Chapter 7
“Ido not deserve her, not by half,” Sebastian said, leaning back in his chair with the ease of a man utterly content. “And yet Amelia treats me as though I were the very sun itself, and she, content to orbit.”
Cassian groaned and dropped his head against the back of his chair. “God above. If you begin comparing her to celestial bodies, I shall order laudanum for myself and whiskey for you until you forget you ever married.”
Benedict allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch. “One wonders how White’s still permits your entry, Sebastian. Surely there is a rule against such indecent displays of happiness.”
“There should be,” Cassian said darkly, lifting his glass. “This is a club for gentlemen, not a nursery for besotted husbands. Marriage is nothing but a rope. You have tied yours so tightly, Sebastian, you scarcely notice you are choking.”
Sebastian only laughed, unshaken. “If I am choking, then it is on bliss.”
Benedict reached for his glass, more to occupy his hands than from any real thirst. The air inside White’s was thick with smoke, brandy fumes, and the sound of men congratulating themselves on wit they rarely possessed.
It should have been a reprieve from Frostmore, from her.
Yet even here, in the dim hush of London’s most exclusive club, Anastasia Dawson intruded on his thoughts like a spark in dry tinder.
She would have laughed at Cassian’s dramatics, her eyes glinting with that infuriating defiance. She would have challenged Sebastian’s words with something sharper, something wicked that left them all fumbling. And damn her, Benedict could almost hear it.
Benedict twirled his glass of whiskey, letting the amber liquid catch the low light as Sebastian, married for a year and insufferably pleased with himself for it, waxed on about domestic bliss.
“She is with child now,” Sebastian announced, his grin wide enough to shame the sun.
Cassian shot upright so quickly his chair gave a protesting creak.
“Good Lord, it multiplies! Do you think that gypsy will be proven right after all?”
The table shook with Sebastian’s laughter while Benedict rolled his eyes and took another measured sip of brandy.
A year ago, when Sebastian had still been London’s most incorrigible rake, a gypsy had told him he would father seven children.
At the time, they had all called it nonsense.
Now, watching his friend beam like a fool, he wondered if his friend and his bride had taken the prediction as a challenge.
Cassian raised his glass, his grin wicked.
“To Amelia then. For making a liar of every man in London who swore the Duke of Firaine would never be shackled. And to the heir already on the way. The finest bottle you have,” he called to a passing footman, his voice carrying with the authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
Sebastian groaned, though his smile did not falter. “Amelia wished to keep it quiet for a time, but with Cassian drinking to it in White’s, discretion is well and truly finished.”
“Cassian does not deal in discretion,” Benedict said coolly.
“Not mine, no,” Cassian replied, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “But others? That is another matter. A man learns more in a single night at The Arrangement than in a week at Westminster.”
“Enough of me,” Sebastian said at last, still grinning. “Benedict, you have been glowering into that glass all evening. What weighs on you? Is it the new estate?”
“I have just been busy handling Frostmore, which has proven harder than I anticipated,” Benedict said with a sigh. His pause lingered too long, and before he could stop himself, he added, “And… Miss Dawson.”
Cassian’s head snapped round like a hound scenting game. “Miss Dawson? Who is she, and why am I only hearing of her now?”
“She is the dowager’s niece,” Benedict said shortly.
He massaged his temples, warring with the memories of trying to settle all of his estate and, worst of all, Anastasia. A woman who had been thrown into the mix and discombobulated his senses. All right, maybe not entirely, but he needed to get rid of her before she did.
Cassian leaned forward, eyes bright with mischief. “I know that look. She is beautiful. Tell us everything, Benedict.”
Benedict’s jaw clenched. “What she is, is troublesome.”
“Troublesome?” Sebastian repeated, his tone far too mild to be innocent. “You say that with the same gravity one might use to describe Napoleon.”
“She is troublesome,” Benedict said firmly, unwilling to let them bait him. “Defiant, loud-mouthed. Entirely unladylike. Every word out of her lips is designed to provoke.”
Cassian’s grin spread slowly and dangerously. “Which explains why you cannot stop speaking of her.”
Benedict’s jaw tightened. “I barely mention her because she complicates matters. My uncle’s will binds my inheritance to her marriage prospects. Until she is wed, I cannot access the funds.”
“Ah,” Sebastian said, understanding dawning in his expression. “So the problem is not Miss Dawson herself, but the fact that she is unmarr—” He broke off with a laugh. “No, I cannot even finish that sentence. Benedict, she has you entirely undone.”
“She has me nothing,” Benedict snapped, his glass hitting the table harder than intended. “What she has is a reputation so scandalous that half of London would cross the street to avoid her. Finding her a husband will be near impossible.”
Cassian leaned back in his chair, swirling the brandy in his glass as if savoring the irony. “Beautiful. Ruined. And under your roof. God preserve us, Benedict. It sounds less like a problem and more like temptation given form.”
Sebastian chuckled. “Or a trap of Benedict’s own making. Tell me, is she truly as impossible as you claim? Or merely impossible for you?”
“I do not intend to find out,” Benedict bit out, though even as he said it, the image of Anastasia’s defiant chin and laughing green eyes flared in his mind.
Cassian leaned back, grinning. “Ah. So, she is both. Excellent.”
“She is not excellent,” Benedict snapped. “She is defiant, loud-mouthed, and incorrigible. If you had seen her… she provokes me at every turn!”
Sebastian’s brow arched, amusement clear. “Careful, Benedict. You sound almost admiring.”
“Do not be ridiculous. I sound accurate. And exasperated.”
Cassian wagged his glass at him. “Benedict, you have just described the only sort of woman who could ever hold your attention longer than a ledger.”
“Do not get ahead of yourself, Cassian. She requires a husband,” Benedict said flatly, ignoring them both. “That is why I am in London. To find her a respectable match.”
Cassian pulled a face. “Respectable? Poor woman. You will saddle her with some dreary fellow who thinks passion is a parlor game.”
Benedict’s frown deepened, and he redirected the conversation to the matter at hand. “Enough of that. Do you have any bachelors in mind or not?”
“My grandmother would surely be better at this, but…” Sebastian tapped his chin. “How about Lord Benton Frye? He is very agreeable and has a nursery of some of the finest spices—”
“Anastasia would devour him whole,” Benedict cut in. “She would not be impressed by his nursery either.”
Sebastian mused. “Amelia was pretty impressed by it. She had been there once and would not stop gushing about how she wanted to start one.”
Cassian rolled his eyes. “Let me guess, you built her one the following week.”
Sebastian beamed. “Week? The very next day, actually. I am surprised you thought I would hold out that long.”
Benedict cleared his throat sharply. “Can we return to the matter at hand?”
“What about Sir Milton Hartelle?” Cassian quipped. “He is pretty sharp-witted, too. He might love the banter she would offer.”
Benedict nearly snorted. “Sir Milton Hartelle is simply a chatterbox. Describing him as sharp-witted is a disservice to everyone who is. Anastasia would tire of his yap by supper.”
Sebastian tapped his chin. “There is also Sanford Reede. Polite, respectable, entirely without scandal.”
“Entirely without a spine, you mean. He would not last an hour.” Benedict set down his glass with deliberate precision. “Which is precisely why I must be careful. Her reputation is already… fragile. I cannot compound the damage by throwing her to unsuitable men.”
“Fragile?” Cassian arched a brow. “Benedict, I frequent half the card rooms and gaming hells in London. I know scandal when it walks in the door, and your Miss Dawson has supplied gossip enough to fill every corner. The gentlemen will not touch her, and the matrons will not permit it. That leaves only the desperate, the reckless… or the dangerously foolish.”
Sebastian chuckled, swirling the brandy in his glass. “Which explains why you are glowering more fiercely than usual. It seems finding her a husband will prove harder than managing Frostmore itself.”
Cassian’s grin widened, wolfish. “And so far, my dear Benedict, every candidate we suggest you dismiss with all the zeal of a jealous guardian. One might almost think you mean to keep her to yourself.”
Benedict’s jaw tightened. She was not his to keep.
God help him, half the time he could hardly endure being in the same room with her—her laughter too bright, her defiance too sharp, her presence too consuming.
And yet, when Cassian called her his Miss Dawson, something hot and proprietary twisted low in his gut.
“Do not be absurd, Cassian. I want her gone from Frostmore, nothing more, nothing less. She is not the sort of woman I would wed. You know very well that my wife would need to be of impeccable reputation and manners.”
“Of course,” Sebastian said smoothly, his eyes far too knowing.
“As I said, there is nothing more than me fulfilling my uncle’s wish,” Benedict repeated, though the words rang hollow even to his own ears. He exhaled and added, quieter, “I realize that whispers about her abound, but someone has to be willing to meet her.”
Cassian gave a low whistle. “Whispers? Benedict, they are not whispers—they are practically wild tales. I have heard half a dozen versions, each worse than the last. In one, she eloped with a captain. In another, she ran off with a married man. My personal favorite claims she has been in the countryside hiding an illegitimate child.”
Sebastian smirked over the rim of his glass. “Colorful, at least. Do any of them happen to be true?”
Benedict stilled, his grip tightening on the glass. He had never asked Anastasia herself—not directly. Pride, or perhaps self-preservation, had kept him from it. But hearing the rumors from Cassian’s lips made his stomach turn unpleasantly. “What do you know of it?” he asked, his voice clipped.
Cassian shrugged, too pleased with himself. “Bits and pieces. Enough to know the ton delights in painting her as ruined. She spurned a duke, eloped with a nobody, or slapped her own suitor. No matter the details, the ending’s always the same.”
“No matter what people say, I need to find someone for her. Do you think there would be anyone willing?”
Sebastian shook his head with mock solemnity. “If only it were so easy. From what you said, most men blanch at the mere mention of her. As though the scandal itself might be catching.”
Benedict’s jaw tightened. He hated that Sebastian was right.
She deserved better than to be treated as though she were some broken thing, yet society had already branded her beyond redemption.
“And that is precisely my concern,” he said at last. “She deserves better than to be discarded, yet the ton would rather pretend she does not exist.”
“Ah,” Cassian said, eyes alight with mischief. “You defend her now. How noble. Or… how telling.”
“She is still under my protection,” Benedict answered, his tone iron, though he felt that iron bending under the strain of her image in his mind—green eyes flashing, laughter spilling so freely it unsettled him. “I will not have her name dragged through every gaming hell in London.”
Sebastian chuckled. “You see, Cassian? Our friend protests too much. One time, he wishes he could find just anyone to court her, but no one is good enough. He does not merely want her married. He wants her safeguarded. There is a difference.”
“There is no difference,” Benedict snapped, though he knew even as he said it that his tone betrayed him. “She is a responsibility I never asked for, and the sooner I see her settled, the sooner I can restore order to Frostmore and keep up with my own life.”
Cassian raised his glass in a mock toast. “To order, then. And to Miss Dawson, the insufferable. May she find a husband reckless enough to claim her before our Benedict discovers he would rather no one else did.”
Sebastian clinked his glass against Benedict’s with a grin. “God help the man who tries to tame her. Unless, of course, that man is already sitting at this table.”
Benedict did not rise to the bait. He drained his glass in silence, though Anastasia’s green eyes followed him into the burn of the whiskey.