Chapter 6
“Jarvis, has the steward sent the tenant accounts?” Benedict’s voice rang sharply in the morning stillness.
“Yes, Your Grace. They are on your desk,” the butler replied, bowing low.
“Good. I expect everything to be in order.” Benedict dismissed him with a flick of his hand, already tugging his cuffs into precise alignment.
His life ran on order—he rose with the sun, exercised, worked on his ledgers religiously, and composed correspondence.
There was comfort in the discipline, in knowing that each detail was seen to.
Benedict learned at a young age that uncertainty was a weakness. Neglect and conditional approval had taught him this. He had used discipline not as a preference but as a meticulously built armor that he had hoped to show his worth and competence.
There had to be order. Without it, there was chaos.
Unfortunately, chaos had a name.
The days following the reading of the will passed in a sort of haze.
Benedict did his work, considered possible candidates for Anastasia, and tried to keep her out of his thoughts.
It would have been easier had she been the quiet, demure sort of woman who was content to sit quietly in her rooms and embroider or read.
Unfortunately for his composure, Anastasia Dawson was nothing of the sort.
Only yesterday, as Benedict had just sat down to a neat breakfast, the door opened with force. Anastasia swept in, a book under her arm, her cheeks still flushed from the morning air.
“You might consider opening the door more quietly, Miss Dawson,” Benedict had said coldly.
“You might consider smiling, Mr. Straton,” she had retorted, sliding into the chair across from him and helping herself to the last toast as though it were her right.
His jaw flexed. “That seat is not for you.”
“Then perhaps you should have put up a sign,” Anastasia replied, tearing into the toast and leaving a trail of crumbs across the cloth. She lifted her gaze to his, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, forgive me for the mess. Shall I arrange the crumbs in neat little rows for you?”
Benedict’s knuckles whitened around his knife. “You test me, Miss Dawson.”
“And you scowl at me, Mr. Straton. Surely that makes us even.”
Before he could respond, the dowager’s voice drifted across the room, rich with amusement. “Good heavens, the tension between you two could curdle the cream. Must every morning begin as a duel?”
Anastasia turned, startled to see her aunt slowly sitting to sip her tea, clearly having observed the entire exchange.
“I am merely attempting to preserve civility,” he had said evenly.
“And I,” Anastasia had countered, buttering another piece of toast with deliberate care, “am merely attempting to provide some liveliness. It is far too early in the day for silence and brooding.”
“Liveliness?” Benedict’s tone dropped a degree colder. “If this is your version of liveliness, I dread to imagine chaos.”
The dowager set down her cup with a decisive clink.
“Oh, I find it delightful. A household without spirited conversation is a dull one indeed. Quarrels before breakfast are vastly more entertaining than polite chatter about the weather.” She fixed Benedict with a glinting look.
“Do stop glowering, Your Grace. You will frighten away your appetite, and mine.”
The worst part was not Anastasia’s insolence—it was the knowledge that the sight of her lips closing around the toast left him uncomfortably… agitated. He turned his attention firmly back to his plate, though his appetite had fled.
It had been like that every morning since the will—needling remarks over tea, her defiance served alongside toast. She invaded his quiet with the flick of her tongue and the tilt of her chin, and somehow always left him unsettled.
A flicker of movement beyond the window drew his eye. Benedict froze, scandalized.
“For the love of—” His jaw tightened. “She is doing it again.”
Anastasia was out on the lawn, her unbound hair blowing about her face in the morning breeze.
As she turned, he caught the flash of her bare feet and ankles, and there was no sign of any sensible bonnet.
She was laughing, and the dowager’s ridiculous Pomeranians were bouncing around her feet and playfully nipping at her skirts.
Even without hearing her, he could feel her laugh—a bright, unrestrained laugh that carried straight through the glass.
Benedict gripped the windowsill until his knuckles whitened.
Improper. Unruly. Infuriating.
And yet, he could not look away.
He told himself it was irritation. That was safer. But irritation did not pool heat low in his body, nor did it make his mind conjure images of Anastasia bent over his desk, crying out his name as he taught her obedience.
Watching her was an indulgence. When he saw her lying on the grass, or dancing through the gardens of Frostmore, he could not help thinking of… other things.
Anastasia had such a fiery temperament. Still, he was certain he had seen desire underneath the defiance in her eyes. And there was a part of him that wished to see more, no matter how hard he tried to deny it.
She haunted his days as much as his nights. Later that afternoon, Benedict rounded a corner at speed, papers in hand, and nearly collided with her. She steadied herself against his chest, her palm pressed flat over his heart.
“Good heavens, must you stalk the corridors like a general inspecting troops?” she demanded.
His hand shot to her wrist, steadying her before she could pull away. “And must you wander them like a ghost in search of mischief?”
Her lips curved, infuriatingly unafraid. “Perhaps I haunt you, Mr. Straton. You do look rather haunted these days.”
The heat of her wrist beneath his palm seared through him. He should have let her go. Instead, his grip lingered a fraction too long, his gaze dropping—traitorously—to her mouth.
With an effort that cost him dearly, Benedict released her. “If haunting me is your aim, Miss Dawson, I suggest you take more care. Ghosts are easily banished.”
She tilted her head, that wicked smile deepening. “Banished, perhaps. Forgotten? Never.”
The echo of her words clung to him long after she vanished down the hall. Forgotten? God help him, she was right—he could not banish her from his mind if he tried.
That night, alone in his study, Benedict closed his eyes and allowed himself the rare luxury of contemplating the fantasy. What would taming a wild lady like Anastasia be like?
He could picture it: Anastasia, in his bed—perhaps bound to the bedposts for added control—her eyes dark with need while he tested the limits of her control.
Or perhaps, facedown over his desk, or some other surface, where he could teach her proper discipline, his hand coming down sharply across those shapely buttocks as she cried out for mercy—mercy he would give her in his own good time, when he was satisfied that she had learned her lessons… she would beg for more…
Benedict wrenched himself from contemplating the idea of Anastasia across his desk. His breeches were uncomfortably tight once again. He scowled and pushed himself away from the desk to pace the confines of his study.
She filled his thoughts. She distracted him, disordered his mind. She brought him perilously close to violating the most important item on his list.
Never let a woman make me lose my composure. Most women could scarcely cause a ripple on the surface of the icy calm in which he lived his life. Anastasia, on the other hand, seemed to ignite a fire under his skin effortlessly.
He needed distance. He needed London. The patterns of London life would ground him, and he would have the opportunity to seek advice from his friends.
Cassian was well aware of the currents in London society. Perhaps more importantly, as a bachelor, he would know who among the ton’s gentlemen were eligible and might be considered acceptable matches for Anastasia.
And he might also know more about Anastasia.
She had never disclosed the reasons behind her assertions that her reputation was too tarnished for marriage, and he had not asked.
Cassian would know whatever whispers and information there was to be had regarding Miss Dawson.
Knowing the details of Anastasia’s past would help him devise a better plan to find her a husband.
Having a plan steadied Benedict. He returned to his desk to write a short list of instructions for Jarvis and the maids, then summoned the butler with instructions to prepare the carriage.
Once that was done, he made his way to the dowager’s solar, where she enjoyed reading on days when the weather was fine.
“Your Grace.”
“Benedict? You look as if you are going out.”
“I am. I am returning to London for a few days, to seek a husband for Miss Dawson.” Benedict bent to give the dowager a gentle kiss on the hand. “I shall return within a week, at the latest.”
“Are you taking her with you?”
“No. I wish for her to remain here, with you. I do not think her presence in London would do her any good, given her reputation. Besides, I fear she would only try to get in my way.”
Hyacinth’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what you think she is? An inconvenience?”
“What I think,” Benedict said, controlled but edged, “is that she is determined to turn this house into a circus. She ignores instructions, mocks title and propriety, and somehow manages to be present whenever there is disorder.”
“Benedict.”
He pressed on because irritation had been building for days, and he was done pretending it had not. “And now I am told that her marriage is my responsibility. My uncle’s will demands I secure her future, while she acts as though I am the one imposing on her.”
The dowager shut her book with a quiet snap. “You are wrong about her, Benedict.”
He waited.
“You assume she behaves that way because she is spoiled, or foolish, or simply enjoys provoking you. She does provoke you, yes—but she has also been through a lot.” Hyacinth leaned forward slightly.
“Anastasia has been humiliated publicly. She has been betrayed by men who pretended to care for her. And when she finally trusted someone with the truth, he tried to use it to ruin her. Do you understand what that does to a woman?”
Benedict’s jaw tightened. He did not answer.
“She does not trust easily,” Hyacinth continued. “And she does not bend easily. That is not a flaw to correct. It is what kept her standing when most would have broken.”
“I am not interested in correcting her,” Benedict said flatly. “I am interested in removing her from this estate before she costs me the last shred of patience I possess.”
“Then remove her properly,” Hyacinth replied, voice crisp again. “Find her a man who will not treat her like a problem to solve—one who will not punish her for having an opinion.”
Benedict held her gaze for a moment. “Very well.”
Hyacinth’s voice softened, almost reluctantly. “And Benedict, be careful with her. She bites because she has had reason to. Do not take every sharp word as a declaration of war.”
“I will do what is required.”
He gave a brief, controlled bow and left the solar.
He had hoped to escape without encountering Anastasia, but luck was not with him, and she met him at the door.
Her hair formed a wild halo around her shoulders, and her face was pink with sunshine.
She was smiling, but the smile faltered at the sight of him, then hardened into a scowl as she took in his coat and gloves.
“So you are permitted to leave Frostmore, and I am not?”
“It is for business,” Benedict replied. “I will not be gone long.”
He stepped past her, but she did not move.
“Of course,” she said, with false sweetness. “Your time is important. Mine is merely… available.”
His patience thinned. “Do not start.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” she said. “I forgot. I am meant to sit quietly and be grateful for my confinement.”
Benedict’s gaze sharpened. “You are not confined. You are protected—by necessity. The moment you step into London, you will be torn apart for sport.”
Her eyes flashed. “How kind. You sound exactly like my father.”
The words hit more sharply than he expected. He kept his face still. “I am not your father.”
“No,” she said, looking him up and down. “You are worse. At least my father admits he enjoys giving orders.”
He should have walked away. He did not.
“Will you regret my absence?” he asked, his tone clipped.
“Not at all. I have not enjoyed your presence.”
Her mouth tightened as she said it—stubborn, petulant—and Benedict had to force his hands to remain at his sides.
“Yes,” he said coldly. “Then we shall both be relieved.”
He turned and left before she could see anything else.
Yes, leaving is the best thing to do.