Chapter 4
What was I thinking, to challenge him so rashly? And worse, to let him touch me so boldly…
The memory of his hand at her neck, the heat of his nearness, refused to leave her.
I should be furious. I am furious. And yet—oh, heavens—what am I to make of the way my heart raced beneath his grip? I will have to pray that Evangeline and her husband are feeling both charitable and hospitable to take me in, or I might as well end up on the streets.
As soon as she had fled the study, Anastasia had locked herself in her bedroom and dropped into the chair at her writing desk.
She had tried to compose a letter to her sister, setting out the urgency of her plight now that the new Duke of Frostmore had ordered her gone.
Yet her quill hovered uselessly above the paper, her thoughts looping back again and again to the man himself.
The Duke of Frostmore. Arrogant. Irritating.
Entirely insufferable. Everything she had suspected from the moment she first glimpsed him on the road.
But also so unyieldingly strong. His voice still echoed in her ears, low and rough, a command given form.
And his hand—firm, unrelenting—claimed her as though she were something he had every right to control.
It had been infuriating… and it had made her shiver with something dangerously close to excitement.
I cannot afford to think of him in this way. Not with my future so uncertain. Not when the very same man is threatening to turn me out. And yet…
“Anastasia, darling, there you are.” Anastasia blinked as she entered the breakfast room in the morning, her tumultuous thoughts scattering.
She had hoped to find her aunt in the breakfast room, but had not expected her to still be at the table.
All at once, relief and dread tangled in her chest. “Did you sleep well, my dear?”
“I did not. Not after my encounter with the new Duke of Frostmore.” Anastasia scowled. “Did you know that he arrived last night, and the first thing he did was to order me out of the house?”
“Oh, tosh. He may have said something foolish, but I assure you, you will be going nowhere, not unless you wish to.” Aunt Hyacinth patted her hand with an air of confidence. “I promise you that.”
“It is unwise to make promises you cannot be assured of keeping, Aunt.” Anastasia’s gaze darted to the door just as it swung open. “How well do you know this man?”
“It has been years since I last saw him, but…”
They were silenced as the Duke entered with his usual aura of command. His hair was damp from a recent wash, his chin freshly shaved, his very presence filling the room. He glanced at her with the faintest frown, and Anastasia—against her will—felt a betraying warmth creep into her cheeks.
“Mr. Straton,” she said quickly, lifting her chin. “I thought you might still be abed, given the late hour of your arrival.”
“I always rise before the sun,” he replied, his tone clipped. “I find the hour before dawn the most conducive to exercise.” His brow arched, the expression perilously close to disdain. “Only the idle, or the undisciplined, remain abed once the sun has risen.”
She was tempted to snap back at him. Her tongue itched with the perfect retort, but she forced it back, schooling her features into a serene mask. “Then I must apologize for being… laggardly, as you would call it.”
“At least you are awake and dressed,” Benedict returned coolly, taking his place at the table. “The solicitor will be here at any moment for the reading of the will. I am gratified that I do not need to summon you.”
“That is right,” Aunt Hyacinth interjected briskly. “And until then, you ought not to be uttering pronouncements and trying to send my niece away. It is most improper of you to play the tyrant before you have even heard your uncle’s last wishes.”
Benedict’s mouth twitched—as if with the effort of holding back a sharper reply.
“As you say.” He unfolded his napkin with crisp precision and began to serve himself.
Anastasia, still prickling beneath his earlier jab, yet unwilling to let him see it, took the seat closest to her aunt.
She accepted the food the servants offered, though she found her appetite curiously unsettled under the weight of his presence.
Anastasia then allowed herself a closer look at him.
He was taller than she had first registered, his build broad and unmistakably strong beneath the cut of his coat.
He looked freshly bathed, his hair still dark at the edges, his skin clean and faintly warm with color, as though the water had not entirely cooled the effects of exertion.
And his face—stern moments earlier—was undeniably handsome when unguarded.
She looked away a moment later, irritated to discover she had noticed at all.
They had scarcely finished when the butler entered with a bow. “Your Grace, the solicitor has arrived.”
“Very well, send him in. We will receive him here.” Benedict dismissed the butler with a flick of his hand. Moments later, the man returned, ushering in a portly gentleman burdened with a leather satchel stuffed with papers.
The newcomer bowed politely. “Jonathan Deacon, solicitor. I presume you are all gathered for the reading of the will of Morton Straton, the late Duke of Frostmore?”
“Indeed,” Benedict said crisply.
Anastasia was anxious, but the Dowager Duchess seemed disturbingly at ease.
Her chin jutted forward, and a smirk played on her lips.
It did not look like the behavior of a woman concerned about the reading of the will.
Did she possess information about what might be in it, or did she not care anymore?
“Then let us begin.”
Mr. Deacon withdrew a sheaf of parchment and adjusted his spectacles with a solemn air. He cleared his throat. “I, Lord Morton Straton, being of sound mind and body, do here and now inscribe this as my last will and testament, to be enacted upon my demise…”
The words blurred into a haze of legal jargon.
Anastasia’s mind wandered, her nerves a taut string waiting to snap.
Her anxiety had nothing to do with the contents of the will or with mourning.
She could not mourn him. The late Duke of Frostmore had been a lecherous tyrant, and his death had not felt like a tragedy so much as a door finally bolted against a threat.
What unsettled her was everything that still lived beneath the ceremony—the staircase she could not forget, the promise she had given her aunt, and the man across the room who now had every right to ask questions.
She sat a little straighter, waiting for the substance beneath the ritual.
At last, the solicitor’s tone shifted. “I do hereby declare that all worldly assets, including the title and estate, shall pass to my nephew and heir, Benedict Straton. The monetary assets, however, are to be held in escrow until the aforementioned Duke of Frostmore secures a suitable marriage for Miss Anastasia Dawson. Should he fail to secure such an alliance within a year, said funds shall be forfeited and donated to charity.”
The room went silent.
“What?” Anastasia blurted out, her pulse lurching. She was almost glad she had not taken a sip of tea, or she might have choked on it—or sprayed it across the table. “You cannot be serious.”
For a moment, it felt as though the late duke’s hand had reached out of the grave to close around her ankle—one last grasp, one last indignity. And it struck his nephew at the same time, neatly and cruelly.
One blow. Two birds.
Her protest was echoed by none other than Benedict himself. He surged to his feet, his chair scraping harshly against the floor.
“You must have misread something. Surely my uncle would never devise something so irrational.”
“I understand your confusion,” Mr. Deacon replied, unruffled.
“However, the will is unequivocal. The title and properties are yours outright, Your Grace, but the monetary fortunes of Frostmore will remain in trust until Miss Dawson is wed. Should that not occur within one year, the entirety is to be given over to charity.”
“That is preposterous!” Benedict’s voice was clipped, but his flush betrayed the strain of holding back a more violent outburst.
“Nonetheless,” Mr. Deacon said firmly, adjusting his spectacles. “The wishes of the deceased must be respected. There are, of course, formalities to be addressed—”
“Of course. I will attend to them in my study.” Benedict flung his napkin onto the table and cast Anastasia a look sharp enough to slice before striding from the room, every muscle taut with fury.
Anastasia sat frozen, her heart pounding. Of all the absurdities she had feared her uncle might arrange, this—binding her freedom to a forced marriage—was beyond imagination. To be tethered yet again, to be traded like some burden… it was intolerable.
And yet, from the storm etched across Benedict’s features, she knew he was every bit as incensed.
Only, his anger came not from fear of being forced into marriage, but from the humiliation of having his fortune yoked to hers.
A ruined woman, the subject of whispered scandal.
If he knew anything of her at all, he must despise the situation.
The sudden sound of clapping drew Anastasia’s gaze up from her untouched plate. Her aunt was beaming across the table, her delight utterly incongruous with the tension that hung in the air.
“A wedding! How utterly marvelous. I do adore weddings.”
Anastasia forced a polite smile. “I do not believe His Grace shares your enthusiasm, Aunt. He seemed rather… perturbed by the contents of the will.”
“Nonsense.” Hyacinth waved her hand as if Benedict’s fury were a trifling matter. “He will come around. Everyone enjoys a wedding. It will be just the thing to help him relax and settle in at Frostmore.” She beamed again, so serenely self-assured that Anastasia abandoned the discussion as hopeless.
But her aunt’s blithe dismissal did nothing to ease the heaviness coiling in Anastasia’s chest. The Duke had been livid—his pride smarted at being shackled to her reputation and her fate.
She doubted that would change in the foreseeable future.
And the longer she remained under his roof, the more it would gall him.
No. Better for both of them if she removed herself from Frostmore altogether. Evangeline’s reply had not reached her yet, but she would take her in—surely she would. Perhaps the Duke would find some clever means of untangling himself from his uncle’s final demand.
Anastasia forced herself to finish her meal, then bid her aunt a quiet good day and slipped away to her rooms. There, with grim efficiency, she summoned her maid to begin packing.
Another servant was sent to ready the carriage.
If the Duke wanted her gone, she would go—better on her own terms than dragged out under his cold command.
An hour later, her trunks were stacked neatly by the door, her bonnet tied, her gloves buttoned.
She cast one last look about the chamber that had been both her haven and her prison for the past two years, then gathered her skirts and descended the staircase, determined to make her exit with dignity.
“Where do you think you are going?”
The voice cut through the hush like a blade.
Anastasia froze, her heart stumbling. At the base of the stairs stood Benedict Straton, his gaze fixed on her with chilling precision.
His piercing gaze pinned her in place, daring her to take another step.
Anastasia stopped, the maid hovering behind her with two of her bags.
“You directed me to leave, Mr. Straton, did you not?” she managed, though her throat felt tight. “So, I am leaving. I have written to my sister and asked her to receive me.”
Benedict mounted two steps, closing the gap between them until his nearness pressed against her like a wall of cold precision.
“No. You are not going anywhere.”
Her maid shifted nervously behind her, clutching the luggage, but Benedict’s presence commanded all the air in the hall. He advanced another step, so close now that Anastasia could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, smell the clean bite of soap still clinging to his skin.
“You will remain here,” he said, his voice a low growl.
His hand lifted—firm, deliberate—and caught her wrist before she could draw back.
Not painful, but implacable. “Do not mistake my words last night for permission to leave. You belong under this roof, and until I release you, here is where you will stay.”
Her pulse raced beneath his grip, traitorously responsive. “You cannot simply decide where I do or do not belong or keep me here against my will!”
His eyes burned into hers, glacial fire edged with something darker.
“I can. And I have.”