There was a round of applause, accompanied by some heated whispers among the ladies and a healthy number of fervent nods among the gentlemen—gentlemen who were openly proclaiming their approval of George's tacit message; that is, relegating Anastasia to her proper place.
In response, Anastasia smiled and thanked her uncle, although she nearly had to bite off her tongue to manage it, so great was her outrage. She recognized only too well the less-than-subtle admonishment she'd just received, and she harbored no illusions as to why it had been given. Obviously, one or more of the gentlemen she'd approached with her business offer had gone to her uncle to complain. And Uncle George was furious at what he'd perceive as nothing short of flagrant disrespect and indignity.
Inwardly, Anastasia frowned, realizing that, in her haste to acquire financial backing, she hadn't fully considered this. Oh, she'd expected her uncle to be annoyed when he learned of her behavior. But after a ten-year separation, she'd forgotten just how severe his reaction could be.
In any case, she'd have to deal with this later.
The musicians struck up the promised waltz, and Anastasia found herself automatically glancing about for Damen. She spotted him without too much trouble, across the ballroom, watching her with an enigmatic expression.
"Well, Anastasia." Her uncle's voice cut into her thoughts. "I see you already have a captive audience." He drew her attention back to him—and away from Damen—gesturing toward the opposite wall. "There are three gentlemen on their way toward us, all arguing over who will have the honor of dancing with you first. I'll let you decide. It will keep that active mind of yours occupied with something useful."
Anastasia didn't pretend to misunderstand. Nor did she flinch. She simply nodded, seeing beyond her uncle's practiced smile, noting that his eyes were icy chips of jade. "I'm sure it will," she replied.
Fortunately, the three eager suitors reached her side at that moment—bickering among themselves about the order in which they'd dance with her ladyship—so Anastasia wasn't forced to contend with her uncle's antagonism any longer, at least for the time being.
She turned away from him, as one simpering fellow, Edward something-or-other, claimed her, bowing and grasping her gloved hand simultaneously, leading her onto the dance floor and into the waltz.
The second young man, fair-haired and thickset, whose name she didn't catch nor cared to, hovered nearby like a hungry lion, whisking her away the instant the waltz ended and a minuet began. And the third chap, Lord Percy Gilbert, a handsome, ebony-haired fellow whose opinion of himself had to exceed any plausible reality, swept her into a reel, his dark eyes glued to her, rife with promise.
Somehow, Anastasia managed to enjoy herself, more as a consequence of the dancing than the company. She did, however, find herself glancing about the room, involuntarily seeking out Damen, only to spy him dancing with Breanna.
She forced herself to look away, and to stifle the unwelcome surge of envy that welled up inside her.
"You dance magnificently, my lady," Lord Percy informed her as the music stopped.
"Thank you." Anastasia smiled. "I've always loved to dance. Then again, I love any kind of activity that involves physical exertion: climbing trees, racing horses. But dancing is a pleasure unto itself."
He gave a warm chuckle. "You must have learned to dance at the same time as you learned to climb trees—as a child."
A puzzled tilt of her head. "No. I learned at the customary age of thirteen or fourteen. Why would you think otherwise?"
Lord Percy looked utterly taken aback. "But you were in the colonies at that time. Do they actually teach English dances there?"
Anastasia wasn't sure whether to laugh aloud or shout in frustration. "The dances we're enjoying tonight weren't English inventions, my lord," she reminded him, rectifying his ignorance in as gentle a tone as she could muster. "That particular reel was Scottish, the minuet came to us from France, and the waltz originated in Vienna. We simply borrowed them. As did the States. Might I also remind you that America, too, is not an extension of the Crown. It's a country all its own now."
Gilbert stared at her, astonishment reflected on his chiseled features. "I stand corrected." He cleared his throat, a gleam of anticipation lighting his eyes. "You're a very frank and knowledgeable young woman, my lady. Also refreshingly unconventional. I hope to sample more of your free-spiritedness—and of you."
Before Anastasia could open her mouth to reply, a hard hand closed about her forearm. "Here you are, Lady Anastasia." Damen's deep baritone sliced the air. "That waltz you promised me is about to begin." He guided her firmly away from her companion. "Excuse us, Gilbert."
Whether or not Gilbert excused them was irrelevant, since they were already halfway across the floor. Damen signaled the musicians with a purposeful lift of his brows. In response, they commenced playing.
Anastasia began waltzing before her mind fully grasped what had just occurred.
When her thoughts finally caught up with her feet, she began to smile. "Why don't I recall discussing this particular dance?" she inquired. "In fact, why don't I think this waltz was planned at all, but, rather, was requested at the last minute—by you?"
"Because it was." Damen's expression was hard, and a muscle flexed at his jaw. "Your earlier scrutiny of the guest list might have told you who the investors were, but they didn't shed much light on the lechers. Gilbert is one of the latter."
Anastasia felt an irrational rush of pleasure. Was Damen being protective? Or was it just possible he was jealous? "Thank you for disclosing that bit of information. However, I'd already guessed as much."
"Really? Did you also guess that what he just suggested sampling wasn't another reel?"
"Indeed I did." Anastasia bit back her laughter. "I'm not stupid, my lord. I know when I'm being approached for an immoral liaison. Just as I know when I'm being rescued. Speaking of which, now that you've accomplished your valiant rescue, could you stop looking so fierce? People will think I'm an excruciating dancer, too trying to endure."
Damen's lips twitched. "We can't have that now, can we?" He whirled her about. "Very well. I'll try to look as if I'm having a wonderful time."
"And is that so difficult to manage?"
His smile faded. "The only difficulty tonight will be my keeping the proper distance from you. That, and restraining myself from breaking Gilbert's nose."
Anastasia's heart gave a tiny leap, and she studied Damen's face, wondering at the precise meaning of his comment. Was he referring to retaining the immediate physical distance between them, or to a far more significant, long-term distance?
Their gazes locked.
"Are you all right?" Damen asked quietly. "Your uncle's announcement obviously upset you."
She gave a small shrug. "Not upset me, angered me. The reasons why have nothing to do with the announcement itself, but with its underlying meaning. I'm not sure I can explain."
"You don't have to."
Taking in Damen's hard tone, the grim lines about his mouth, Anastasia tried to figure out whether he was alluding to the fact that he didn't want to pry or to the fact that he already knew what she was feeling.
Either way, his compassion warranted some sort of response.
"Perhaps not," she conceded. "But I'll try just the same. You see, Uncle George made that pointed reference to my severing all ties with the States for a reason. He was blatantly condemning the idea of my starting a bank there. Knowing my uncle, I suppose I should have been prepared for his reaction to my plan. But after ten years, it seems I'm out of practice."
Memories flickered to the surface and brought a wave of sadness to Anastasia's eyes. "Once upon a time I was accustomed to Uncle George's rules, especially with regard to anything that might undermine him or cause him embarrassment. Both of which would definitely result from a Colby pursuing a business venture that not only excludes him but that puts a woman—his niece, no less—at the helm." She stared at the wool of Damen's coat, reflecting on how
foolish she'd been to forget her uncle's rigid beliefs. "It was naive of me not to realize he'd feel that way. And it was equally naive not to realize that one of his colleagues would tell him what I'd been up to. In any case, that announcement was Uncle George's way of putting me in my place."
"I wonder if he has any idea what your place is."
Anastasia blinked, her gaze darting back to Damen's. She was taken aback by the fervor of his statement, and its remarkable accuracy. "I doubt it, Lord Sheldrake," she replied softly.
"Damen."
"Damen," she corrected herself, with a small smile.
Abruptly, that smile vanished. "Something else just occurred to me, something I should have thought of before now. Will the outcome of my actions tonight—namely, our partnership—jeopardize your business relationship with Uncle George?"
The severe lines on Damen's face softened, and a hint of satisfaction glinted in his eyes. "I like the sound of my name on your lips," he murmured. "And, no, your uncle won't let his disapproval of our partnership interfere with his dealings with my bank or me."
Anastasia pursed her lips, still unconvinced. Given Damen's role in Uncle George's life and the powerful position he held on the board of Colby and Sons, it was doubtful he'd even seen the dark side of Uncle George, much less dealt with it. But Anastasia had. And she didn't want to be responsible for Damen's encountering it now. "Perhaps I shouldn't mention the partnership to him."
"If you don't, I will. And not only because the man is your guardian." Damen's fingers tightened around hers. "Anastasia, I'm not in the habit of explaining or defending my investment decisions, not unless those decisions involve my clients' funds. But when the funds in question are my own, I answer to no one but myself. If your uncle is uncomfortable about the partnership you and I struck, that's his problem, not mine. And definitely not yours. All right?"
A hesitant nod. "All right."
"There's still something troubling you," he pressed.
Anastasia quirked a brow. "You really do read minds."
"Um-hum." Damen shot her a broad grin. "Even while I'm dancing. As you yourself said, without missing a step."
His teasing relaxed her into her customary candor.
"Very well, then. It's Breanna. I feel guilty. You should be dancing with her, not me."
Damen frowned, although he didn't look startled by her admission. "You worry about your cousin a great deal, don't you?"
"Yes. I did, even as a child. Probably because I had reason to."
"Well, you don't now; not at this particular minute. Breanna is surrounded by a large crowd of admirers. You can see for yourself after we round the next corner of the dance floor. Just look over my shoulder, to the left of the musicians." So saying, Damen whisked Anastasia about, angling her so she could see her cousin, who was, indeed, chatting with three or four gentlemen, obviously having a wonderful time.
"If you ask me, she's catching up on the Seasons she never had," Damen continued quietly. "She's enjoying all the newfound attention. Which is why it's too soon for her to be dancing with the same partner all night, and far too soon for her to be tied down to just one suitor. She knows I'm dancing with you. In fact, she urged me to go. Especially when she saw the predicament you were in. She was nearly as eager as I to rescue you from Percy Gilbert's lascivious hands."
Anastasia's eyes twinkled. "You just got to me first."
"Exactly."
"Tell me, Damen, how is it you know so much about Breanna and me? According to her, you've spent little time in her company. And I met you less than a fortnight ago. So where do these accurate perceptions come from?"
He drew her a tad closer. "Come riding with me and I'll tell you."
"What?" Anastasia was so surprised that she missed a step.
"Tomorrow. Before breakfast." Damen's grip about her waist tightened, steadying her on her feet. "I heard you tell Gilbert that you love to race. As it happens, so do I. We can take Medford's course at a rushing gallop. The winner gets to decide the order of surnames in our new partnership: Lockewood and Colby, or Colby and Lockewood. He or she also gets to choose the name of our new bank. Remember? That was what we were arguing about on the balcony when your uncle interrupted us."
"I remember." Anastasia wondered if she'd ever breathe again. This man affected her more powerfully than she ever would have believed possible. She was actually trembling, and she wasn't even sure why. "You have yourself a deal, my lord. We'll race at dawn. And when you lose," her eyes sparkled, "I want to hear how you come upon your insights into my cousin and me. Then I'll name our bank."
"Agreed." Damen's eyes were smoldering clouds of smoke. "I look forward to it—to the ride, to the conversation, and to whatever follows."
* * *
Across the room, Lord Dutton finished his fourth pastry and tapped George on the shoulder.
"Your niece and Sheldrake appear to be getting on famously," he noted, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin and pointing. "It seems that he's spent half the evening with her and the other half with Breanna." A chuckle. "Then again, perhaps he's lost track of which one is which."
"Yes. Perhaps," George muttered, watching intently as Sheldrake swept Anastasia about the room. They were too far away to make out their expressions, and he found himself fervently hoping that Sheldrake's sole purpose in sharing this prolonged waltz with Anastasia was to shake some sense into the outspoken chit.
Because if not…
"Pardon me, sir."
Wells came up behind him, and cleared his throat before continuing. "I apologize for interrupting, but this message just arrived from the Continent. It's marked urgent."
George pivoted, glancing down at the envelope and recognizing the familiar hand. "Thank you, Wells," he said, taking the message and giving Dutton a terse nod. "Pardon me, Dutton. There's some business I must attend to.
"Of course, of course." Dutton waved him away, hungrily eyeing the new platter of food that had just been carried in. "Business first."
"Right." George weaved his way through the room, again reminding himself to behave calmly, not to alert anyone to the urgency that was swelling inside him with each passing step.
He made his way to the hall, veering left, then striding purposefully down the corridor.
At last, he crossed the threshold to his study, shutting the door behind him.
Swiftly, he tore open the envelope, palms sweating with anticipation as he extracted the single sheet of paper and unfolded it.
It was inside the note.
George scanned the draft, then swore under his breath.
The payment might have been anticipated, but the amount was not.
Determined to find answers, he turned his attention to the note.
Your last shipment was of poor quality and insufficient quantity, it read. As a result, the agreed upon price of three thousand pounds is reduced to fifteen hundred pounds. Draft enclosed. Next shipment best arrive in a fortnight, prompt and up to previous standards, or no payment will be made and our association will be terminated.—M. Rouge
"Goddammit." George crumpled the note into a ball and flung it into the fireplace. Broodingly, he watched it fray, then burn, turning to ashes before his eyes.
Raking a hand through his hair, he began pacing the room, sweat beading on his brow.
This was the last complication he'd expected. First Lyman, then Meade, now Rouge. The obstacles were closing in on him like steel walls.
He'd be damned if he'd get crushed.
He had to regain control. And to do so, he had to get his hands on some money. Now.
Time was running out.
* * *
Chapter 6
« ^ »
Dawn was slicing the sky in wide streaks of orange and yellow when Anastasia made her way down to the stables the next morning.
She wasn't sure what to expect. Damen hadn't specified a time, and she hadn't had the opportunity to ask. In fact, they hadn't had a minute alone after their waltz tog
ether had ended. Immediately after the strings fell silent, a group of businessmen had cornered Damen, and Lord Percy Gilbert had whisked Anastasia into the next dance. After that, Gilbert had monopolized her attention, relinquishing her only when one of his persistent friends wedged his way between them, demanding a dance.