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Upstairs in her bedchamber, Anastasia paced restlessly about. She'd been unable to sit still—with the exception of her long soak in the tub—since she'd returned from the stables. And she knew exactly why.
It was that kiss she'd shared with Damen. Not only the kiss, but its significance—and its complications.
A deluge of guilt crashed down upon her shoulders, shattering the last vestiges of her earlier daze and bringing to light an issue she'd been evading since last night's ball.
Breanna. Or rather, Damen and Breanna.
Last night the prospect had hovered on the periphery of her consciousness, but had been eclipsed by her quest for financial backing, and later by her fascination for Damen. But there was no longer any excuse for dodging the all-too-crucial questions that today's kiss had accentuated.
Could a relationship between her cousin and Damen ever exist—not now, but in the future? True, they were merely acquaintances now, but might that change? Might they develop feelings for each other—feelings stemming from mutual respect and compatibility? After all, Breanna was changing, coming into her own. Damen himself had noticed that. Was it possible her feelings for him might change, too—or, if not change, grow? She had said she found the marquess charming, handsome, and intelligent. And as for Damen…
Almost against her will, Anastasia remembered Damen's observation of Breanna last night, what he'd said as they'd waltzed by.
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.
By one suitor, had he meant himself? And if so, had he meant it as a response to Uncle George's obvious attempts to push him in Breanna's direction, or as a response to his own inclinations? Could Damen's comments be an indication, inadvertent or otherwise, that he intended to wait for Breanna, to indulge her until she came into her own? Was he destined to be the partner who ultimately stood at Breanna's side?
If so, Anastasia thought wildly, then what happened this morning could completely undermine Breanna's future.
She chewed her lip, her mind racing. Whatever had occurred between her and Damen, it had been based on passion, attraction, fascination; call it what you will. But it wasn't the kind of emotion that futures are based on. And if he and Breanna were meant to share a future—not one inspired by Uncle George's selfish whims, but one rooted in devotion—then what had she been doing, kissing Damen, losing herself in his arms and wanting never to stop?
Dejectedly, Anastasia dropped onto the edge of her bed, wondering how in the name of heaven she was going to deal with this. She couldn't speak to Breanna about it. She knew her cousin only too well. Breanna would always place her cousin's happiness above her own. If Anastasia so much as hinted at her attraction to Damen, Breanna would immediately squelch any feelings she might be developing just so as not to stand in Anastasia's way.
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My way to what? Anastasia questioned herself. There's no reason to assume Damen thinks of me as anything more than an exciting diversion.
But if he did…
If he did, then there was something else to consider, something just as critical as Breanna's feelings, and perhaps a great deal more dangerous.
Uncle George. Uncle George and his reaction if a relationship were to develop between his niece and the man he intended to be his daughter's husband. Lord only knew how angry he'd get—and how he would vent that anger.
Or on whom.
Anastasia's jaw tightened. That settled it. She couldn't let this flirtation between Damen and her continue. She'd have to put an end to it—now—before it really began.
* * *
George was in a foul mood.
He continued to trudge across the eastern portion of the grounds, having already covered the western and northern sections, searching for any sign of Damen Lockewood. The marquess hadn't been in the expected locations: the stream, the hunting or riding areas, as the other guests had been. In fact, wherever he was, it was becoming increasingly apparent that he was alone. Because the only guest who, according to the others, was out and about and who George had yet to come upon during this unwelcome excursion about Medford's grounds, was Viscount Crompton.
Predictably, the viscount had left the group he'd been hunting with to engage in target shooting on his own. As a retired military general, he prided himself on his superior skill with both rifles and pistols—a passion the other guests soon grew tired of hearing about and being forced to watch. And, as far as George knew, Damen had no particular affinity for the viscount and no interest in marksmanship. So, unless the two men were chatting about business, Sheldrake was alone.
The question was, why? Had Anastasia said or done something to give the marquess food for thought? Because Lord help her if she had. She'd already caused more trouble than she was worth, standing between him and Henry's assets, then embarrassing the hell out of him by approaching his guests for money to pour into some idiotic venture in the States. And now, this unexpected affinity between her and Sheldrake. It was trouble, any way you viewed it. Either the marquess was intrigued by her business ideas—or worse, by her.
Neither was acceptable.
But he'd find out exactly what was going on. Then, he'd stop it.
* * *
Chapter 7
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The crack of a pistol brought George's head up. Crompton, he thought, turning in the direction of the sound. He must be nearby.
