Chapter 10
Anastasia had been kissed before.
Once. If she counted that stolen brush of lips from the captain, a chaste peck stolen in awkwardness more than tenderness. It had been hollow, clumsy, nothing at all like the searing, hungry claim of the Duke’s mouth that now haunted her every breath.
This kiss had been different. Wrong. Ruinous. And far, far too wonderful.
Her lips still tingled as though his mouth lingered there. Her skin still burned where his hand had cupped her neck, and—good heavens—her skirts… She clutched them tighter now, as though the memory of his touch might set the very fabric aflame.
The Duke had kissed her, and worse, she had kissed him back.
Anastasia sat on the edge of her bed, then sprang up again, unable to keep still.
She pressed her fingers to her lips for what must have been the hundredth time, as though she might catch some trace of him left behind.
She remembered how she had clung to his coat, how she had melted into him instead of slapping him across the face like any self-respecting woman should have done.
How humiliating! How can I ever face him again now?
But what unsettled her most was not his audacity. It was how much she had liked it. No, liked was too pale a word. She had wanted him—wanted every wicked promise implied in that low growl of his voice. If he had not torn himself away, she would have let him…
Anastasia groaned aloud, covering her face with both hands.
I am losing my mind.
Because surely, that was the only explanation for why she had not only tolerated but longed for more of the Duke’s ‘discipline.’ He had not kissed her out of passion, she reminded herself savagely.
No, he had kissed her to punish her. To prove she could be silenced, contained, mastered.
He had loathed himself for it. She had seen it in his eyes, that flicker of self-disgust as though she had dragged him down into the mire.
Which meant, of course, that she should loathe him in return.
But if he despises me so much, why did he kiss me?
“You are a fool,” she told her reflection fiercely, glaring into the mirror. Wide green eyes stared back, cheeks flushed, lips reddened as though she had painted them with sin itself. Her hair tumbled loose about her shoulders, looking very much like it had when his hand had tangled in it.
Respectable women did not do such things. Respectable women did not imagine a duke pressing them into a wall, skirts rucked up, whispering threats in their ear. Respectable women accepted bouquets, blushed at compliments, and allowed a polite kiss upon the hand.
Respectable women were not irreparably ruined like her.
All I can do is pretend this never happened and never think of it again!
Anastasia had worked herself into a fine state of indignation—pacing, muttering, vowing never to think of the Duke again—when Aunt Hyacinth opened the door.
Her stomach dropped.
Oh heavens. She knows. Is it written all over my face? What am I to do?
Aunt Hyacinth swept in, brisk as a general marshaling troops, tugging at the curtains to let in more light.
“Get up, my dear,” she said without preamble. “Change your gown. There is a gentleman here for you.”
Anastasia froze. “A—what?”
Her aunt finally turned, her brows arched with satisfaction. “There is a gentleman in the drawing room waiting for you. Sir Kamden Reids, a vicar’s son. A very respectable man indeed. Benedict said he had met his uncle in London. He is optimistic that this could be a fine match.”
Of course. Benedict. Anastasia pressed her palms together to keep them from shaking.
He kisses me senseless in a corridor and then sends me a suitor? The man is truly deranged.
Aunt Hyacinth flapped a hand at Anastasia’s maid. “Well, do not just stand there gaping like a fish. Clara, change her gown. Something with long sleeves, mind you. Nothing too enticing. We do not want him thinking her fast.”
Anastasia groaned. “I do not need to change my gown.”
“Nonsense. You look as though you have been wrestling Lupita and Pepita, which I am certain you have after the mess they caused,” her aunt declared, pinching at her niece’s rumpled sleeve.
“So put on a clean gown and smile like you are happy to be alive,” she ordered briskly, then added with a twinkle in her eye, “though I cannot promise I shall not test the man’s mettle myself. ”
Within minutes, Anastasia found herself ushered into fresh muslin, her hair pinned hastily back, her lips pressed into something that only the most generous observer might call a smile.
Her stomach churned. No fabric, no ribbon could hide the truth: beneath it all, she was still burning with the Duke’s kiss.
Anastasia plastered a smile on her face as she entered the drawing room.
Sir Kamden Reids stood to greet her, bowing with a stiff awkwardness.
He was neither handsome nor unpleasant—simply…
plain. His sandy hair was cropped too short, his shoulders a little sloped, his expression earnest to the point of dullness.
“Miss Dawson,” he said solemnly. “An honor.”
“Sir Kamden,” she returned, curtsying. She took the seat across from him, her back very straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Aunt Hyacinth, of course, settled herself nearby with the teapot, clearly eager to enjoy the performance.
Kamden cleared his throat. “I must say, your estate is… impressive.”
“Thank you,” Anastasia said politely. “I am merely a guest here.”
A pause. He glanced at the carpet, then at the ceiling, then at his hands. “Have you… have you found the weather agreeable of late?”
“Perfectly agreeable,” Anastasia replied, already suppressing a yawn.
“Yes, indeed. A fine, temperate spring.” He brightened slightly, as though this were a triumph. “Not too much rain. Not too much sun.”
“I have to agree that it is splendid,” Aunt Hyacinth said cheerfully, pouring tea with great ceremony. “Nothing like moderate weather to soothe the soul.”
Kamden took his cup reverently as he noticed the pies in front of them. “Quite so. I must say, Miss Dawson, that my late mother made the most divine blueberry pie. I should like my future wife to master it. A small thing perhaps, but of great sentimental value. Have you made these?”
Anastasia blinked. Blueberry pie. An admirable foundation for matrimony.
She smiled thinly. “No, but I do enjoy… pastry.”
“Excellent!” His whole face lit up, as though she had professed undying love. “A woman’s skill in the kitchen, though not essential, is a treasure.”
Aunt Hyacinth, lips twitching, murmured, “I daresay my niece would be an absolute disaster in a kitchen. She has never even boiled water. If she ever lifted a pan, the entire household would evacuate.”
Anastasia sputtered. “Aunt!”
But the dowager only tilted her head with a sly smile. “What? It is true, my dear. You were born to manage households, not ruin their dinners.”
Sir Kamden gave a strained chuckle, clearly unsure whether this was meant as a jest.
What followed was a half hour of pure drudgery. Sir Kamden discoursed on the same topics: the weather, his father’s sermons, and—at painful length—his late mother’s blueberry pie recipe.
Aunt Hyacinth kept on pouring tea, her expression a picture of smug contentment. Anastasia caught her aunt’s eye once and nearly tipped her teacup over just to break the monotony.
Then Sir Kamden, as if reaching for a jewel to dazzle them, announced, “Did I tell you that I served in the navy once?”
Aunt Hyacinth’s spoon clinked sharply in her cup. “Ah, how fortunate. Anastasia has always admired naval men. Why, she nearly eloped with one. An admiral, no less.”
Anastasia nearly inhaled her tea. She spluttered, coughing, tea spilling into her lap as she dabbed furiously with her napkin, her wide eyes cutting to her aunt in a look that promised bloody murder.
Sir Kamden froze, his eyes round as saucers. “An… admiral?”
Why in heaven’s name would her aunt say such a thing? The entire family had sworn to bury that incident, terming it a lapse in judgment. And yet here her aunt was, tossing it into the air like confetti.
Her aunt, naturally, pretended not to notice.
“Yes indeed,” the dowager continued, blithe as ever, as though she had announced nothing more scandalous than a fondness for roses.
“Though he turned out to be… not quite the gentleman he appeared. Quite the rascal, in fact. But really, my niece has such spirited tastes. Admirals, barons… she has always aimed rather high.”
Anastasia wanted the carpet to rise and smother her. She might not have been too eager to marry, but she had to find a match if she were to leave Frostmore. Her aunt had promised to help her, not completely throw her to the wolves without so much as a caution.
“It was a lapse in judgment,” she said quickly, mirroring her own father’s words, which she hated. “I am no longer as young and na?ve as I once was.”
Aunt Hyacinth only patted her arm soothingly. “Of course it was, my dear. But at least you were ambitious. Far better than swooning over a curate or a clerk. A woman ought to aspire.”
Aspire? To ruin herself? Anastasia nearly groaned aloud.
The dowager prattled on cheerfully, “He tricked her, of course. She has such a trusting heart. Convinced her to elope, the rogue, but fortunately, she came to her senses before the deed was done.” A mournful tsk followed.
Anastasia braced for the fallout, her pulse thundering.
Sir Kamden cleared his throat, his face pinched as though he had swallowed vinegar.
“I have never paid much mind to idle gossip, Your Grace. But I can see now that the whispers about Miss Dawson’s past are not mere rumors.
” He set down his teacup with trembling precision.
“Forgive me, but I cannot attach myself to a woman so… compromised.”
Aunt Hyacinth shook her head gravely. “We are an honest household, Sir Kamden. And we would never withhold the truth from any suitor who wishes to court Anastasia.”
His flush of indignation deepened as he turned on his heel and left.
Silence stretched between them as Anastasia turned to her aunt, her cheeks burning hot with rage.
“Why? Why humiliate me like that, Aunt? You said you would protect me!”
“That is precisely what I am doing.” Aunt Hyacinth did not flinch. She calmly stirred her tea, then looked up with eyes sharp as glass. “You did not like him. I could see it the instant he opened his mouth.”
“That is not the point—”
“Oh, but it is.” Her aunt’s lips curved faintly, though her voice carried iron. “If one mention of your past sends him running, then he would never have lasted. A man so spineless as to be frightened by scandal would make a dreadful husband for you.”
Anastasia did not say anything else because she knew deep down that her aunt’s words were true. But true or not, it changed nothing.
Every man who crossed her path would eventually hear the whispers, and one by one, they would leave, just as Sir Kamden had.
She should be glad, she should. And yet, she could not shake the shame that ran through her veins or the thought that getting married would solve her family’s problems. And how it would allow her to leave Frostmore once and for all.
She pressed her napkin hard against her lap, her mind turning—not to Sir Kamden, not even to her aunt’s smug serenity, but to him.
What would the Duke say if he knew how quickly her past had been thrown into the open?
Would he feel vindicated, coldly triumphant, telling her this was precisely why she needed his interference?
Or would he look at her the way he had in that corridor—dark, conflicted, loathing himself for caring at all?
Her throat tightened. She could not decide which answer frightened her more.