Chapter 12
“Miss Anastasia,” Mrs. Feldman, the housekeeper, said as she set down the breakfast tray with her usual briskness. “I thought it best you know there is to be a caller for you this morning.”
Anastasia, who had been buttering her toast, stilled at once, her knife hovering above the slice.
She knew it was hardly proper to take her breakfast in her room, but the thought of facing the duke after…
everything had sent her flushing. He made her feel too confused, and she did not trust herself around him.
“A caller? That early?” The words felt foreign, like trying on a borrowed bonnet.
“Yes, miss. I was given to understand he made inquiries at the door himself early in the morning. Very insistent. Quite particular. He must have been traveling all night from London.”
Anastasia laughed lightly—too lightly. “Well, I shall not keep the gentleman waiting. Thank you, Mrs. Feldman. I shall see to myself.”
Once the housekeeper left, Anastasia stared down at her toast, her appetite gone.
Another caller.
This time, she would not squander it. This time, she would charm.
This time she would prove—well, mostly to herself—that she was not beyond saving. So yes, she would see this caller. And she would see to it that she looked and felt her best. She submitted to her maid’s ruthless attentions like a soldier arming for battle.
After being let down by men twice, she could no longer afford the luxury of romance or daydreams. She needed a man she could tolerate in the same room for more than an hour without longing for a pistol. How difficult could that be?
And still, her mind betrayed her. It wandered back to the gardens the night before: the loosened cravat, the low chuckle, the way he had looked at her—not like a burden to be foisted on the next fool, but like a man who… She shook her head sharply.
“Not Benedict,” she muttered under her breath. “Never him.”
Clara paused, hairpins in hand. “My lady?”
“Nothing,” Anastasia said sweetly. She practiced the voice she would need in the drawing room: soft, polite, pliant. It made her teeth ache. “Just preparing what I will say to the gentleman.”
Clara giggled, blissfully unaware that her mistress was arming herself for execution rather than courtship.
Anastasia walked into the drawing room, which was already prepped and set for tea, sunlight streaming from the windows into the gorgeous room.
At the side, her aunt was having tea, dressed up too for a stunning first impression.
She was there to serve as a chaperone, and part of Anastasia wished she were not.
Of course. Chaperone and saboteur in one.
The dowager winked at her, and Anastasia’s stomach sank.
Heaven help me. I hope she behaves this time.
Anastasia curtsied with all the grace drilled into her since childhood, a bright, practiced smile pinned to her face. Mr. Hayman bowed in return—tall, mild-looking, his hair neatly combed, his demeanor polite without being pompous. Perfectly… ordinary.
“I am Mr. Hayman, Miss Dawson,” Mr. Hayman introduced himself. He sounded very polite, not too full of himself, and a bit reserved.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Hayman.”
“I have heard pleasant things about the Lady of Frostmore,” he said to the dowager, a genuine smile playing on his lips as he sat down. “Please let me offer my condolences about the late Duke.”
The mention of her uncle made her wince, but Aunt Hyacinth swept in smoothly, changing the subject with her usual elegance.
“Thank you, Mr. Hayman,” Aunt Hyacinth said, smoothing the moment effortlessly. “The late Duke had his faults—he collected them the way some men collect pocket watches—but he would have appreciated your sympathy.”
Soon, Anastasia found herself almost—almost—relaxed. They spoke of common things, just as she had expected. Things like the weather, what flowers were popular by this time of the Season, and even, surprisingly, the last book they both read.
Imagine that. A man who reads something entertaining other than sermons and betting ledgers. She caught herself smiling at his earnestness, and for the briefest moment, dared to think, Perhaps this could work. Perhaps I could find an agreeable man who would not try to smother or deceive me.
But her aunt’s eyes gleamed with a particular mischief that made Anastasia’s stomach twist. The dowager cleared her throat.
“Mr. Hayman,” the dowager purred. “I think you should have some tea. You have been so engrossed in talk with my niece that you have quite forgotten refreshment.”
Anastasia felt her stomach sink because she could tell that her aunt was up to something.
The civilized time that she was having with Mr. Hayman was about to come to an abrupt end, and she did not know how to stop it.
She knew her aunt’s tone too well; it was the same one she had used the last time before she ruined her meeting with Sir Kamden.
Still, she smiled brightly as Mr. Hayman, polite to a fault, accepted his cup. He lifted it carefully, while Anastasia watched with dread pooling in her stomach. Her aunt’s hand trembled ever so slightly.
And then it tipped.
“Oh, heavens!” Aunt Hyacinth cried—rather too delightedly—as a scalding golden wave cascaded down Mr. Hayman’s waistcoat and trousers. “How very clumsy of me!”
The poor man leaped up, blotting furiously, his face a study in horror. Anastasia thrust her handkerchief at him, mortified.
“Mr. Hayman! I am so terribly sorry—”
“Oh, it is entirely my fault,” the dowager interrupted, dabbing at her lips with dainty unconcern. “How careless of me! These wrists of mine at this age… utterly unreliable. Now, what would you think of us, Mr. Hayman!”
Anastasia’s eyes narrowed. She could swear her aunt’s lips twitched with the faintest smile.
Mr. Hayman rallied gamely. “No matter, Your Grace. We all have accidents.” His chuckle was strained, his waistcoat and trousers soaked, but he still managed to take a handkerchief out of his pocket.
Anastasia glared at her aunt. What was she doing again? One minute, she wanted her to get married and leave her reputation with the scandal behind, and the next, she was trying to sabotage all the men who called on her. What was wrong with this one?
Mr. Hayman dabbed frantically at his clothes, blotting with the urgency of a man trying to salvage both linen and dignity. Anastasia thrust another handkerchief at him, her cheeks burning, willing the floor to open and swallow her whole.
A maid slipped into the room with fresh towels. “Shall I assist, sir?”
Before Mr. Hayman could reply, Aunt Hyacinth gave a sorrowful shake of her head. “Yes, yes, do help him, poor dear. Wet trousers are very unfortunate. People might think he has had another sort of accident entirely.”
Anastasia choked. “Aunt!”
But the dowager pressed on, serenely relentless. “What, my dear? These things do happen. My late husband suffered similar difficulties in his later years. Tragic really. Quite impossible to keep up appearances when one’s trousers are never dry.”
Mr. Hayman went crimson from collar to hairline. “Your Grace! I—I beg your pardon, but that is outrageous and far from—”
“Of course, of course,” the dowager said, patting his arm as if he were a wounded child. “I mean no insult. But gossip is cruel, Mr. Hayman. Once people see a stain, they rarely ask how it got there. A gentleman rumored to… leak… will have difficulty maintaining authority. Don’t you agree?”
The man’s lips pressed into a furious line. He bowed so stiffly it looked painful, mumbled something about his carriage, and fled the room with damp breeches slapping indignantly.
Anastasia buried her face in her hands, muffling a groan.
Oh heavens. At this rate, I will never be able to return to London for the rest of my life.
“I believe you are being rather dramatic, my dear.”
“Dramatic?” Anastasia collapsed into her chair, her composure in ruins. “You threw tea on him, Aunt,” she said, her voice pitched somewhere between disbelief and despair. “There will never be another man who takes such an interest in me again. Never.”
“It was a mistake, Anastasia. Compose yourself at once,” her aunt scolded. “You remind me of your mother and her silly dramatics when you act like that.”
Anastasia narrowed her eyes at her. “You cannot possibly expect me to believe that was an accident.”
Her aunt gave her the most angelic smile. “Darling girl, you wound me. Of course, it was an accident. My poor hands are not what they once were, and I simply wanted to serve him some tea. How is that wrong?”
Anastasia was not fooled, but she knew she could not prove that her aunt was sabotaging her.
“At this rate, I will never marry anyone or be able to show my face in London ever again.”
The dowager’s lips twitched as though she were repressing a laugh, or perhaps a secret. She reached across and patted Anastasia’s hand with surprising gentleness. “Oh, my dear, do not fret. The right man will come along. Trust me, I will make sure of it. And then, everyone will be envious of you.”
Anastasia sighed. “I will need to keep all other gentlemen away from you, and I might just never leave this house.”
Anastasia had been ready to retire for the day after her encounter with Mr. Hayman.
She could imagine their life together in platonic companionship.
It would not necessarily be bridled with desire or passion, but she would be content while they read books by the fireplace every evening.
It was perfect given the situations she had already imagined herself in, but the possibility of that happening was now zero. Her aunt had made sure of that.