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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