Chapter 11
Anastasia would never have termed herself a violent lady, not even in her most unguarded moments.
And yet, the poor bits of turtle swimming in her soup were forced to endure a rather unladylike assault beneath her spoon.
Each jab was a silent exorcism—of Sir Kamden’s horrified face, of her aunt’s blithe betrayal, of lips that still burned from a kiss she had no business remembering.
“Miss Dawson,” Benedict began at last, his voice carrying a particular weight of irritation that made her shoulders stiffen. He had not said a word about the disastrous afternoon—or their kiss—until now, but she had known it was coming.
“Miss Dawson,” Benedict repeated, slower this time, as though repetition might grind her into submission.
Her grip tightened around the spoon. She could still feel his hand at her neck—possessive, devastating—and the thought of him now, calmly dissecting her like a magistrate passing judgment, made her want to fling the soup in his maddeningly composed face.
How can he sit there looking so untouched, so composed, when I…
Anastasia forced her gaze upward, her expression carefully schooled. “Yes, Mr. Straton?”
“I would like to understand,” he said, each word clipped and deliberate, “exactly what went wrong with the vicar’s son this afternoon. He did not seem that hard to please, so what could you have done to send him bolting out of the drawing room like the devil was on his heels?”
Precisely the question she had known he would ask.
She just kept pushing the turtle around her plate, her eyes glued to it, and not knowing if she could handle looking at the maddeningly composed man across the table.
Why didn’t he save her the embarrassment and not try to rehash the memory of Sir Kamden’s face when her aunt had mentioned the scandal?
She did not need to report every embarrassing detail of her life back to him, yet Anastasia knew that he was now the man of the house and in charge of these matters.
Why must it be him?
Heat prickled at her cheeks, not from guilt but from the memory of his mouth on hers. She pressed her lips together, willing the thought away. He had kissed her, yes—but now he sat there across the table as though nothing had happened, demanding to know why her suitor was dissatisfied.
And they say I am the odd one.
“I will be waiting for a response any moment now,” Benedict said, his voice slicing through her thoughts like steel.
“Perhaps the devil himself was calling,” she said sweetly. “Or perhaps he remembered that he needed to cover evening service for his father.”
Benedict’s grip on his spoon tightened. She forced her gaze downward, unable to be so unfazed while looking him in the eye.
Before the silence grew unbearable, Aunt Hyacinth dabbed daintily at her mouth and announced, “It was embroidery.”
Both Anastasia and Benedict turned to her.
“Embroidery?” Benedict repeated, his tone one shade short of incredulous.
“Yes,” the dowager said serenely, as though she had delivered a diagnosis beyond dispute.
“Sir Kamden mentioned he preferred a wife with accomplished stitches. I told him Anastasia’s attempt at roses looked more like bleeding cabbages.
He was overcome with horror and fled. Entirely understandable.
” She lifted her spoon unbothered and resumed her soup.
Anastasia choked on a laugh, pressing her napkin furiously to her mouth.
“Bleeding cabbages?” she hissed.
“Well,” Aunt Hyacinth said primly, “you have a bold hand with the needle, my dear. No man could handle your outrageous choice of color.” Her eyes twinkled wickedly. “Had I shown him your sunset, he might have fainted altogether.”
Benedict dragged a hand over his face, looking every inch the man whose patience was hanging by a thread.
“Are you telling me a promising match was undone by thread work?”
Anastasia observed the almost imperceptible sheen of sweat above his brow and even the way his hand slightly trembled as he ran his fingers through his hair.
She recognized the barely placated frustration but also realized that the sentiment was not directed at her, but at the loss of control in general.
It must be so tiring to maintain such composure in his world.
“Promising?” Anastasia muttered, unable to stop herself. “The man’s greatest passion was his mother’s blueberry pie.”
Aunt Hyacinth gave a sniff. “Precisely. He wanted a wife to bake, stitch, and nod on cue. My niece is not a maid.”
Anastasia tried not to laugh outright at the look that flickered across Benedict’s face—something taut, as though Hyacinth’s words struck closer than he would admit.
Instead, she took a sip of her soup and said lightly, “There you have it. It was not I who frightened Sir Kamden away. We were simply an unmatched pair.”
“You seem overjoyed about it,” Benedict bit out, sharper than she expected. His hand tightened briefly around his glass, and for the briefest instant, she thought of the same hand braced at her neck, pulling her into a kiss he looked determined to forget.
She resisted the urge to shift in her seat. “I know how much you want me gone from this house, but your discomfort will not be the reason I settle for anyone, despite my scandal.”
His gaze snapped to hers, sharp enough to pin her in place. For a heartbeat, she thought she saw more than irritation—something darker, heavier. But then it was gone, replaced by cold precision.
“I have been very clear about my lack of fondness for you,” he said, each word as controlled as if he were dictating estate accounts. “But you must make more of an effort. It would be better for me—and for you—if you were happily married.”
“And removed from this estate,” she returned sweetly, narrowing her eyes at him over the rim of her glass.
One brow lifted, entirely unruffled. “Again, you know my stand on that.”
Anastasia set her spoon gently on her napkin, her movements precise though her blood hummed hot. “Rest assured, Mr. Straton, no one under this roof wishes for my departure more than I do. Were it within my power, I would have left this place weeks ago.”
Her glare lingered, sharp enough to cut, though what unsettled her most was not his composure but the flicker she thought she caught beneath it—a muscle tightening in his jaw, a fleeting shadow in his eyes, as though he despised himself for caring at all.
Why do I even notice that? Why do I care whether he cares or not?
Anastasia forced down the rest of her meal in furious silence. When at last the table was cleared, she rose, seized her shawl, and escaped into the night. The door clicked shut behind her, and only then did she release the shaky breath she had been holding.
She marched toward the gardens, pulling her shawl even closer to her. The gardens were silver in the moonlight, hydrangeas and lilies glowing faintly along the path. Her slippers whispered over gravel as she circled the house once, twice, her thoughts marching in time with her steps.
No matter how far I go, the whispers arrive first.
There was barely even the illusion of choice for her.
She would be lucky if a reputable man even looked at her, let alone offered marriage.
Whatever happened now would determine how well or how terribly she would live the rest of her life.
But of course, he did not care. He just wanted her out of his home as quickly as possible.
Or does he? That kiss… How could he have hated himself so much for it?
Anastasia rounded the house a second time, barely aware of where she was going as she walked in a trance-like state.
Her heart had slowed, the night air cooling her skin, but the chaos inside her refused to settle.
She was more levelheaded than she had been all evening, but the ache in her chest remained.
And when she rounded the corner, she froze.
What is he doing out here?
Leaning against a stone column as though he had built it from the ground up himself, a cigar smoldered lazily between his fingers, its smoke curling upward in sinuous spirals.
His cravat was loosened, his posture at ease, yet somehow he still managed to look like command embodied—effortless, immovable, infuriating.
Her breath caught before she forced herself to move, her slippers crunching against the gravel. He did not so much as stir at her arrival, only lifted his gaze, sharp as flint, and found her at once.
“Pray tell,” Benedict said, his voice low, “why are you wandering like a ghost in the dark?”
“Me?” Anastasia gave him a brittle smile. “I could ask you the same thing. Why are you lurking here, smoking like a highwayman?”
He exhaled smoke in a slow stream. “I am the master of this house. I can go wherever I want. You, on the other hand, appear intent on haunting the hydrangeas.”
She walked a step closer, gravel grinding underfoot, her pulse quickening with every inch. “I needed air. An escape from that suffocating house and from…” Her gaze locked on his, unyielding. “…certain people in it.”
Benedict chuckled, the sound low and edged with something far too suggestive. His gaze dipped, briefly, to the line of her shawl, then back up, and heat rushed traitorously to her cheeks.
“I cannot say I am flattered,” he murmured, “but at least you are honest.”
Honest? If he only knew.
She tightened her shawl, fighting the warmth crawling up her throat. “You mistake courtesy for honesty, Mr. Straton. If I were truly honest, I would tell you that you are—” she broke off, breath tangling.
“Go on,” he urged, infuriatingly mild. “Tell me what I am.”
“Impossible,” she snapped. “Arrogant. Pretentious. Entirely too pleased with yourself. It baffles me how a man with so much power lives his life with so many self-imposed rules and limitations.”
He drew on his cigar, the tip flaring, his eyes fixed on her as though he could read every secret thought she had tried to bury.
“Do you always go out of your way to wound a man’s pride, Miss Dawson?”
Her name on his lips sent a shiver racing through her. “Only when the man insists on lecturing me about my future while I am trying to enjoy a perfectly good bowl of turtle soup.”
His mouth curved, and it was all she could do not to stare at it, not to remember its bruising weight on hers.
“Those are strong words,” he said softly. “And yet here you are, flushed and lingering instead of retreating to your room. One might begin to suspect…” His gaze swept deliberately down, then up again, a deliberate provocation. “…that you find my company less intolerable than you claim.”
God help me, perhaps I do. But she tilted her chin higher.
“You mistake proximity for preference, Mr. Straton. I merely refuse to let you win by fleeing.”
He smirked. “So, it is a contest, then?”
Was it not? The way he looked at her—hungry, assessing, as though he dared her to falter. Her pulse thundered, her body remembering too well how it felt to be pressed to the wall against him. But she refused to retreat, not now.
The night air throbbed with silence, broken only by the faint hiss of his cigar. He flicked ash onto the gravel, his gaze never loosening its hold.
“You are not the only one who wanders for air,” he said.
Her brows arched. The admission startled her more than any cutting remark could have.
“You?” she said, incredulous. “The very picture of order and suffocation? Surely you thrive in it.”
For once, his lips curved into something that was not mockery. A ghost of a real smile. “You think I am made of ice. Without feelings. Without needs. But sometimes…” He took a drag, exhaled. “Sometimes I need the quiet, too. A place where no one is expecting anything of me.”
Her throat tightened. She had not expected honesty—not from him. And worse, she believed it.
“At least you are not called scandalous every time you breathe,” she said softly, more vulnerable than she intended. “At least you can stride into the world without consequence. If you want quiet, you may take it. If I want freedom, I am ruined for it.”
He laughed, warm and softly, startling her again. Not cruel, not cold—almost human.
“You are sharper than you let people think,” he said.
Her arms folded instinctively. “I never let them think anything. They decide for themselves and make me the villain. That is simply how it is; everyone has their own story of me to tell.”
He stepped closer, heat rolling off him, until her shawl felt like the flimsiest of shields.
“And what story,” he murmured, “are you playing with me, Miss Dawson?”
Her breath hitched. She should have given him a sharp retort, but her lips betrayed her with silence.
“Do not tempt me to answer that,” she whispered.
“Then do not make me ask questions you do not wish to answer.”
The suggestiveness wrapped around her like smoke, heavy and suffocating. He looked undone in the half-light, his shirt unfastened, the faint dark hair revealed. Ungoverned, yet still radiating control. It was unfair. Utterly unfair.
She forced a brittle laugh. “Imagine my surprise. I almost thought you resembled a human being without all your stiff rules and commands.”
“Careful, Anastasia,” he murmured, his eyes darkening. “Do not test my temper further.”
“Or what?” she challenged, her voice hushed but reckless. “Will you lecture me into submission?”
His gaze sharpened, dangerous. “No. I would not waste words.”
Her heart lurched. He meant it. She could hear it in the low thrum of his voice, could feel it in the heat rising between them.
She had to leave—now—before she did something far more dangerous than stay, like mention their kiss. With as much composure as she could summon, she gathered her shawl and lifted her chin.
“Careful, Mr. Straton,” she said, her voice cool though her blood raced. “The night air might loosen that stiff composure of yours.”