do it.”

Katherine sighed then, for she did not know that type of love existed.

Benedict coughed and cleared his throat. “So, when that moment happens, when you see the stars shine in his eyes, when you see his eyes reflect the same feelings you have inside here,” he tapped his own chest, “then you shall ask him for your Christmas carriage. Because you waited, it will be even more special. You will also be sharing it with the person who cares the most for you in the world.”

Katherine sighed again. “I like that story. Is it true, Ben? Oh, tell me it is true!”

“I promise.” He ruffled her hair and kissed her on the cheek and she hopped up to bed, with dreams of Christmas carriages dancing in her head.

Benedict’s weight made the carriage tip, just slightly. “Do you like it?”

Katherine wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Instead she just stared at him, marveling at the expression on his face, a mixture of apprehension and… love.

“Your eyes,” she whispered, suddenly breathless.

“My eyes?”

“They reflect the stars.” Katherine moved to sit near him, placing the blanket over both of their bodies. Benedict tapped the roof and they were off in their Christmas carriage for a ride through the snow.

He kissed her, a feather-light kiss across the forehead. “Yes, love, yes they do.”

Chapter Nineteen

Temptation, Thy Name is Katherine

Benedict wasn’t sure if he was more amused, irritated, or pleased that Katherine had fallen asleep during their carriage ride.

He hadn’t the heart to wake her up, not when her tiny hands reached inside his jacket and hugged his middle.

It was a shared moment, perhaps the most intimate moment of his life. To have a woman in her sleep completely trust him, forsaking her own safety and sanity and clinging to him. Well, it made him feel like the past few years of his life had been for nothing but selfishness. What had he been thinking?

He looked down at her sleeping form. This feeling, this raw desire, this primal need to protect her from everything, even if it killed him, was what he had been missing. And he hated himself for being so blind and stupid.

In fact, he was quite ready to shout it to the world, but again, he didn’t want to ruin the moment.

He could have spent hours watching her sleep. The way her lips fell slightly open, her eyelashes resting against her pale skin. Her furrowed brows when she must have been dreaming, and the way her breathing seemed to lull him into a relaxed state; he could listen to her breathe all day.

And again he was hit with that thought, he had completely and totally fallen for this bewitching beauty, his childhood nemesis, the one girl he’d always thought he couldn’t possibly come to care for in such a way, let alone bring himself to marry.

The carriage pulled to a halt. When he slid his hands beneath her a sense of rightness washed over him. It was like lifting a wisp of a cloud—a cherished, beautiful cloud. Walking with care, he gently carried his precious package up the stares. His heart pounding with each step.

The desire to stay with her was such a strong pull. He was half-tempted to run naked in the snow in order to shake off his improper feelings.

His valet would love that.

At least he’d been wearing clothes as of late, and at least trying to be amiable to the man. It wasn’t Percy’s fault he didn’t like being fussed over or touched by a man in places no man should be touched by another man.

Regardless, he managed to set her on her bed, and kiss her just lightly across the lips before walking to the door.

“Benedict?” Her voice was groggy from sleep.

“Yes?” Run, run! His head screamed at him, old habits died hard, and he wanted desperately to show her how much he cared for her, to make her his before the vows were said.

“Thank you for my Christmas carriage.”

His heart melted, then began hammering in his chest, it was nearly painful, the way her words affected him, making him want to hit himself in order to return to reality.

“You’re welcome.” His hand touched the door.

“Benedict?”

“Yes,” he near growled. She had no idea the danger she was in of losing that precious virginity a week before she planned.

“Stay.”

Fighting the urge to roar like a Neanderthal, Benedict chuckled. “Love, that wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“Please?” She rose from the bed just slightly, her hair falling across her shoulders in waves. His imagination would never be able to dream up a woman of her beauty, of the absolute devastating pull she had on him.

“If I stay…” Benedict groaned and leaned his head against the door. “I’ll only stay until you’re once again asleep, love, then I need to leave.”

She sighed and lay back down on the bed.

He walked cautiously to the other side, not bothering to take off his boots, for that would be the beginning of the end. As far as his body was concerned, taking his boots off while lying next to a beautiful woman meant he was about to take off the rest of his clothes.

And he wasn’t sure he would be able to stop with his boots.

Hilarious that the Devil Duke would need to keep his boots on in order to keep his lust in check.

“Sleep.” He kissed her forehead, but she reached up and pulled his head closer to hers, opening her mouth to him.

He should have run.

He should have escaped when he had the chance.

He should have said no.

Hang honor, hang it all.

His lips crushed hers, Benedict’s hands grasped her wrists pinning her to the bed as he nipped her lower lip, tugging it between his teeth.

She moaned.

He cursed then straddled her, because at the time it seemed the only option, not that it was intelligent by any stretch of the imagination.

Her body fit perfectly underneath him. Of course it would. He tugged at her bodice, pulling it down to her waist.

And then froze.

Time stood still.

He hated he was using such clichés in his mind, yet time did seem to stand still as he glimpsed her.

Bewildered that he was able to think beyond pleasuring her, he slowly pulled her bodice back up and kissed her gently across her lips.

“I’m going to give you more.”

“What?” Her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks. “You don’t want to…?”

“I want to give you the moon.” He kissed her cheek. “I want to give, not take.”

She nodded.

“Kate, you are far too special, and I fear it would be over before it began, for I find I’m having trouble controlling myself at this moment.”

She smiled and touched his face with her hand.

“Goodnight, my sweet.”

“Goodnight,” she mumbled then turned to her side and closed her eyes.

To say that Benedict had a good night’s sleep would have been a grotesque lie straight from the pit of Hades.

He did not, in fact, have a good night, nor did he sleep.

Oh, he was prone to exaggeration, this much was true, but when his valet came into the room to help him dress, he was already sitting in front of the fire, twiddling his thumbs, or if he was being completely honest with himself, thinking of Katherine.

“Your grace?” His valet’s eyes were so incredibly wide it was amusing, except for the fact that Benedict was grumpy and tired, and truth be told, slightly aroused, even still. God save him.

“Well, let’s get on with it,” Benedict snapped. When he looked in the mirror he nearly burst out laughing, apparently insanity was a close friend whilst running on little to no sleep. But he couldn’t help himself.

“You’re drunk then?” It was a statement from his otherwise stiff-necked valet. No doubt he was used to seeing Benedict at his worst.

But that was what kept making him laugh. He had stayed up all night, thinking about one woman. He hadn’t been out with his mistresses, nor had he been at the gambling hells. He had simply sat in a chair, and he looked as though he had just spent the night in the worst parts of London.

“No,” he answered. “I’m not drunk, but I will admit to being slightly unstable, in the emotional sort of way, so if you’ll be quick about your duties, I have a woman to attend to.”

“Always do.”

“What was that?” Benedict snapped.

“Good for you.” His valet smiled cheekily and patted his back smoothing out the lines of the coat. “It is the best I can do in your drunken state, your grace.”

“Again, I’m not drunk.”

“If you say so.”

Benedict pointed to the door. His valet lifted up his hands in mock fear and walked out. That was the problem having the best valet money could buy — the man could afford to have an attitude.

Benedict clapped his hands together and nearly ran out the door, tumbling right into a woman.

“Apologies, I…”

Katherine looked up with bright eyes and a shy smile. “Benedict.” Her chest heaved though he knew it couldn’t possibly be exertion.

“How did you sleep?” she asked.

“Like a baby,” he lied and offered his arm. “So, what shall we do today?”

“Well,” Katherine blushed just slightly, the color bringing a rosy hue to her delicate cheekbones. “I thought perhaps we could have a snowball fight.”

“In public?” He placed a hand over his chest and pretended to be offended. “My dear, dukes do not run around in public throwing snowballs. I don’t know what anyone has told you about me, but…”

She threw back her head and laughed. “But, good sir, I was under the impression that dukes can do anything!”

“If only.” Lust pounded in his veins, and he clenched his fists as he watched her eyes dilate and lips part. “Perhaps we’d best join the others.”

“Perhaps.” The minx winked and reached for his arm.

One fort, three snowball fights — all of which she lost — and two meals later, and Katherine was utterly exhausted. It took everything within her not to take a nap before dinner.

Once dinner was finished, she could barely keep her eyes open. But she didn’t want to miss a thing. Benedict had been called back to Town that evening on business, so he was ordering servants around in order to rush back in time. Though he needn’t meet with his solicitor until morning, he apparently wanted to get a head start, which was a tad frustrating for Katherine, but she didn’t mind. She’d follow a few hours later and would soon be in London, waiting to marry the man she had once despised.

Lord Marks cleared his throat. “I thought a few games of whist would revive some of you after this day’s festivities. You will find several tables set up in the purple salon as well as sherry and port. Please, enjoy your final night here.”

A loud thumping echoed throughout the room. Katherine glanced about, trying to locate the source. It couldn’t have been Agatha’s cane; ever since the ice-skating she had taken to her room feigning illness, or in Benedict’s words, just biding her time until she snapped at one of them again.

The thumping continued, until finally Katherine turned around. Lord Marks was hitting his cane on the corner of his boot.

The rest of the dinner party had left, leaving them alone.

“May I ask a favor of you, Lady Katherine?”

“Of course.”

He leaned forward. “I appreciate what his grace and you have done in respect to the Duke of Paisley and my daughter. I was wondering if you won’t give me one more boon before everyone leaves?”

“Absolutely.”

“My daughter…” He sighed deeply. “…she is very competitive. Why don’t we arrange for you and Baldwyn to sit near one another, perhaps be partners in a few games. I think it might be the very thing to get her to admit her feelings. I believe, as a father, I’m resorting to jealousy to get my daughter to become vulnerable. I hope I do not live to regret it.”

Katherine smiled. “You won’t, and I’ll do my best.”

Which she did.

Three hours later, she and Paisley were laughing so hard she nearly fell out of her chair, and it was all because he could not play the game to save his life. He was awful. Terrible, more like it.

Lady Anastasia was never without wine in her hand, and after a while Katherine became a little more than nervous that Lady Anastasia was going to topple over. Instead, her face became redder by the minute until finally she had an outburst.

“The two of you are rather cozy. And where is the Duke of Banbury at present, Lady Katherine?” Lady Anastasia coolly eyed Paisley as well as Katherine, a bitter smile spreading across her lips.

Unfortunately everyone was privy to her little speech.

Causing the game to stop.

And Paisley to grow pale.

“You know well, Lady Anastasia, that my fiancé has retired early.” Katherine kept her gaze level on Anastasia, hoping to convey the message for her to stop making a scene in front of everyone and embarrassing poor Paisley, for it was evident that he cared for her so. But the women continued to talk.

“How fortunate for Paisley.”

Katherine gasped, then quickly offered her apologies and went in search of Benedict, for she hadn’t meant to hurt Lady Anastasia’s feelings, at least not in that way. She had only hoped to spur the girl on as Lord Marks had suggested. The wine had not proven helpful, that much was certain.

She ran up the stairs to Benedict’s chambers, nearly out of breath when she knocked on his door.

Chapter Twenty

A Man’s Shame

Knock, Knock, Knock.

Benedict went to the door to open it, but the person on the other side was obviously in a losing battle with patience, it swung wide nearly hitting him in the face.

“Should have known,” he grumbled.

“Sorry,” Katherine said. “May we leave now?”

“In the evening?” Benedict scowled. “I meant to leave first thing in the morning. Do you think you can practice patience until then?”

She bit her lip and crossed her arms.

“What happened?”

“Hmm?” She gave him an innocent look, much like a cat hiding a mouse under its paw.

“What happened?” he repeated, grasping her crossed arms and pulling her closer into his embrace.

“Lady Anastasia drank too much, yelled at me, made me feel a fool, and now I just want to go home.”

He turned slightly toward the light to get a better look at her face. Was she crying?

“See? That wasn’t too hard.” He lifted her quivering chin and kissed a fallen tear. “We’ll leave immediately.”

Within a half hour, they were in the carriage on their way back into London.

“Now.” Benedict patted Katherine’s hand. “Tell me what is really going on in that little head.”

Katherine smiled. “Well, you see. I think Anastasia loves your cousin desperately, and she accused me of flirting with him, which is ridiculous. He was my partner in cards, nothing more.”

I believe I know how Lady Anastasia feels… But Benedict fought the surge of jealousy.

“It doesn’t matter. She yelled and was quite embarrassed and left the room. Paisley went after her, and I just figured it would be better if we were not at the house. That way, he cannot go looking for you when he gets afraid of the woman, and she cannot spend time apologizing to me.” She proceeded to tell him about her and Lord Marks’ agreement.

Benedict raised an eyebrow. “My dear, are you matchmaking?”

She looked at her hands.

“You and Agatha truly should not live in the same city, you do know that?”

“I love her.”

“Who?”

Katherine sighed. “Agatha. I think she’s brilliant.”

“Yes, but you also trip over your own feet and show your knees in public.”

“Very funny.” Katherine made a face and raised her voice. “But truthfully, she’s lovely!”

“Keep your voice down. She’ll hear you!” Benedict all but shouted.

“In the carriage? But she’s at the house. She’s been sleeping for an entire day!”

“She has her ways.” Benedict outwardly shook. “Now, let us have some rest before I deliver you to your home.”

Seconds after saying those very words, the carriage jerked to a halt. Benedict peered through the window, looking for the reason, and then a rap was heard at the door.

He opened it to find one of the footmen waiting, an anxious expression pinching his face.

“Problem?”

“Your grace, a wheel is stuck. It seems the snow is too deep, and we need to return, but it’s at least a two-mile walk back up the drive, and in this weather…” The footman shuddered. “I think it best that you and the lady stay here in the safety of the carriage.”

Benedict wasn’t sure exactly how safe she would be in the carriage with him, but he didn’t say it aloud. Instead he thought quite hard about their situation, waiting in the carriage meant they would still be freezing by the time his driver and footmen made it back. Even if they did take the horses.

His eyes scanned the road ahead of him, then back toward the house.

“There.” He pointed. “What’s that?”

“The hunting cabin?” the footman asked. “It’s for tenants and those who like to hunt on the countryside. I dare say there may be some wood to build a fire.”

“Right.” Benedict hopped out of the carriage and held out his hand to Katherine. “We’re to go on a little jaunt.”

“A jaunt?” she repeated, teeth chattering.

“Yes, or adventure. Would you rather I use the word adventure? How about if I say it’s a Christmas adventure, hmm?”

Katherine’s eyes narrowed.

“No? Alright.” He placed her arm within his and trudged with her through the snow. “I thought rather than freezing to death in that carriage, that we would build a fire in that lovely cabin over yonder.”

“That?” she repeated, dread filling her voice. Scrunching up her face, she leaned forward and peered into the distance. “It looks haunted.”

“It’s nothing of the sort,” he assured her. “It’s merely dark. Besides, things aren’t allowed to be haunted during the holiday season.”

“Says who?”

“I say, and I’m a duke, so the ghosts have to listen.”

“Arrogance, arrogance.” She laughed but followed him to the cabin, and within minutes they were inside. He helped Katherine to a chair and searched for wood.

Fortunately, the moonlight mixed with the set of matches he had acquired the night before, while smoking cheroots with the gentlemen, helped shed enough light that he was able to locate where the wood was hiding.

Soon, he had a roaring fire, and was thankful to feel heat begin to radiate from the hearth.

He motioned for Katherine to sit near him by the fireplace.

It was a tiny hunting lodge, nothing to boast about, truly. It held one small bed in the corner, a table in the middle of the room, and two sitting chairs in front of the fire. No stove to speak of and no food.

Pity, for his stomach needed sustenance.

As if on cue, it growled.

Katherine smirked. “Hungry?”

“Only for you,” he teased, though the sudden plummet in his stomach should have hinted him toward the truth of those very words.

They were alone, very alone.

He should have laughed at their circumstances; had he not, merely days ago, been planning on fully ruining the girl in hopes that she would cry off? And the day after finally giving up and realizing how deeply he cared for her, he found himself completely alone with the girl.

His conscience fought an epic inner battle as his eyes continued to rake over her. He couldn’t force his gaze away from her as desire and interest swirled around his chest like a windstorm.

“When will we marry?” Katherine asked, breaking the silence.

Benedict wasn’t sure what the correct answer was to be. After all, weddings were sort of a sacred ritual to women. They were cause for great joy, weeping, insanity… so he needed to tread carefully. “When would you like to marry?”

“Oh, you mean it?” She clasped her hands together in excitement allowing him to exhale with relief.

“Of course.” His chest puffed, just slightly.

“Tomorrow, let’s marry tomorrow.”

“Pardon?” He coughed.

“Tomorrow,” she said slower and reached out to touch his arm. “I’m already ruined. We both know I don’t need any sort of fanfare. After all, the ton has seen my knees, have they not?

Benedict chuckled.

“I know we wanted to wait until after the Kringle Ball, but I truly cannot wait to start our lives. Don’t you agree?”

He suddenly felt very, very hot, and deuced uncomfortable, and the innocent look in her eyes haunted him.

“Er, yes.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“To think! In just a few hours, I’ll be able to move into your house, and we’ll be able to…” She blushed profusely and looked at her hands.

“Be able to?” He leaned forward and lifted one eyebrow in question.

“You know…”

“No, I truly don’t.”

Her look was incredulous. “Benedict!”

“Katherine.”

She scowled. “We’ll be able to really be together.”

“Like we are now?” He played innocent. Gads how he loved the way she became so easily flustered. Her cheeks took on the most beautiful shade of pink, tempting his tongue to caress the spot right below her jaw where the pink met ivory skin.

“No, not like we are now.” Her little bum shifted in the chair.

He leaned even closer, placing both hands on either side of the chair until his face was so near, he could hear her shallow breaths. “You mean like this?” His hands reached out to touch her neck and then moved down her shoulders, her arms, and finally to her legs. With little effort, he lifted her into his arms showing her how to wrap herself around him, and just held her there as he placed long lingering kisses on her neck and face.

“Y-yes… Oh, heavens yes, like this.” Her head fell back exposing her throat.

Careful, his inner voice warned him. Take it slow.

But he was never one to listen to his good conscience.

So he laid her across the dusty bed and hovered over her, watching her squirm and sigh beneath his touch.

“Benedict.” Her voice was hoarse.

“Yes, love?”

“Will your servants like me?”

What an odd question. And dreadful timing considering his hand was already placed halfway up her creamy thigh.

He kept his arousal in check and tried to answer the question, mentally going through every person in his employ.

And then his body went cold.

Maria.

Suddenly, he was disgusted with himself. Withdrawing his hand from the pleasure of her leg, he leaned back on the bed and shuddered.

“What is it?” Katherine asked.

“It’s just that…” Benedict couldn’t even look her in the eyes his shame was so great. “I had forgotten about some business at the house, business I need to attend to before I welcome you with open arms.”

“Oh.” She looked down.

“But…” he interjected. “It won’t take long. Before you know it, you’ll be the mistress of the house.” He gulped against the bile that rose in his throat at the use of the word mistress. Could he have not come up with a better description? She was so much better than that.

And he, the Devil, did not deserve her.

If she knew…

Well, if she knew, she wouldn’t continue to give him a chance. He was afraid, devil take it; he was terrified that if she truly knew about some of the things that had taken place under the roof of that house, she would be more than scandalized.

“Let me buy you a house.” The words fell out of his mouth in a rush.

“A house? You want to buy me a house?” Katherine shook her head. “Whatever’s wrong with your house?”

“It’s old.”

“Alright…” Katherine’s eyes searched his. “And you want to buy a newer house, is that it?”

“Yes. I want you to have the best.” At least that part was true. “I’ll buy you a house, move you into it…” Why in the blazes was he going on in this fashion? As if she was some type of mistress. “Naturally, I’ll live there too,” he added.

“I should hope so.” Katherine laughed. “We are to be married.” She lifted her hand to cup his face. “After all, you won’t get a traditional ton marriage from me.”

“I won’t?” He feigned depression, though he couldn’t have been more pleased.

“No.” The minx leaned closer to him, her arm hooking his neck like a shepherd’s crook, pulling him down closer and closer until he once again hovered over her. “I’ll want you by my side every day.”

“That can be arranged.”

“And in my bed every night.”

What was that? Angels singing?

“I believe I can manage to agree to your terms.”

“Promise.” Her eyes sparkled in the moonlight.

He took a shuddering breath before lowering his lips to hers and mumbling against them, “Promise.”

Now all he needed to do was make sure she never found out his secret, never know the depths of his depravity, lest she lose that sparkle he so adored.

Something was bothering Benedict, though Katherine hadn’t a clue what it could be. By all standards, he was acting the perfect gentleman.

That should have been her first hint.

Originally she had thought he was going to seduce her, not that she minded one whit.

And then he had pulled back, a look of absolute horror on his face as he began to sputter nonsense about buying a new house.

He was wealthy. Everyone knew how wealthy. Even though he gambled as if he truly desired to lose his entire fortune, he never lost.

So it could not be lack of funds.

She bit her lip and looked at him again. Benedict had kissed her and then told her to sleep.

As if she could sleep after his hands had been halfway up her thigh.

Ridiculous!

Perhaps, she thought as she closed her eyes and tried to relax, he was embarrassed about the state of his house? After all, bachelors were known to be careless in their décor as well as their upkeep. The poor man probably didn’t even pay a full staff.

What his house needed was a woman’s touch! There was no need for him to spend money for her sake.

A smile curved her lips. That was it! She would surprise him. Tomorrow after he dropped her off, she would quickly change, and then arrive at his house and offer her help. After all, the way things were going, they were planning on gaining a special license as soon as possible. It wasn’t as if she were not already ruined.

With a grin, she finally relaxed enough to try to sleep, all the while thinking of ways she could surprise Benedict.

Chapter Twenty-One

Not All Surprises Are Welcome

By the time the carriage dropped Katherine off at her home, it was some ungodly time of the night. At least two or three a.m.

The footman had taken another hour to trudge back to the cabin with different transportation. The snowstorm had let up enough for them to continue on at last.

Though… there was a part of Benedict that wished he and Katherine could have stayed in that cabin forever, away from his past, away from his uncertain future.

Stupidity seemed to be the only way to describe his actions. How had he not remembered Maria?

Or the six before her?

Exhausted, his legs felt as if he had poured sand into his boots. Slowly, he made his way into his house and heading straight up the stairs, not bothering to deal with the situation as of yet. He would need energy and sustenance to do what he had to do.

He pushed open the door to his room and cursed.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” a lush feminine voice said in the darkness.

He wanted to hit something. How the devil did she know he would be arriving at such a time?

“You must be exhausted,” the throaty voice continued. “Let me relieve some of that tension, your grace.”

“No.” His response was cold, angry.

“No?” Maria laughed as Benedict lit the candle nearest the bed.

The woman was draped with nothing but a sheet, her hair tumbling around her waist, a coquettish pout on her lips. “Spirited tonight, hmm?”

Benedict pinched his nose and prayed for patience. “Listen to me.”

She leaned forward giving him a view that made him ill with disgust.

“If you do not leave within the next five seconds, I’m going to remove you myself, and I guarantee you there will be nothing sensual or erotic about it. Now, get out of my bed chambers.”

Maria’s smile fell, her eyes narrowed. “Is this a new game?”

“No!” he yelled. “Get out!”

Slowly, because Maria was provocative about everything, she pulled back the blankets of the bed, exposing herself to him. With languid movements, she reached for the nearest robe, wrapped it around her naked body and, with a seething glare, slammed the door.

“That went well.” Benedict cursed again, then tumbled into bed. It was too late, and he was too irritated and upset with himself to deal with the woman tonight. In the morning… he would fix everything in the morning.

And hire a new housekeeper as soon as possible.

His eighth in the past two years.

Meaning, he had been going through at least four mistresses a year, hiring each of them as his housekeeper in order to keep things…

Convenient.

Their jobs were simple: be available to pleasure him at all hours of the day and night, and he would not only pay them a salary, but on their parting terms give them a special bonus.

He laughed bitterly.

A bonus?

For what?

Sex?

Convenience?

Utterly sickened, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Tomorrow would be the day the Devil came to terms with his demons.

Katherine woke earlier than usual and quickly dressed in a simple white muslin. If she was to be decorating and surprising Benedict, she didn’t need to wear anything more lavish.

Besides, she would not be making any morning or afternoon calls. At least not today.

Excited for her idea, she quickly went to Bond Street and made several appointments for the house redecorating. Giddy with excitement, she made her way to Benedict’s home.

It was located in Mayfair, much like hers. But it was big, so much bigger than she imagined it would be.

Nervous, she bit her lip and knocked.

A crisp-looking butler opened the door and peered down at her through spectacles.

“His grace has enough servants.”

Katherine laughed. Did she truly look that horrendous? “No, I’m sure his grace wouldn’t mind for me to visit. You see, I’m his fiancée.”

At that, the butler’s lips quirked into a smile and then his eyes darkened. “You poor thing.”

“Pardon?”

He sighed. “I’ll see if he is receiving callers. Why don’t I show you to the Lavender room? Would you care for some tea, miss?”

“Lady Katherine Bourne.”

“Pardon, did you say Lady Katherine Bourne?”

“Yes.”

“W-well, why don’t you have a seat, there, right there.” His shaky hand pointed to the settee. “And I’ll have Ma—” he coughed. “That is to say, I will have someone, anyone bring you tea.”

“Alright.” She smiled warmly and leaned back against the sofa, taking in the beautiful room surrounding her.

It was done up in purples and eggshell colors, beautiful actually, and not masculine at all. After a few minutes, she began to feel the need to snoop. After all, he was to be her husband in a manner of days.

Her eyes fell on the large bookcase at the far end of the room. Her gloved hand traced the furniture as she made her way to the books and began reading the titles.

Odd, they were all in strange languages. Curious, she picked one up.

And promptly dropped it to the floor.

What type of man kept books with pictures like — like that?

She tried another.

Same thing.

And another, until she had looked through at least ten books. All of them with graphic pictures she would never be able to remove from her memory as long as she lived.

Carefully, she put them all back, the last one, however had fallen on its spine causing the first page to flutter open.

Scrawled across the page were the words, My love, Maria.

Who in the blazes was Maria?

A sudden commotion took place outside the doors. A woman’s voice. A man's. And then suddenly the door burst open.

A beautiful woman with dark hair and dark eyes came into the room. Her uniform was typical of a servant, and in her hand was a tray with tea and biscuits.

“Hello,” Katherine greeted.

The woman glared.

Katherine cleared her throat. “You must be the housekeeper?” she guessed.

“Yes,” the woman answered crisply.

A butler who stuttered and laughed, and a beautiful exotic woman with the manners of a streetwalker.

Apparently before any decoration was to take place, Benedict needed a new staff.

“Please, sit.” The woman’s eyes fell to the book in Katherine’s hands then snapped back up to her face. “Find anything interesting, my lady?”

“O-oh, this? No, no, it fell, so I was putting it back.” She felt heat rise to her cheeks as she pushed the book into its rightful place and shuffled back to the sofa where the housekeeper was laying out the biscuits and tea.

Katherine couldn’t help but notice how striking the woman was. She could not be much older than Katherine herself. Jealousy surged, but Katherine fought it with everything in her. Perhaps Benedict was extending a courtesy. After all, a woman this striking would surely find herself in a house of ill repute if left to her own devices to survive. Shame washed over her jealousy.

As the woman made a curtsy to leave, Katherine reached out the only way she knew how, politeness. “Thank you… Apologies, I did not catch your name?” Not that it was typical for ladies to ask such things, but this woman did not need to know that.

The woman gave a hollow laugh. “Maria, his grace’s seventh housekeeper in two years.”

Odd. “Does he have trouble keeping housekeepers, Maria?” Katherine asked with amusement tickling her voice.

Maria turned cold eyes to Katherine. “Let us just say his grace has a variety of tastes.”

Benedict awoke with a start.

His butler, Marsail, hovered over him, worry etched in his every feature.

“What the devil are you doing in my room?”

Marsail cleared his throat. “A young lady is here to see you, your grace. I thought it best to keep her away from other parts of the house, but I fear…”

“Who? Who is it?” Benedict demanded.

Marsail began to perspire. “She claims she is your fiancée, but that is a ridiculous notion, is it not?” He patted his forehead with a handkerchief.

Benedict reached for Marsail’s coat and pulled him close. “Tell me that Maria is no longer here. Tell me that Lady Katherine has been locked in the very room you put her in.”

Marsail looked away. “Maria stole the key.”

“How does a tiny woman steal a key from you, of all people?”

Marsail began to shake.

“Never mind.” Benedict cursed and pulled on his clothes in rapid fashion. His valet rolled his eyes when he strolled into the room, but aided in making him presentable, mumbling something under his breath that at least his grace was choosing to wear clothes after such a late evening.

Benedict chose not to comment.

He raced down the stairs and pushed open the doors to the Lavender room with such urgency he could have sworn they were going to fly off their hinges.

Katherine sat prim and proper, tea in hand, but her eyes were distant.

“Katherine?”

She licked her lips. “I shouldn’t have come.” She placed her tea on the table and rose.

“No, don’t.” Benedict reached out to her, but she pulled away.

“Benedict.”

“Yes?” His voice felt shaky. Devil take it, he was nearly trembling with fear, shame… all of the above.

“Why have you had seven housekeepers in the last two years? Why would a man need that many replacements… unless…”

She was assuming the worst, not that he didn’t deserve it. “You should sit back down.”

“I don’t want to sit back down!” she yelled, her arms clenched at her sides. “Explain to me why you would need so many housekeepers.” Her eyes pleaded with his. It was as if she was begging him to lie, to tell her that her suspicions were not correct.

He looked down at the floor. He couldn’t bear to look at her, not now.

She walked toward him then. He saw her shoes beneath her dress, and slowly raised his eyes to meet her face.

“Tell me,” she said.

“A man doesn’t need seven housekeepers in two years, not unless he’s the absolute devil. Not unless he hires them to be his live-in mistress. Not unless he’s so deranged that he values convenience above all else.”

“Alright.” Katherine bit her lip. “Alright.” She repeated, her head nodding up and down as if she was trying to make sense of the information.

“But…” Benedict grabbed her arms and pulled her against him. “I’m not that man anymore. I cannot be that man.”

Katherine said nothing.

“I-I…” Benedict ran his hands through his hair. “ Damn it, I promise you, I had every intention of getting rid of Maria last night when—”

“When?” Katherine’s eyes narrowed.

“When I was in his bed,” Maria’s voice announced from the entryway. “Isn’t that right, Benedict?”

Katherine jerked back in horror.

“You are a witch.” Benedict glared at Maria. “Leave my house this instant.”

“But what about your promise?” Maria tilted her head.

Benedict groaned.

“Promise?” Katherine asked.

“Yes, you see, his grace here is so brilliant in the way he hires mistresses. We live and work here, and then when he cuts us loose, as he’s doing this moment, he settles us a grand sum of money for our troubles. I take it…” Maria looked Katherine up and down. “…that you will be housekeeper number eight?”

“That’s it!” Katherine yelled and surged forward. Benedict didn’t stop her, mainly because he knew he deserved whatever physical blow she would deal him.

But it wasn’t him she was charging after.

Nor was it him that she hit, repeatedly.

He really shouldn’t be amused. It wasn’t the time to laugh, but seeing Katherine claw at Maria was a proud moment for him.

Maria screamed until finally Katherine relented and pushed her. “If you ever speak of me in that way again, I’ll kill you.”

Benedict wanted to add how truthful she was being. After all she had nearly killed him, how many times by accident now?

Katherine continued to push Maria until she was out of the room. “And if I ever see you here again, I’ll not hesitate to shoot you. His grace will stay true to his promise. He will give you the money you deserved, spreading your legs like a whore. But know, this man,” she pointed back to Benedict with fire in her eyes, “is mine. Do I make myself clear?”

Maria nodded several times before gathering her skirts and running out the front door.

Katherine’s whole body shook.

Benedict couldn’t comfort her, couldn’t touch her, not after everything. Never had he felt so dirty, so debased. To see his innocent fiancée yell at his former mistress after revealing so much about his affairs. He could not bear it. Could not fathom it.

He truly was the Devil Duke.

“Benedict,” Katherine said without turning. “You will still marry me.”

It wasn’t a question.

“If you’ll have me.”

“One question.” Her hands opened and closed at her sides as if she was trying to regain feeling in her fingers.

“Yes.”

“Last night, did you—”

“No!” he yelled, and then, “Absolutely not! You must know how I feel about you, Katherine. I would not do that to you. I have not touched another woman since that first night at the ball.”

“Good,” she said tersely.

“Good?” He shuffled closer to her.

“Yes.” She whipped around and charged toward him.

Here it comes.

“You are mine. Mine, you devil! If I ever catch you with another woman, if you as much as grin at a woman in the next ten years of our marriage, I’ll castrate you. Do I make myself clear?”

His body responded to her in such a violent way he he nearly fell to the ground. Groin tightening, he couldn’t help the growl that passed through his lips at her possessive words. “Crystal.” Heaven help him, he loved her. He wanted to tell her, to fall to his knees. It wasn’t the time. Would it ever be the time?

“Fine.” She pushed away from him and walked to the door.

“Katherine,” he called.

She stopped.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” The words seemed too shallow, not deep enough to convey how wretched he felt, how he wanted to cut himself open and bleed all over the floor.

Benedict wasn’t sure how long he stood there, immobile. Matters became worse when people continued to shuffle in throughout the day in hopes to help redecorate a few rooms as a surprise-wedding gift from Katherine.

He was a cad.

He wasn’t sure if he should get foxed.

Shoot himself in the foot.

Or just apologize again and again until she knew he meant it.

He started with flowers. As many as he could order, and sent them to her house. No response.

So he became creative.

He bought her a horse. Stupid idea really, what the devil was she going to do with an extra horse?

And then a thought occurred to him. When they were young, she had always liked to read. Books were her favorite pasttime, the little bluestocking.

With a smile, he placed his next order.

Books, lots and lots of books.

When his final gift elicited no response, he decided to make his way over there in person.

“Lady Katherine is indisposed and not receiving callers, your grace.” The butler’s expression was heated. Benedict half-expected his coattails to catch on fire.

“Do you know if she at least received the books?” Benedict asked.

At that, the butler’s face broke into an amused smile. “Ah yes, I believe the lady mentioned something about using the books for kindling in place of wood. Brilliant idea, if I say so myself. Good day.” The butler shut the door.

In his face. A duke’s face nonetheless.

Benedict cursed and looked up at the large house, scaling the wall was out of the question.

Desperate, he ran around to the back.

Spying. He was now resorting to spying on the woman he was to marry.

A door opened, Katherine emerged onto the balcony, a sad smile on her lips. “Is he gone?”

“Yes, my lady.” The maid curtsied. “Will that be all?”

“Yes, but, next time he arrives, allow him into the sitting room. I shall see him now.”

Benedict almost ran back to the front of the house to knock on the door, but something in Katherine’s expression gave him pause.

And then he saw them. Watery tears running down her cheeks. She lifted her dainty hand to wipe them away then let out a guttural sigh before laying her head against the rail of the balcony and hiding her face in her hands.

He was the reason.

Suddenly, he felt quite at odds with himself. As if he had put his boots on the wrong feet. Having made a mess of things, he knew the only person he could trust to give him adequate advice was the one person he never expected to be seeking wisdom from.

Agatha.

She should be arriving today.

After all, she was to make an appearance at the Kringle Ball in a few days, and she would want to rest up before she did so.

A new plan began to form in his head, one that caused a slight smile to replace the frown.

Chapter Twenty-Two

A Sad End, A New Beginning

Benedict appointed his very best footman to stand watch by his aunt’s house. The minute she arrived, he wanted to know.

Hours later, he was knocking on the door with such force, he thought it would come off the hinges.

“Yes?” Baldwyn answered, odd. Where the devil was the butler? The minute his eyes fell on Benedict, he exhaled and pulled him into a hug. “I saw you from the window, by the time Agatha’s old butler would have made it here, you would have been an old man.”

Coughing was heard from behind Baldwyn. He rolled his eyes.

Benedict stepped into the house; it felt odd, almost eerie. “What’s going on? Something’s wrong.” But everything seemed to be in place. From the perfectly calm servants to the sparkling floors.

Everything but… Agatha.

Dread shot down his spine, Benedict looked at Baldwyn with a questioning gaze. “I take it she’s resting.”

Baldwyn lifted his arm and scratched the back of his head, and it was then that Benedict was able to focus on his cousin’s horrendous demeanor.

“What the devil happened to you?”

“Life,” Baldwyn muttered. “Agatha, Anastasia, marriage, and a half-empty bottle of brandy, thanks for asking.”

Benedict squinted and leaned in toward his cousin. “Let’s start with the first one, though I can’t help you with life, considering I’ve mucked up my own and that of the woman I love quite thoroughly. Let’s discuss Agatha.”

At the mention of her name, a nearby maid burst into tears and ran from the entryway.

Was the woman that much of a dragon to her own staff?

“She’s not well.” Baldwyn swallowed and looked away, his eyes glassy from being foxed or perhaps depressed.

“I need to speak with her.”

“Follow me.” Baldwyn led him to Agatha’s chambers. “I’ll just be outside while you two have a little chat.”

Benedict opened the door and paused. “Baldwyn?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you love her?”

Baldwyn paled. “Agatha? Of course, you fool, anyone would—”

“Not Agatha. Anastasia. Do you love her?”

Immediately Baldwyn looked to the floor. “Yes.”

“Then you should tell her before you lose her forever.”

Benedict slapped his cousin on the shoulder and walked into the large room. It reeked of medicine and tonics. Confused, he looked from left to right until his eyes finally settled on a lump in the bed.

“Aunt?” He walked closer, irritated at the ridiculous knot of emotion in his throat.

“Benedict? Is that you?” Her voice was raspy and weak.

“Yes.” He sat on the bed and grasped her frail hand. “Are you feeling under the weather?”

“Oh, it will blow over, it always does.” Agatha waved him off with her other hand. “So, what brings you here? I can only imagine the amount of pride you swallowed to seek me out. Surprised you made it up the stairs without cursing me to perdition.”

Benedict chuckled, his hand slowly caressing hers. “It seems I’ve some more pride to swallow, if you’ll allow me.”

“Always.” Her eyes twinkled, but her face was still far too pale for his liking.

“Well, I don’t really know how to start.”

“Remember, I do love your stories. Let us start at the beginning, shall we?” With a sigh, she tried to squeeze his hand though it was a vain effort for the thing had little strength in her.

“Katherine, she won’t, that is to say she won’t…”

“Marry you?” Agatha interrupted.

“No, she’ll still marry me.”

“Then she’s disagreeable?”

“No, she’s amiable, perfect really.” The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, he wanted to add.

“Did she offend you in some way then?” Agatha coughed and reached for the water. He helped her take a sip and shook his head.

“No, I’m afraid it is I who has done the offending. Though I wasn’t aware that my past actions would overshadow my future happiness, it seems I’ve done just that. I’ve ruined it.”

Agatha tilted her head. “But you say she’s still going to marry you?”

“Yes.”

“Then what is the problem?” Agatha’s eyebrows pinched together.

“She won’t forgive me.”

“But she’ll marry you?” Agatha repeated. She truly must be sick for she never wasted time repeating anything, if he wasn’t fortunate enough to hear her the first time, well the loss was his, and he would undoubtedly suffer for it.

“Yes,” he said slowly.

A smile broke out across her weathered face. “So you wish for something more than marriage. Is this what I’m understanding?”

“Well, I…” Benedict paused, thinking quite seriously on his aunt’s simple words. “I want more, but I also want to give her more. I want…” He looked away, a lump forming in his throat. Devil take it, he could not cry over a girl.

“Everything.” Agatha patted his hand. “My dear boy, you want everything, all she has to offer, all she has to give, including the very next breath she breathes. Everything is your answer, now for the question. What are you willing to do to obtain it?”

Benedict swallowed, the emotion of the moment was too much for him. To see Agatha — irritating, disagreeable, formidible Agatha — sick, to know he was making Katherine ill with heartache, not to mention the issue with his own heart. The very heart that seemed to have trouble beating without Katherine near.

“Anything. I would do anything.”

“So you’d abandon all those mistresses.”

“Already done.”

“You’d turn away from your devil-may-care attitude and vices?”

Was that even a question? “Of course!”

“And you’d give yourself fully to the one person in the world who has enough of your heart to break it. Would you do that, Benedict?”

His heart hammered in his chest. He looked from Agatha to his hands, the very same hands that all day had felt naked as if missing the other half that fit within them. “I have,” he mumbled, his voice sounding foreign because of the hoarse emotion coming from his lips.

“Then what are you waiting for?”

His head snapped up. “I don’t know.”

With that, he jumped up from his seat and walked to the door, then on second thought, he walked back to Agatha and kissed her on the brow. “You always were my favorite aunt.”

“I’m your only aunt, you rogue.” She tried to laugh but instead coughed.

“And I’m so glad you are.” He kissed her again and fought the emotional turmoil taking place in his heart when a single tear ran down her face.

“As am I, as am I.”

He left her then, and walked down the stairs to the study where he knew he would find Baldwyn.

But the room was empty. He heard footsteps and turned.

Baldwyn had cleaned up and was ready to leave.

“Where are you going?” Benedict asked, though he had an idea.

“I have to tell her.” Baldwyn was perspiring as he had been running around the house at full speed.

“Then tell her.” Benedict encouraged and laughed. “Apparently Agatha does have the final say, eh?”

Baldwyn rolled his eyes. “Do not get me started. That woman’s intuition frightens me.”

Both men fell silent. Then turned to look at the stairs.

“Do you think?” Baldwyn didn’t finish his question.

“She said it will pass.” Benedict cleared his throat. “After all, she’s a tough old thing. It isn’t as if she is doing to die.”

Baldwyn nodded his head. “You’re right. Paranoia is a side effect of too much drinking I hear.”

At that, Benedict laughed and walked out of the house, in search of one woman that could bring him to his knees.

Chapter Twenty-Three

How Much Do I Love Thee?

Katherine hated to admit that every time there was a noise, she ran to the windows and plastered her face against the glass hoping in vain that it would be Benedict’s curricle outside, meaning he had come to call again.

After rejecting him again this morning when all the lovely books arrived, she hadn’t the heart to do it again.

Granted, she was hurt, upset, and at the most ridiculous moments felt that she would burst into tears.

Could she trust him with her heart? He had said as much. He had promised they would marry and be happy.

But he hadn’t promised fidelity. Nor had he fully explained his situations with the many mistresses.

Then again, it was natural that he would have done some horrendous things a gentle bred lady wouldn’t hear about. After all, he hadn’t just obtained his nickname from all his many scandals and running around his house in the nude.

The question that burned at the back of her mind was… what if? What if he was to change? What if he wanted to change? What if he was trying?

Yet, it seemed so foolish. Surely every girl thought such things when wanting to reform a rake of the first order. Every girl wanted to be the girl who was so special she would change the devil into an angel. And she wasn’t so certain she was pretty enough or exciting enough to hold his attention.

The knocker on the door announced another visitor. With great self-control she managed to sit and pretend to read one of the many novels Benedict had given her, when the door to the sitting room opened, and Benedict was announced.

She slowly put the book down. Benedict’s face lit up, a smile broke out across his features, and in two strides she was in his arms, being pressed against the wall with such force she was sure her form would be permanently glued to the wallpaper. His kiss was hungry yet affectionate, as he parted her lips with his tongue and caressed her face with his hands.

Her butler cleared his throat, causing Benedict to stop, and place her once again to rights. With a few choice words, he walked to the door, shooed her butler out and turned the lock.

“I have to say something.”

Katherine fumbled with her hair, averting her eyes. If she didn’t look directly at him, perhaps she could be stronger and not cry.

“I’m not sorry.”

Well, that was a lousy start.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he continued.

“To be sorry seems too easy. You make a hash of things and say you’re sorry, but the value of that person’s apology is measured against their past indiscretions. So then you ask yourself, is that person sorry for their actions or merely sorry they had to deal with the consequences of getting caught?” Benedict laughed. “I think my entire life I’ve been blind. I’ve always felt fulfilled, never truly guilty over my actions. I boasted in my debauchery and rejoiced in the power it gave me. Until recently, I would have been merely sorry I was caught.”

“And now?” Katherine asked timidly.

“Now?” He laughed bitterly. “Now I’m so blasted ashamed of myself, I want to ask the first man I see to shoot me.”

“Or woman?” she volunteered.

“Yes.” He laughed outright. “Or woman. The thing of it is I have lived selfishly from amusement to amusement, never truly realizing how hollow my existence was. Until I met you, that is. Before you, I was perfectly happy.”

Katherine stiffened. Splendid, so now she was the reason for his discontent?

“Don’t take offense. I compare my prior existence to a man living in a thundercloud, until one day the clouds disappear and the most beautiful sun begins to shine light on everything. What was once acceptable in the dark, even glorified, is no longer beautiful, but ugly and distasteful. The things that seemed to be important were merely shadows, faded into my old life. I would do anything to stay in your sunlight. I would give my very soul to be your center of gravity.” Benedict approached her, his trembling hand reaching out to touch her face. She closed her eyes. “So I wish to tell you, I know the true meaning of being sorry. I will not be that man, because you see, I no longer am him. I am someone new because the sun now shines. Tell me, Katherine. Tell me the sun will stay. Tell me the sun will bring light.”

“I lov—”

“Open this door immediately!” a man’s voice shouted.

Benedict cursed and walked slowly to the door and unlocked it.

Paisley burst in.

“It’s Agatha, we have to go, now!” Paisley grabbed Benedict and ushered him out before Katherine could finish what she was saying. Without as much of a word to anyone, she grabbed her pelisse and reticule and followed them out of the house.

She had no idea by the time they arrived they would be too late.

Nor had she quite understood the depth of anguish a man would face when his last remaining relative save his cousin, was taken from the world.

Chapter Twenty-Four

One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

The funeral was depressing, as most funerals were. And Katherine was by Benedict’s side the entire time holding his hand, trying to give him strength.

The worst part, he thought as he squeezed her hand, was that Agatha and he had only just begun communicating.

He looked up at the dreary London sky. Was that the life he wanted for himself? To push away everyone and everything? His last remaining family member, save his cousin, was dead.

Alone. He was alone in the world, and he had nothing to show for it really. He had no true friends to turn to. Except Katherine.

He had to tell her. She had to know before they married how he felt, what he would give away for her, what he would do for her if just given the chance. If she could not accept his love and forgive him, he might just follow Agatha into the grave, not that she would much appreciate her devilish nephew ruining her chances of happiness in the afterlife.

He laughed at the thought.

“Are you well?” she asked as they paused in front of his carriage.

“I will be, very soon.” He kissed her hands. She didn’t pull away but the vulnerability was visible in her gaze. “Tonight.” He kissed her forehead. “At the Kringle Ball, let us dance until midnight, and when all is over with, let us marry.”

“At midnight?” Katherine laughed. “For what reason?”

“Well, I do have papers making it completely legal, as well as the old vicar from our family estate staying at one of my townhomes for the holidays.”

“And my parents?” Katherine asked biting her lip.

“I hope they’ll attend.”

She nodded slowly, and then more enthusiastically. Her father joined her side. Benedict said his goodbyes and with a final glance toward his aunt’s house, jumped into his carriage.

Katherine readied for the ball. A pink silk ball gown of beautiful satin hung snug around her middle. The skirts fell around her legs making it impossible to see the line of the dress. It was scandalous to say the least, only because she knew Benedict would spend most of his night trying to find the outline of her legs within the folds of the fabric.

The man did have an odd obsession with her knees and ankles.

Her carriage arrived at his townhome early, but he had asked permission from her parents to escort her, especially considering they were to be married at midnight.

She was so excited, she had to clench her hands to keep from waving them wildly in the air. His speech had been so beautiful, so wonderful.

Yet part of her, a tiny part, still had doubt, for how could a man who had lived his entire life one way, hope to change in just a few weeks? And all because of her? She was nothing special, she knew that. Even Benedict had pointed it out early on in their relationship, but perhaps she should just allow herself to fall. For the only person she could imagine that she wanted to catch her was the Duke of Banbury.

She knocked. A very stunned butler opened the door and then closed it in her face. Truly, Benedict needed to hire a new staff immediately.

She knocked again. He opened it a crack. “I’m here to see my fiancé. He’s to be escorting me to the Kringle Ball.”

“Er…” The butler looked behind him, and suddenly Katherine heard shouting.

She pushed past the butler with all the strength she could muster and ran directly into her worst nightmare. Maria, the old housekeeper wearing a gown fit for a courtesan with her chest nearly exposed. She was crying and shouting still. And then she turned to Katherine, venom in her eyes.

Benedict also turned. “This isn’t what you think, she—”

“He loves to play games, my lady. This is just one of the many ones we’ve dreamt up together. It makes our time together so much better when there is the fear of getting caught. We fight,” she laughed. “And then we make love, right after his innocent little girl walks through the door. I couldn’t write a better story myself.” She tripped on the hem of her gown and laughed again.

“Katherine…” Benedict pinched his nose. “She’s drunk and angry, and somehow snuck through the servants’ entrance. This is no game. She is ill, sick actually, and if she steps foot in my house one more time…” Benedict reached for Maria and grabbed her arm, clenching it tightly within his hand. “…I will have her arrested. Now leave before I call Bow Street.”

She jerked her arm away, tears streaming down her face. “Why would you throw away something so good?”

“We are finished!” he yelled. “You mean nothing to me. What we did, meant nothing.”

“It was everything.”

He leveled her with a cold stare,“Perhaps for you. For me it was nothing but a heartless toss with an easy woman who desired money in exchange for services, and I’m—” He squared his shoulders. “I’m… sorry, but I’m no longer that man anymore, hell I don’t know if I ever was.”

Benedict sighed loudly, “Truthfully, I’m sorry I have caused you distress, but this,” he glanced over at Katherine, “She, is my life.”

Maria threw her head back and laughed, her dark hair spilling in waves across her scandalous dress. She walked past Katherine and glared. “You’ll never be able to give him what I did. He’ll grow tired of you and come back. Just wait and see.”

With that she left.

Katherine tried to breathe, but the air wouldn’t fill her lungs fast enough. Short gasps came out until finally she fell to her knees on the ground, still gasping for air.

“Katherine!” Benedict ran to her side, scooped her into his arms, and pushed open the doors to the first room on the right, one of the salons. “Katherine?”

Benedict had never felt so angry and afraid in his entire life. Angry at Maria, angry at himself, angry at his past, and afraid that Katherine was now lost forever. How could she trust him? How could she know that the other women meant nothing? That Maria had literally attacked him in his own home? Beating his chest until Marsail had to pull her from his body?

“Katherine?” He touched her face, then her chest. “Breathe, just breathe, in and out, slowly now. There you go, slowly.”

Finally, after a few minutes, her breathing slowed.

And then the tears came.

Shame twined through him like an insidious vine. He wanted to die.

In fact, his gaze kept returning to the pistol hanging over the fireplace.

“Please, please don’t cry.” He wiped her tears, but he was too slow in catching all of them. Benedict rocked her in his arms. She was trembling.

“Nothing happened. She is mad, Katherine. Do you understand? I would never do that to you, ever. You must believe me.”

She didn’t say a word, merely cried a little more, then pulled herself from his lap and set her skirts to rights. “I’m ready for the ball now.”

“You can’t be serious?”

“I am. My parents will expect me.”

He moved to grab her arm, but she pulled back. Trust was a thing of the past, if it had ever been there in the first place. And in return, he noticed the sparkle die in her eyes, and he knew he was the cause as well as the cure. She just needed time.

He patted his coat pocket to be sure he had remembered to take the note Agatha had left him. It was there.

But she was not. His heart stuttered in his chest as his throat tightened with sadness.

He needed her now, needed her wisdom and guidance on how to proceed. But all he could think that she might say would be to fight. So fight he would. Wordlessly, they left the house. And wordless they both remained for the entire journey to the Kringle Ball.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Note

Katherine had already decided to forgive Benedict. Though he did have some explaining to do, she realized one very important thing.

She didn’t want to live her life in fear.

She loved him so much that she wasn’t sure she could face life without him. Katherine just wanted his love in return, as well as his loyalty. The only reason she doubted him was because of what she had seen with her eyes, not what she felt with her heart.

Fear had ruled her decisions with him, and she was much happier when she didn’t feed it. When she allowed her trust in Benedict and in herself to make sound decisions, to lead her to happiness, fear dissipated.

So as Benedict helped her out of the carriage, she looked up at the starry sky and then back at the man she would soon call husband. She offered him something, something she had been waiting to give to him at midnight.

“Wait.” She stopped him.

He looked miserable, as if someone had just announced the world was going to end.

“I have a gift for you.”

“I-I don’t need a gift,” he stuttered. “Just you. I hope you understand my love for you.”

Katherine stomped on his foot. Truly the nerve of the man, beating her to the punch!

“What the—? What was that for?” He cursed and began hopping.

“I was going to say that, you cad!”

“What?” He cursed again, ripely. “Apparently pain is blocking my ability to think. You were going to say what?”

“That I love you!” She threw her hands up in the air. She had wanted to say it first, to offer it to him as a gift so he knew she trusted him, wanted to belong to him. “Men!” she screamed at nobody in general, though a few women walking up the stairs began to clap.

“I’m sorry?” he offered, then backed up, no doubt afraid she would somehow wound him again.

“Well…” She crossed her arms. “I imagine it’s fine. The moment’s gone now.”

“Can’t you say it, at least for my benefit? You have nearly broken my foot.”

“If I was aiming to break it, I would have.”

“Oh, how true that is,” Benedict muttered.

“You’ll just have to make it up to me.” Katherine managed a small smile and hooked her arm within his. “Let’s go indoors before your toes freeze off as well.”

He smiled and patted her arm. “I’m sorry about tonight, about Maria and…”

Katherine stopped walking. “Let us not speak of it again, agreed?”

“Agreed.” His brow furrowed deeply, but he didn’t speak. Instead he escorted her into the Kringle Ball with a confused look etched across his ducal countenance. Benedict’s eyes narrowed, but he did not say a word.

Benedict hadn’t spoken of the incident the entire night, but still noted the hurt he saw in Katherine’s eyes. Saints alive! He wanted her trust, needed it. As well as guidance, but he had none. Nobody.

He sighed. Now was as good a time as any to read the note. It had been burning a hole in his pocket since it had been discovered. And now, as he watched Katherine weave through the crowds at the ball, the woman he had unintentionally hurt, he needed his aunt’s comfort more than ever. So he walked to the corner and unfolded the letter.

Benedict, when I discovered my sickness would take me. I was bitter. I was angry. But mostly, you must understand my fear.

My two boys, the ones I helped raise, albeit with a strict hand, were going to be without me.

You, specifically Benedict, without any sort of living female relative or matriarch.

And I thought to myself, how can I leave him behind? How can I allow my body to deteriorate and wither away when my nephew needs so much guidance?

I have stood by and watched you make mistakes.

I have kept my mouth closed when you paraded with your mistresses.

We all have wild oats, by Jove. You’d have an apoplexy if you knew of mine.

It may have appeared that I did not approve, and perhaps, according to society, I did not, but I loved you. I loved you desperately, and I have only wanted what is best for you.

I would move heaven and earth for you, my boy. For Baldwyn, too.

You see…

When your mother died, I gave her a promise. I told her you would be better than the men before you in your family, but I knew even then that it would take a different strategy of sorts.

Rather than smother you, I allowed you your mistakes. Rather than coddle you, I pretended to be upset and turned my nose at your escapades. Your fear of me did not hinder my love, if anything it brought me joy, for I knew deep down that you cared, even when you claimed you didn’t.

As I write this letter, I have only a few months to go on living in this world before I irritate God in His.

And I wondered, what could I possibly give Benedict? What could I leave him?

Her.

I wanted you to have her.

She reminds me of myself. She is strong, she is opinionated, she is clumsy. After all, she did try to kill you on several occasions, not a small feat, might I add.

If I leave you her, if you marry, then you will not be left alone in this world, but you will have a true family of your own. You see, my boy, we are more alike than you know. Our personalities push the limits and rejoice in the scandal and fear we bring to others. It is control, it is power, but it is not living. It is not happiness.

I want happiness for you.

I want you to have that love. I want you to marry her and protect her, to cherish her, to love her with a fierceness unmatched by anyone else.

This is my dying wish, my gift to you, the legacy I leave behind.

As well as half my estate… I only ask that you fill those many summer homes with the laughter of children, though I imagine you’ve already been working on that part behind my back, you rogue.

Remember, I love you.

Agatha

That little minx! Benedict wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. She’d known. The woman had known the entire time. She truly had picked Katherine out for him. She’d just tricked him as he suspected. But it was a glorious trick, one for the history books no doubt, for he would fall for it all over again.

He glanced up to see Katherine approaching.

After everything they’d been through, he knew he was going to have to create one more scandal.

One more show of devotion.

So he didn’t walk.

He didn’t even smile.

With fierce determination, he tucked the note into his jacket pocket and ran, as fast as his legs would take him, toward her.

His family.

Gasps were heard throughout the ballroom. The music came to a halt, but he couldn’t care less.

All he saw was her.

All he wanted was her.

All he needed in this world was her.

Unshed tears blurred his vision. His hands reached out to grasp Katherine, but touching her was not enough. With little effort, he lifted her into the air and twirled her around before crushing his lips to hers, in such a kiss that he was sure even Agatha saw the scandal from heaven.

“I love you,” he said and kissed her again.

“I love you,” she replied as tears streamed down her cheeks. Katherine wrapped her arms around him, opened her mouth to him, and kissed him so passionately he wanted to weep. As well as boast, if he was being quite honest. He remembered the Duke of Tempest causing a similar scandal a few years back.

“So…” She drew back. “…the Devil Duke creates yet another scandal.”

“Oh, be sure there will be many more to come.” He set her to her feet.

“Really?” She lifted an eyebrow.

“Yes, for he also plans to marry. To stay true to his wife, if she’ll have him. To have loads of children, naming the first Agatha of course, because naturally she wouldn’t allow us to have a boy first.”

“Naturally.” Katherine giggled.

“My heart… it’s yours.” He kissed her forehead. “It’s yours forever. If you’ll have it.”

“Well, you did finally learn how to smile…”

He nodded.

“And, you have ruined me on numerous occasions.”

His grin widened.

“Not to mention,” she added, “the fact that I’m irrevocably in love with you as well.”

And that was when the Devil Duke burst out laughing, causing an even greater scandal to sweep the ton, for it was the first time anyone ever heard him laugh.

“Christmas miracle?” people whispered amongst themselves.

But Benedict didn’t care. He had his love, his life, his family, and he had his aunt to thank for that. God bless her. She had given him the best gift of all.

The gift of family.

Epilogue

Three years later.

“Agatha!” Benedict screamed. They were going to be late for the Kringle Ball, and his daughter of two was currently running through the house naked.

Like father, like daughter he supposed.

His valet still hadn’t quit, but he knew one day he would lose his mind. If anything, Benedict’s own nakedness had become worse what with having a wife around all the time.

Clothes? Who needed clothes?

His valet did not agree.

Nor did his butler, but he gave them enough bonuses every Boxing Day not to care, so he figured he was safe.

“Agatha,” he said quietly when she approached him giggling. “You need to go upstairs with Nanna. Mother and I are leaving for the night. Can you do that for us?”

She shook her head no.

Of course.

He swore up and down that Agatha, while in heaven, chatted up God and told him how amusing it would be to gift them with a child who took exactly after both their parents, to a fault.

And God, being in good humor and loving Agatha as he should, granted her this one boon.

Little Agatha smiled up at him and giggled again, his heart thumped with joy. “You must get some clothes on before Mother sees you.”

“Before I see what exactly?” Katherine floated down the stairs looking every inch the duchess, and every inch the seductress. Heavens, how he loved her. It seemed the longer they were married the more their love grew, until most days he felt so stupidly happy that he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face if he tried.

“Happy anniversary, love.” Katherine kissed him on the cheek then looked down. “Agatha, sweetheart, why aren’t you wearing clothes?”

“Papa!” Agatha squealed. “No clothes too!”

Katherine glared at Benedict. He winked shamelessly and then she blushed from the roots of her hair down her glorious neck. He leaned forward to take a peek down her dress.

She pushed him away. “Those are the very things you should not be doing in front of your daughter. She already copies everything else.”

They both looked down at their grinning little girl and laughed.

Nanna came rushing down the stairs and scooped up Agatha, scolding her for running away during bath time.

“She takes after you,” Katherine said.

“Does not.”

“Does too! She runs around naked and ignores anyone’s pleas to do otherwise!”

“She also tried to kill me three times. So who exactly does she take after in that regard?”

“It was four,” Katherine argued. “And she didn’t try to kill you. They were all accidents. It wasn’t her fault you fell into the pond while taking her for a walk, or out of the tree when getting her an apple. You just need to be more careful.”

Benedict grimaced, careful and his daughter were not anywhere near the same thing. The more he coddled her, the more it seemed she wanted to do something daring.

Unfortunately, it reminded him of himself, which frightened him more than words could express.

Luckily, he had Katherine.

And with her, he could do anything.

“Why are you smiling?” Katherine put her hands on her hips, tilting her head.

“Why shouldn’t I be smiling?” His grin grew.

“You look like you’re about to do something…”

He grabbed her hands and ran into the study, shoving the door closed behind them and with little effort lifted her skirts.

“Benedict!” she scolded. “What are you doing! We’re going to be late!”

“Then we’ll be late. I am a duke after all.”

His argument to get away with anything.

She rolled her eyes and squirmed happily beneath his touch. “But it’s our anniversary and everyone is going to want to see us. Oh!” She leaned in and kissed him. “Maybe just this once.

“That’s my girl.” He kissed her firmly across the mouth.

And an hour later, when they arrived at the ball hand in hand, Benedict’s past reputation was merely a shadow on everyone’s lips. Had he really been all that bad? People wanted to know. For what they saw now was a man completely changed from the one he had once been.

And it was all because his aunt had loved him enough to trick him. God rest her soul.

About The Author

Rachel Van Dyken is the #1 New York Times Bestselling, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author of over 80 books ranging from contemporary romance to paranormal. With over four million copies sold, she's been featured in Forbes, US Weekly, and USA Today. Her books have been translated in more than 15 countries. She was one of the first romance authors to have a Kindle in Motion book through Amazon publishing and continues to strive to be on the cutting edge of the reader experience. She keeps her home in the Pacific Northwest with her husband, adorable son, naked cat, and two dogs. For more information about her books and upcoming events, visit www.RachelVanDykenauthor.com.

Also By Rachel Van Dyken

Kathy Ireland & Rachel Van Dyken

Fashion Jungle

Eagle Elite

Elite

Elect

Entice

Elicit

Bang Bang

Enforce

Ember

Elude

Empire

Enrage

Eulogy

Envy

Elite Bratva Brotherhood

RIP

Debase

The Bet Series

The Bet

The Wager

The Dare

Seaside Series

Tear

Pull

Shatter

Forever

Fall

Strung

Eternal

Seaside Pictures

Capture

Keep

Steal

All Stars Fall

Abandon

Ruin Series

Ruin

Toxic

Fearless

Shame

The Consequence Series

The Consequence of Loving Colton

The Consequence of Revenge

The Consequence of Seduction

The Consequence of Rejection

The Dark Ones Series

The Dark Ones

Untouchable Darkness

Dark Surrender

Darkest Temptation

Wingmen Inc.

The Matchmaker’s Playbook

The Matchmaker’s Replacement

The Bachelors of Arizona

The Bachelor Auction

The Playboy Bachelor

The Bachelor Contract

Curious Liaisons

Cheater

Cheater’s Regret

Players Game

Fraternize

Infraction

M.V.P.

Red Card

Risky Play

Kickin’ It

Liars, Inc

Dirty Exes

Dangerous Exes

Cruel Summer

Summer Heat

Summer Seduction

Summer Nights

Covet

Stealing Her

Finding Him

Bro Code

Co-Ed

Seducing Mrs. Robinson

Avoiding Temptation

The Setup

Waltzing With The Wallflower

Waltzing with the Wallflower

Beguiling Bridget

Taming Wilde

London Fairy Tales

Upon a Midnight Dream

Whispered Music

The Wolf’s Pursuit

When Ash Falls

Renwick House

The Ugly Duckling Debutante

The Seduction of Sebastian St. James

The Redemption of Lord Rawlings

An Unlikely Alliance

The Devil Duke Takes a Bride

Other Titles

The Parting Gift

Compromising Kessen

Savage Winter

Divine Uprising

Every Girl Does It

A Crown for Christmas