Chapter 5
“How dare you! Unhand me at once!”
Benedict’s jaw flexed as he held her wrist, fury churning beneath the mask of composure he forced onto his face. Yes, he had told her to leave. He had meant it, too—before the solicitor had tethered his future to hers with that damned will.
Now, the very thought of her departure was intolerable. The fortune of Frostmore hung on her marriage, and until it was secured, she was his responsibility. His burden.
His gaze shifted to the maid lingering uncertainly with the luggage. “Take Miss Dawson’s belongings back to her chambers. Inform the butler that there will be no carriage. No one is leaving Frostmore today.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The maid bobbed a nervous curtsey and hurried up the stairs, leaving Anastasia and Benedict alone in the hall.
Anastasia glowered up at him. “What are you doing? You have no right to keep me here!”
“Come with me,” Benedict said, his voice clipped, controlled. “I will not discuss this here.”
Anastasia matched his glare with one of her own, but did not resist as he pulled her down the corridor, her wrist still captive.
She stumbled to keep up with his pace, her fury rising—yet beneath it, something far more dangerous stirred, something that had nothing to do with anger.
She had no choice but to follow until he thrust open the study door and ushered her inside.
With a decisive slam, the door shut behind them.
“Very well, Mr. Straton.” Her chin tilted up, daring him. “I trust this is quiet enough for your delicate sensibilities?”
“Do not call me Mr. Straton.” His voice cracked like a whip. “I am the Duke of Frostmore—Your Grace to you. And given the circumstances, I will not tolerate anything less.”
“What circumstances?” Anastasia tossed her head, that infuriating smile curving her lips.
“I have no desire to have anything further to do with you, or with your precious inheritance. Ask the solicitor to take whatever steps you please to nullify your uncle’s ridiculous stipulations.
Tell him I have joined a convent if it will ease your burden. ”
Benedict’s hands curled into fists at his sides. It took every shred of discipline not to seize her and silence her with a kiss before she could provoke him further. He crushed the thought down at once.
“If it were that simple, I would have done so already. Nothing would please me more than to see you vanish from my life and my estate. I would pack your bags myself and send you to the farthest corner of the country if it would spare me the suffering of your insolent presence.”
Her eyes gleamed at the accusation, and his jaw clenched harder.
Remember your rules, remember who you are. I cannot let a woman make me lose my composure.
And yet, with her standing before him, flushed and unyielding, it was the very battle he was in danger of losing.
“Alas, I cannot do that. My uncle’s will is clear, and there is no loophole in it.
” He stepped toward her, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl.
“Until you are married, the fortune remains locked. Which means, Miss Dawson, that your presence here is no longer a choice. Therefore, you will remain at Frostmore.”
“Then you intend to keep me here like a prisoner?” Her voice cut through the air, hot with defiance. The heat in her eyes might have scorched him—had he not already been ablaze with fury and cold determination.
“Call it what you like.” His words fell like a gavel. “You will remain at Frostmore until you are married and therefore no longer my concern.”
To his surprise, her only answer was a bitter smile, followed by a short, humorless laugh.
“As if any man would have me. Ask anyone in the ton. My reputation is far too tarnished for a respectable gentleman even to acknowledge me. So good luck with finding someone willing.”
Benedict’s jaw locked. Insolent, reckless woman. She wanted to provoke him, to press against the edges of his composure—and God help him, she was succeeding. Every arch of her brow, every careless tilt of her lips, was a deliberate strike against the discipline he had sworn to uphold.
He would have to investigate her claims. While he would not put it past her to be exaggerating to infuriate him, she might be telling him the truth. That would complicate matters.
“If that is the case,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, “you will remain at Frostmore for a very long time.”
Anastasia’s answer was a mocking lift of her brow, her chin tilted high, a silent dare that made his stomach clench with a heat that had nothing to do with anger. “We will see about that, Mr. Straton.”
The title—wrong, deliberate again—was the final spark. He closed the distance in two strides until her skirts brushed his legs and the air between them thinned to nothing. His hand came up, unerring, gripping her chin with a firm, commanding pressure that forced her gaze to his.
“You should be very careful about challenging me, Miss Dawson.” His thumb brushed the soft edge of her lower lip, a touch that was almost accidental—almost. “You may consider Frostmore a prison, but how comfortable that prison is…” His face dipped closer, his breath skimming her cheek. “…that is entirely at my discretion.”
Her eyes flashed, bright and unyielding, though her pulse fluttered beneath his hand. “And I am certain that limiting my freedom and treating me as a prisoner will do wonders for my chances of securing a respectable suitor.”
His lips curved, but it was not a smile. “Respectability is not what concerns me. I can arrange your courtship, with or without your cooperation. Liberty is not a requirement.”
“Then you have no reason to keep me here in Frostmore.”
With her chin lifted and her eyes sparkling with fury, she looked…
She looked tempting. Her lips were so close; it would be a simple matter to dip his head to kiss her. He wondered again if a kiss would silence the edge of her sharp tongue and change her defiance to something more… palatable.
Anastasia Dawson was a beautiful woman. Too beautiful. It was difficult to imagine any man not drawn to the fire in her eyes, though he would be the first to admit she was every bit as exasperating as she was entrancing.
Benedict’s gaze cataloged her appearance with what might seem clinical precision or even mild interest. Internally, however, he thought she was far more appealing than propriety—or good sense—allowed.
Her hair, lighter than he had first noticed, refused complete submission to its pins, soft strands escaping to frame a face too expressive for her own good.
Her mouth was worse—full, vivid, wholly unsuited to polite restraint.
This was not the sort of beauty one admired safely.
It was the kind that invited distraction, disorder… ruin.
For a heartbeat, the image claimed him—her body beneath his, her sharp tongue silenced by something far more primal than words. His hand tightened reflexively, the urge to pin her against his desk and teach her respect in the most visceral way clawing at his restraint.
He dragged himself back from such thoughts with brutal discipline.
Foolishness. Anastasia Dawson was chaos wrapped in silken defiance.
Temptation, yes—but temptation was weakness, and weakness had no place in his life.
The best course was obvious: find her a husband.
Quickly. Preferably, one with estates so distant she would be nothing more than a fading memory before the year was over.
Still, the heat between them coiled low in his body, tightening his gut and straining against his breeches. His blood thundered with unwanted desire, and he despised himself for it. Did she feel the same pull? He refused to ask. He refused to care.
With deliberate will, Benedict released her chin and stepped back.
“I care not how you view the matter,” he said, his tone clipped, glacial. “The fact remains. You will stay here at Frostmore until I have secured you an appropriate husband and seen you wed. Until that time, you are under my roof, and you will act accordingly.”
“I—”
“Act accordingly, Miss Dawson,” he cut in, his voice dropping into a low command.
“Keep yourself out of my affairs, cause as little chaos as you are able, and we may both endure the trial of this enforced cohabitation without bloodshed.” He took another step back, cold distance sliding into place where dangerous heat had burned. “Is that understood?”
“It is, Your Grace.” She made the title sound like an insult, and Benedict’s jaw locked hard enough to ache.
“Good.” With that, Benedict stepped around the desk, dismissing her. He thought she might deliver some retort. Instead, he heard her footsteps move away, and seconds later, the door closed behind her.
For several moments, he stood motionless, forcing his breath to slow, waiting for the heat raging in his blood and the unbearable tightness in his breeches to subside. Only when the ache dulled did he allow himself to sink into his chair.
There was work to do—ledgers, contracts, obligations that did not bend to lust or folly. He could not afford a distraction. Least of all from the infuriating, intoxicating woman fate had shackled to him.