Chapter 18
“The interest payments on mortgages down south will bankrupt us by the end of the year, Your Grace. We have to liquidate the land. Anyway, we do have several other properties that we could keep with no such issues.”
With his guests returned to London, Benedict was free to focus on estate affairs. For years, it had been the highlight of his days, with some teasing from Sebastian and Cassian to break the monotony. However, today, his mind was scattered entirely, but he tried not to let the steward notice.
He listened to his steward intently and tapped the leather-bound ledger with a silver pen.
As was usual with him, he kept his expression neutral.
“Liquidation is not an option. I will not succumb to the effects of past mismanagement. We can find a viable tenant who can make the most of the land. Someone with adequate capital. We will find a way to accelerate the contract.”
“I… I shall do that, Your Grace,” the steward said, shifting in his seat. Sweat beaded on his temples and upper lip. Benedict knew that even though he might disagree with him, his employee did not really have a choice.
“What of our wheat yields?” he asked after checking the list in his hand. “I asked for them three days ago.”
“Deepest apologies, Your Grace. The weather has not been too good, but we have managed to arrive in time for this meeting.”
The steward would have been given days more of peace to put his information together if not for a tempting blonde with green eyes.
Anastasia had Benedict wrestling with a ghost for the past three nights.
Now that he knew how she tasted, the memory was not merely haunting him, but it had become a fever that burned through his usually meticulously planned hours.
He had failed in his own strict personal discipline because of her.
The steward passed him a sheaf of papers, which he inspected.
Benedict felt a deep-seated dissatisfaction despite doing everything as he should. He rose at dawn and rode his horse for about an hour. By noon, he was done reviewing the estate accounts. He even had a meticulously planned and carefully written speech for the House of Lords.
What else could he be but disciplined, productive, and constantly on schedule? Despite it all, the satisfaction that often accompanied his routine and rules was gone.
A man who was reclaiming his destiny should feel triumph above anything else. However, hollowness seemed to have taken over as of late. It appeared that the relevance of one such woman had taken over him.
Stop.
Benedict could not let it go on. He had to focus on the task at hand.
“That is all for now,” he declared, slamming the last of his ledgers shut. “You may leave. Furnish me with a copy so that I will have one at my London residence.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
The steward’s relief was obvious. He let out a quiet sigh and left the room.
As soon as the door shut behind him, Benedict leaned back to stare at the ceiling.
It was not the kind of activity he enjoyed since he thrived on productivity.
He should always see results. He must always be in control.
However, these days, he allowed Miss Dawson to infect him with her chaos. He could not forget when—
Never mind.
He took his list out of his coat pocket and carefully unwrapped it. He went over his neat list of goals, muttering the words until he felt calm again. But this time, reading them was filled with doubt, something that had never happened before.
There is a first time for everything.
Assume the dukedom and restore its finances. He had accomplished this and was working on improving Frostmore, and there seemed to be progress. Still, he was not completely satisfied, especially because he could not claim his inheritance until a well-known vixen was married and out of his life.
Secure a suitable marriage to a woman of rank and reason. He had not really worked on this. If he had to make a list of the women he was considering, he might never marry. Rank and reason rarely came together, as far as he had seen.
Produce a legitimate heir. This was not possible at all, given that the previous goal was yet to be crossed off the list.
Gain an active seat in the House of Lords. He wanted it not for power. Not really. What he was really after was control and security. All right. Who was he fooling? He wanted it because his uncle had wanted it from him.
Create a written will and succession plan.
Maintain strict personal discipline—body, mind, routine. He supposed that he was doing well here. He was disciplined, but sometimes, it could be exhausting.
Never let a woman make me lose my composure.
A long, furious silence followed that one.
He reread the words to torture himself, for they were a brutal lie.
Anastasia Dawson had not just made him lose his composure more times than he could count, but she had dismantled him.
He needed to forget about her and find a life partner who possessed rank and reason, before all he could pick up about himself were pieces.
Damn her green eyes. Damn her wicked mouth. Damn the woman herself.
No, a list would not do. A list could not repair what she had unsettled. He needed something more substantial, and he had just reached for clean paper when the door to his study opened without so much as a knock.
Anastasia strode in as if she belonged there, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with contained fury, her hair slightly loosened as though she had been tugging at it in frustration.
She shut the door behind her with a decisive click that sounded far too much like a challenge.
Benedict did not rise immediately; he only looked at her, his expression unreadable, his fingers still resting on the pen as though it were the only thing anchoring him to reason.
“Miss Dawson,” he said evenly. “Do you have a reason for barging into my study?”
“Yes.” She came a few steps closer, stopping at the edge of the rug before his desk. “I want you to stop pretending you do not know what happened between us.”
Benedict’s jaw tightened as he set the pen down with slow control. “I am not pretending.”
“Then acknowledge it.” Her voice dropped. “Because you have spent the whole weekend acting as though I am nothing more than an irritation.”
Benedict rose, measured and calm, as if he were answering a steward rather than a woman who still carried the marks of his mouth on her skin. He stepped around the desk, not hurried but deliberate, and the space between them felt suddenly too small.
“I am aware of what occurred between us,” he said, his tone even enough to cut. “If that is what you require.”
“And?” she demanded, anger flaring quickly to cover the tremor in her voice. “Do you intend to—what? Ignore it? Walk past me as if I am beneath notice?”
Benedict’s gaze held hers without blinking. “I intend to put it behind us.”
Her eyes widened. “Behind us.”
“Yes.” His voice lowered a fraction, not softening, only turning more dangerous for its restraint. “This was another mistake, one that we should not repeat, and I take full responsibility for it.”
The word struck her like a slap. Anastasia’s face went hot, her pride instantly wounded. “A mistake,” she repeated, incredulous. “So that is what you call it when you come into my room and—”
Something flickered in his eyes—brief and sharp, almost like anger, almost like guilt—yet his expression stayed controlled.
“That is precisely why it cannot happen again,” he said.
Anastasia stared at him, her heart hammering. “So you will simply—what? Forbid yourself from wanting me?”
His jaw tightened. “I do not want you.”
It was a lie, and they both knew it.
Anastasia’s lips curved, but the smile was thin and bitter. “You are very disciplined, then,” she murmured. “To lie so smoothly.”
Benedict’s gaze dropped to her mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to her eyes. “I think I have heard enough of this discussion.”
“No,” she snapped, stepping closer. “No, you do not get to say that and look at me like that. You do not get to use me however it pleases you and then call it a mistake as if I am some… some diversion you regret in the morning.”
Benedict’s voice sharpened. “You are not a diversion.”
“Then what am I?” she challenged. “A problem? A scandal you are forced to manage?”
The silence that followed was answer enough; Anastasia’s throat burned. She did not know whether she wanted to laugh or scream.
“You are insufferable,” she said, her voice shaking despite her effort to steady it.
Benedict inclined his head as though she had complimented him.
“Good day, Miss Dawson.”
The dismissal was so polite it became an insult. Anastasia held his gaze for one heartbeat longer, her eyes blazing with fury and humiliation, then turned on her heel and left. The door slammed hard enough to rattle the shelves.
Benedict did not move for several seconds after she was gone.
His chest rose and fell once. He had said the correct thing.
He had done what he must. It should have steadied him—but it did not, because the moment she left, he could still taste her, still feel the memory of her body reacting beneath his mouth, still hear those breathless sounds she had made when she surrendered.
This had to stop. He needed to put an end to his inappropriate fixation on her. So, he decided to write Cassian a letter, a much-needed one.
Dear Stonevale,
I trust this correspondence reaches you without delay.
I write to you on a matter of some importance. As you know, I have lately assumed responsibilities that do not permit indulgence in delay, and it is now necessary that I turn my attention to securing a suitable match.