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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—Ana shtash ia," 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