Chapter 15
“The port is excellent tonight, Benedict,” Cassian declared, raising his glass.
“And the company is even finer,” Amelia added warmly, one hand resting over her husband’s and another on her belly, and Sebastian looked as though he would gladly set the world on fire if it made her smile. Benedict felt a twinge in his chest that suggested he might be envious.
He shook the feeling away, took a deep breath, and scanned the people around the table.
It felt good to be in the company of his friends, who had planned on spending the weekend in Frostmore with him.
Amelia had been so happy to come; her pregnancy was barely showing, but she had the glow that women always talked about when with child.
Benedict lifted his own glass. “I did not invite you here to praise my wine.”
“No,” Sebastian said, amused. “You invited us because if you remain alone in this house much longer, you will begin issuing the dogs written schedules.”
Across the table, Lupita and Pepita were already prowling with the solemn focus of seasoned thieves. Pepita planted herself directly beneath Amelia’s chair, eyes fixed on the roast as if willing it to fall.
Cassian leaned down, offering a bit of bread beneath the tablecloth, and both dogs immediately decided he was their favorite man alive. Anastasia, seated beside her aunt, let out a laugh that she tried to smother behind her napkin.
Benedict saw it. Of course, he saw it.
The dowager clicked her tongue. “My girls are quite unruly. Much like my niece. Benedict, did you tell Cassian and Sebastian how you and Anastasia are forever quarreling with each other? They cannot seem to get along, and I cannot seem to get them to act in a civilized manner. I would have better luck with Lupita and Pepita than the both of them.”
Benedict froze because that was not the direction he had expected the conversation to go. Sebastian’s eyebrows rose suggestively, Cassian grinned like the devil himself, and Anastasia choked on her wine.
“My aunt,” Anastasia managed, when she could breathe again, “has a particular talent for exaggeration.”
“Oh?” the dowager replied, looking delighted rather than corrected. “Then it must have been my imagination when I heard you declare, only a few days ago, that you would rather leap into the pond than accept a single instruction from His Grace.”
“That,” Benedict started, his index finger in the air, “is a gross misrepresentation of what really happened. I would say that Miss Dawson and I just bicker, and not argue. We are barely even acquainted to have quarrels.”
Liar, the voice in his head hissed. You know her better than anyone at this table, having seen her undone.
He forced a smile. After all, this was supposed to be a friendly meal.
However, deep inside, the simple comment felt like having to grind glass between his teeth.
As the Duke of Frostmore, he dealt with finances, strategy, and decorum.
These days, though, the dowager, seemingly oblivious, threw pebbles through his wall of composure.
“Ah. No quarreling, just bickering. Understood,” Cassian murmured, his tone suddenly dry as dust. He paused, his mischievous look quickly replacing the momentary seriousness. “Still, what level of acquaintance would be required for a duke as highly composed a gentleman as you to lose his temper?”
“Nothing more than usual in most homes,” Benedict explained, looking a little pained.
The footman, who was pouring wine into Cassian’s cup, raised an eyebrow but fixed his expression before anyone could notice. Everyone knew too well how he and Anastasia argued, but he hoped he was doing a good job of fooling his friends.
Cassian only grinned and reached beneath the table to scratch Lupita’s ears. Lupita promptly rolled onto her back, shamelessly adoring him.
Anastasia laughed again—quieter this time, but it still landed like a small needle beneath Benedict’s skin.
Sebastian leaned forward, clearly delighted by the entire situation. “You know, Benedict, I had almost forgotten how insufferable you can be when someone interrupts your precious routine.”
Benedict’s eyes narrowed. “My routine is the reason this house is not falling apart.”
The dowager was not done spreading their dirty linen to dry in front of company. “Well, my niece always interrupts his routine, but I think it is charming. Besides, quarrels build passion, don’t you agree, Cassian?”
Cassian’s eyes lit up. He had been dying to be asked a question all night. “I will not say the same, Your Grace. Personally, I do not bother wasting my breath on someone that I do not care for. But when I do, I could argue with them till the end of time. Don’t you think, Miss Dawson?”
Anastasia rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes, Your Grace. Nothing says passion quite like engaging in a heated argument with someone else.”
Cassian threw his head back, his body shaking with quiet laughter. Meanwhile, Benedict gripped his fork so hard he thought he might bend it.
As if matters were not already intolerable, Sebastian, in his mild, reasonable way, asked, “And what of your list, Benedict? Are you making any progress on it?”
All right, they definitely had a vendetta against him because he had planned a nice, wholesome weekend.
But now, he felt bombarded from all sides, and he could feel the white-hot panic of becoming exposed.
His list was his armor, the only defense against his former life.
It made him feel in control, not like when he was young, and his uncle decided whether to coddle or discard him on a whim.
He was the spare who never was, but with a list, he was the master. Now, they were treating it like a joke.
For a second, no one uttered a word, and he almost let out a sigh of relief when Anastasia chimed in. Of course, she would not let it go.
Her head snapped toward him; he was scared it was going to roll off her neck. “You have a list? What kind of list?”
Benedict’s blood ran cold. “It is nothing,” he mumbled.
“Nothing?” Amelia leaned in, smiling with a hint of mischief, her eyes shining at Anastasia. “Sebastian told me all about it. Apparently, Benedict has kept a list since his school days. An actual list of rules and goals to govern his life. He swears by it.”
Anastasia gasped, pressing her hand over her mouth in faux disbelief. “A list? You mean to tell me that Mr. Straton does not even sneeze without consulting a page in his little book? How utterly surprising.”
He rolled his eyes at her theatrics and shot a glare at Amelia for spilling his secret.
“It is not that serious.”
“Is it not?” she started, fluttering her eyelashes at him in mockery. “Truly, Mr. Straton, your dedication to discipline is an inspiration to us all.”
Benedict nearly choked on his wine while Cassian’s laughter rang out, clearly savoring his friend’s distress.
“Do not call me that.”
“Why?” she asked sweetly. “Is it improper?”
“It is incorrect.”
“And yet it seems to vex you,” she murmured.
Sebastian smiled behind his glass while Anastasia looked unbearably pleased with herself. It felt like betrayal, all his friends being completely smitten with Anastasia while he was left out.
And then Cassian, curse him, turned his charm in her direction.
“Tell me, Miss Dawson,” he drawled, his voice carefully pitched to annoy Benedict.
“If Benedict keeps such a list, perhaps you might consider making one of your own. Number one: marry a man devastatingly handsome and devastatingly rich. Luckily for you, I am both. Number two: ensure that he makes you laugh at all his jokes.”
Cassian paused dramatically as Anastasia threw her head back and laughed while Benedict rolled his eyes. He had heard him make this move on numerous women before, and he wondered why it always worked. It was ridiculous. It was undignified. It was—
“I will put a checkmark next to that then. And number three, well, I volunteer to help you draft the rest if you wish.”
Anastasia giggled again, and the sound made Benedict’s blood boil. Cassian looked absolutely pleased with himself, aware of the effect he had on him, and Benedict wanted to wipe that smirk from his face. He could tell they were deliberately trying to rile him up, and he hated that it was working.
Without thinking, Benedict extended his leg under the table and kicked Cassian hard, a clumsy and somewhat desperate act from someone who had just discovered he had lost the use of speech.
Cassian yelped, grabbing his shin. “Bloody hell, Benedict. That was my bad leg.”
Anastasia clapped a hand over her mouth. Amelia coughed delicately into her napkin, Sebastian pinched the bridge of his nose, and the dowager looked positively delighted with the spectacle.
However, it did not take long for Anastasia’s laughter to fade. She seemed to notice Cassian wincing, and concern replaced her mirth.
“Your bad leg?” she echoed. “What happened? Are you all right?” Her hand hovered close to his arm, as if she wanted to express sympathy but did not know if she should get too close.
Cassian’s smile did not vanish, but it dulled slightly at the edges. He took a slow sip of his wine before answering, giving himself a moment to choose his words.
“A bullet,” he said at last, as though it were of no consequence. “The war left me with a souvenir. It healed poorly. Some days are better than others.” He rolled his shoulder as if to dismiss the subject entirely. “I am not dying, Miss Dawson. I am simply… inconvenienced.”
Anastasia’s brows knit with genuine concern. “That is not nothing.”
“No,” Cassian agreed, his tone lighter again. “But I have survived worse things than a stubborn leg. Besides, it gives me an excellent excuse to sit down more often, which is a pleasure I otherwise would not allow myself.”
Benedict sat in silence, his jaw tight as he wondered what the rest of the weekend might bring. He was not particularly interested in watching his friend eat out of Anastasia’s palm. And he particularly detested the fact that they were doing it on purpose, waiting to see his reaction.
Lupita, sensing opportunity, climbed onto Cassian’s lap as though he were her rightful throne.
Cassian leaned back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, the other scratching behind the Pomeranian’s ear.
“All dogs love me,” he declared, as the dog nosed his lap with unseemly devotion.
He made sure he glanced at his friend, perhaps to see his reaction.
“They have excellent instincts. Don’t you think so, Miss Dawson? ”
Anastasia, laughing softly, patted the dog. “Well, if they do, then I must trust them. It seems you have passed their test.”
Cassian’s grin returned in full. “As I expected.”
He looked down at Lupita fondly.
“Ah, yes. I had a buddy just like this back at the military camp I was at. That little rascal was with me until I got back on my feet,” Cassian added.
“Perhaps they recognize you as one of their own,” Benedict muttered, but Anastasia asked him more about that dog, too interested in what he had to say for his liking.
When she laughed and touched Cassian’s arm, Benedict nearly snapped the stem of his wineglass in two.
He told himself it was harmless, nothing more than Anastasia’s quick tongue and Cassian’s endless mischief.
Yet as the evening dragged on, Benedict could hardly hear Amelia’s sweet chatter or Sebastian’s smooth observations.
His focus narrowed to Anastasia’s laughter.
Laughter that did not belong to Cassian, but that Cassian shamelessly coaxed out of her.
By the time his guests retired, Benedict’s temper was wound so tight it might have strangled him. He bade them goodnight with a civility he did not feel, then prowled the hallway like a man possessed.
How dare she act so shamelessly? As if…
I should not care. I do not care.
He did not intend to stop outside her door.
He told himself he was making one last round, ensuring the household had settled, that nothing else had been left to chance.
But when he saw the sliver of light beneath the door, and then the movement of her shadow crossing it, something in him snapped cleanly in two.
In stark contrast to his character, he opened the door without knocking. Anastasia gasped as Benedict crossed the room in three strides and caught her by the arm before she could retreat.
“We need to talk.”