Two Turtledoves Read Online Free PDF

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