Chapter 14 #2
She turned, ready to vanish like a startled cat, and for a heartbeat, he almost let her. It would be easier. But then, his own voice betrayed him.
“Stay.”
The word flew from his lips before he could even do anything to stop it. He had not planned on saying that, or even fencing at this time of the evening, but since Anastasia had come into his life, nothing had gone according to plan.
Her back stiffened. Slowly, she turned her head toward him, her eyes wary but bright. She did not move closer, but she did not flee.
“No, I… it is best that I not intrude,” she said, folding her hands before her like a shield. Her voice was clipped, her chin lifted; he could almost see her steeling herself.
“You are not intruding,” Benedict said. He set the sword down, though he did not step away from it. “It is only practice.”
She glanced at the racks of swords. “You are fencing alone?” she asked after a pause, her voice thinner than usual. “That seems a bit silly.”
The edge of Benedict’s lips twitched into a small smile, but he turned around quickly before she assumed he found amusement in what she said, even if he did.
“There is nobody to spar with.”
She hesitated. Just a breath. And then, as if the words were dragged from her against her will, she said, “You could spar with me.”
Benedict gave a low chuckle, the sound rolling through the chamber. “With you?” His gaze slid to her deliberately, letting the weight of it linger.
It should have cowed her. Instead, she answered at once, steady as steel. “Yes, with me. Or is Mr. Straton afraid he might actually lose to a woman?”
Of course, she knew how to get his attention, and that was by dangling a good challenge in front of his face. But he knew better than to fall for that right now.
“Miss Dawson,” he drawled, every syllable thick with warning. “As tempting as that sounds, I would not spar with a lady. What sort of gentleman would I be?”
Her chin tilted higher, her eyes flashing. “A gentleman who is terrified of losing to one.”
He looked at her then—properly looked—his eyes running over her with a measured deliberation that made his breeches tighten uncomfortably. The sight of her standing there, chin lifted, daring him, was infuriating. Maddening. Irresistible.
“You think highly of yourself,” he said at last, his voice cool, though he felt anything but.
Her lips curved, sharp and knowing. “And you think too highly of yourself, Mr. Straton. Perhaps we are evenly matched after all.”
The words pricked him, not because they were untrue, but because she delivered them with the same insolent poise that had undone him in his study. She wielded defiance like a blade, and every part of him longed to disarm her—whether with sword or with hands.
Before he could answer, she swept past him, skirts whispering against the floor, and plucked another sword from the rack.
The weapon looked far too heavy in her hand, yet she held it with startling confidence.
She cast him a glance over her shoulder, deliberately provocative.
“Besides, I rather thought you would still be recovering with your friends after all that port. But no—here you are, fencing alone.”
“You truly have no fear, do you?” Benedict asked, his voice low.
“What is there left to fear once a woman like me has already been hurt?”
He let out a breath, a shrug of mock indifference that cost him dearly. If she was going to lose—and she would lose—he wanted to be the one to make sure of it. To strip that smug little smile from her face.
“Very well. But if we are to spar, there will be rules.”
Anastasia groaned dramatically. “I should have known. You are the grand Duke of Rules.”
“Rules,” he countered, allowing the edge of a smirk, “are what keep fools alive.”
“Rules,” she shot back, stepping closer, “are dull. They limit your life.” Her scent drifted to him—vanilla, wild air, something wholly her—and Benedict felt his composure tighten like a thread about to snap.
She tilted her head, her eyes glittering. “Let’s make it more interesting, shall we?”
His sword dipped fractionally, suspicion sharpening his gaze. “And what do you have in mind?”
“A wager.” Her smile was pure provocation. “If you lose, you stop parading suitors in front of me, and you will stop breathing down my neck.”
Benedict thought that the rule was too loose. He could not simply let her do whatever she wanted; that was sure to be a recipe for disaster, and he hated disasters or things he could not control.
“I do not breathe down your neck.” The protest escaped him sharper than intended.
“Oh, but you do, Mr. Straton,” she said sweetly, knowing she had struck true. “And you must give me your word—no more matchmaking. You will allow me my peace and let me go. You will find another way to get your inheritance.”
For the briefest second, his blade faltered, the thought of her gone, making his chest constrict. His voice, when it came, was iron over breaking glass. “Let you go?”
“Precisely.” Her smile was sweet, which only made her look more dangerous. “I have written to my sister, Evangeline, and she is more than happy to have me stay with her. So if I win, I get my freedom to leave this place once and for all.”
“And if you lose?” His voice was deceptively mild, though every muscle in him coiled at the prospect.
“Then I will marry the next man you bring before me. No protests, no clever evasions. I will become the most dutiful bride you could imagine.”
The air seemed to thin around him. Benedict had not expected her to gamble with her future so boldly, and it unsettled him more than he wished to admit. She spoke as if she had already won, as if she were free of him already.
“Are you certain you want to do this?” he asked, each word drawn out, testing her resolve.
She lifted only one elegant shoulder in a shrug. “Are you afraid that you will lose, Your Grace?”
He wanted to argue, to forbid it outright. Instead, he lowered the mask over his face, each movement deliberate, meant to hide what was burning in his eyes. The sword slid into his hand like an extension of his fury.
Anastasia mirrored him, her mask in place, her sword raised. Defiance incarnate.
The first clash rang out, steel against steel, sharp enough to reverberate through his bones.
They sparred in silence, save for the quick breaths of exertion and the metallic swish of blades slicing the air.
Benedict had not expected her to be so skilled—not even a little.
He had thought this would be easy, laughable even.
But Anastasia was quick on her feet, her strikes sharp, her parries unhesitating.
Too quick. Too sharp.
With each exchange, irritation mixed with something far more dangerous. Admiration.
And beneath that, the gnawing realization that he might actually lose.
“You fence better than half the young lads I have seen,” Benedict remarked, pressing her back a step, the weight of his sword steady and sure. “Pray tell, where did you acquire such a talent? Certainly not in a young lady’s sewing circle.”
Anastasia’s eyes glittered, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. “Learned from cousins who thought me too troublesome to be idle. They put a foil in my hand. I daresay it kept me from tormenting them in other ways, but my mother and sisters were not very pleased. Especially my father.”
A reluctant laugh broke from him, though his wrist never wavered, his blade cutting with ruthless precision.
“My father left me in my uncle’s clutches.
The old tyrant declared that if I were ever to be master of my name, I must master a dozen skills—swordplay, Latin, riding until I could scarcely walk. ”
“Then you are forged by duty,” Anastasia said airily, lunging just enough for her sword to graze his sleeve. “While I, it seems, was forged by mischief.”
When she had first plucked the sword from the rack, he had thought it would be an amusing interlude—a few reckless lunges, some posturing, and then she would surrender with a huff. But she matched him, stroke for stroke.
Damnation, she might actually beat me.
The thought rattled him. Not because his pride quailed at being beaten by a woman—though Anastasia would never let him live it down—but because of the wager.
If she wins… she will leave.
Was that not what he wanted? Since the moment she had walked into his life—into his house, his every waking thought—had not he prayed for her departure?
And yet the idea of her slipping away, untethered from him, made his chest ache with something perilously close to dread that had nothing to do with his inheritance.
Sweat slicked his brow, though not from the effort alone. She was fighting for freedom. And he for possession.
“Careful, Miss Dawson,” he murmured, circling her and hoping that his words would get in her head. “I am going easy on you.”
“You should not. I can handle you well enough,” she shot back, her sword cutting through the air with conviction.
He smirked, thinking about how he would get her to cave. “I would have sworn you had a hard time handling me… with how you moaned that day in my study.”
The words made her pause for a couple of seconds, and Benedict saw that as an opportunity to quickly slide past her defense and knock her sword to the floor.
Victory.
Her eyes flashed as she straightened, fury and something else burning in them. “You cheated!”
“On the contrary,” Benedict said, lowering his weapon with deliberate calm, every inch the victor. “I merely reminded you of the truth. I did not realize I affected you quite so much.”
Her sword fell at her feet as Anastasia went very still. Too still. “And what does that truth mean, then? That kiss. That night in the study. What am I supposed to make of it?”
The air between them thickened; her words struck harder than her blade ever could. Benedict hesitated, his pulse pounding in his throat. He had always known this question would come, but he had not expected it here, now, with her chest rising and falling in front of him like temptation.
“You are not supposed to make anything of it,” he forced out, his tone flat, merciless. “Because it meant nothing. It was a moment of frustration. Nothing more. It was a mistake.”
He could see the disappointment flicker across her face before she smothered it beneath a smile as sharp as glass.
“Very well then,” she said calmly, as she set her sword back on the rack. “Even though you cheated, you have won. And I will make good on my word. Summon the next suitor, and I will marry him without so much as a fuss.”
She turned and walked out, every step measured. But Benedict’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles ached. He had won, but he did not know if he could keep his end of the bargain. He had no intention of presenting another suitor to her. Not now. Not ever.
He had told her that night meant nothing. Yet every fiber of his body knew the truth.
It had meant everything.
And God help him, he could not bring himself to let her go.