Chapter 21
“He could not have meant it,” Anastasia whispered to herself, though the words did little to steady her. “It was only… a moment.”
She could not believe she had allowed herself to imagine that Benedict might look at her differently once he had seen her, once he had spoken to her as though she mattered, once he had kissed her as though he had forgotten how to stop.
He was the Duke of Frostmore, disciplined enough to write rules for his own heart and live by them.
And she was a woman respectable men did not marry because her name was already stained.
It was not difficult to understand why he had turned cold the moment the door opened.
A duke did not indulge in scandal. A duke did not allow himself to be trapped in anything that threatened his reputation or his future.
He would need a duchess one day, and duchesses came with clean pedigrees and quieter pasts.
All that she was not.
Still, between the two of them, he was in the wrong. He should not have kissed her like that—soft at first, then desperate, as though he wanted more than he dared admit. He should not have shared so much of himself, nor should she have listened as though it meant something.
Her throat tightened, and she pressed her palm to her chest as if she could physically contain the ache.
The worst of it was that she did not believe he was running from her. He was running from what she made him feel. From the tenderness he did not know how to handle. That ought to have been some comfort, but it only made her stomach twist, because it meant she had not imagined it.
And that meant she had something to lose.
Do not be foolish, she told herself. Do not be foolish.
But the truth hovered anyway, heavy and unwelcome.
I think I am in love with him.
She let out a short, bitter laugh. Of course. Of course, her heart would choose the one man in England who would never allow himself to want her openly.
“Well,” she muttered, forcing steadiness into her voice, “that is very inconvenient.”
By afternoon, she refused to sit in her room and rot. If Benedict wished to pretend that nothing had happened in that locked room, then she would do the same. She would not let him see her wounded. She would not let him win.
Full of nervous energy, Pepita ran for the house as if she had seen prey. That was doubtful, considering how pampered the dogs were. They barely had to budge to get anything they wanted.
“Pepita! Come back! Do not tell me we will be going dog hunting again today!”
Lupita barked her assent. Anastasia had to look down at the other Pomeranian, fearing the worst. What if this one wanted to run away as well?
“You two have been a menace lately, do you know that?” she muttered affectionately to the eager-looking dog.
“Don’t you dare, Lupita,” she warned, but kept her voice neutral lest the dog actually try to use that as a reason to flee.
Anastasia followed, a smile tugging at her lips even though she was, admittedly, somewhat exasperated. The dogs had disrupted what should have been a perfectly lovely day.
Fortunately, the Pomeranian was not so fast that she could not figure out which way it went.
It went precisely where she did not want to go—to Benedict’s study.
The door was ajar. The sight made her palms sweat.
She did not often get anxious about such things, but she knew how Benedict was with his rules and order.
The oversight meant he had left in a rush.
Anastasia paused. For a moment, she let herself be awash in self-reflection.
The first time he had been in this house, she had raised her legs and rested her bare feet up on the mahogany desk.
At the moment, though, she realized that she had gained genuine respect for Benedict’s boundaries, even though a part of her still wanted to break them. Tear them apart.
What would make him leave in such haste?
She tiptoed inside, immediately seeing Pepita sitting on the large leather chair. She was panting happily, slobbering all over the material, and also shedding fur everywhere.
“Oh, no. You did not just do that,” Anastasia muttered, dismayed but trying her very best to be calm.
She scooped up the troublesome Pepita and gently set her on the marble floor.
She brushed the chair with her bare hands, anything to do away with the evidence of the dog’s intrusion.
However, she was painfully aware that the Pomeranian would leave more fur behind, and she worried Benedict would not like it.
He hated having his stuff unclean and untidy.
Why should I care about what he wants? It’s just a little fur.
As she cleaned, she found a few pieces of paper held down by a bronze paperweight. She should have left it alone, but she saw the heading: The List.
Her heart pounded. The list? So, his friends were in earnest? Did he actually write down the rules he had set for himself? The tension turned into amusement as she felt a slow smile form on her face.
Anastasia grabbed his quill and began to respond to his list of rigid commands.
Assume the dukedom and restore its finances.
Anastasia: A solid start. It is not every day that one inherits a title and a mountain of debt. Best of luck balancing the books—and your temper.
Secure a suitable marriage to a woman of rank and reason.
Anastasia: Rank and reason sound perfectly proper. Just do not forget that a dash of mischief makes life far more interesting.
Produce a legitimate heir.
Anastasia: An heir is essential, though I hear affection and love are equally necessary ingredients.
Maintain strict personal discipline—body, mind, routine.
Anastasia: Discipline is a virtue. But a little unpredictability now and then keeps life from growing too dull.
Never let a woman make me lose my composure.
Anastasia: A fine goal. Though I am curious to see how long that composure holds when challenged by the right person.
When she finished, her heart fluttered with excitement.
What would Benedict think of her comments?
Would he consider it a violation, or would he sense the flirtatiousness in them?
She broke his boundaries, entered his haven.
However, as she closed the study door and followed the errant dog outside, she felt satisfaction, not guilt.
How can I tell her that I cannot stop thinking about her?
Benedict could not forget the warmth of her lips, even as the afternoon turned into the night. Every time he tried to focus, Anastasia returned to him with merciless clarity—her mouth, her hands, the way she had looked at him when he spoke of his uncle, as though she saw the boy beneath the duke.
He had kissed her in that locked room as if he had waited his entire life to be touched without condition. That was what terrified him most: not that he desired her, but that he needed her.
By the time he returned to Frostmore, irritation sat tight in his chest—not at her, not truly, but at himself.
He had been trained, shaped, made into a man who did not allow feelings to steer him.
Love was precisely the kind of weakness his uncle would have stamped out with a single look of contempt.
Benedict had spent years ensuring he would never be laughed at for softness, never be discarded for wanting too much.
And now he wanted everything.
He entered his study and had to squint at the door. He remembered being in a meeting earlier and thinking he had not closed the door. The thought had bothered him so much, but he was at least able to focus on the discussion at hand.
The door was now closed. Perhaps he had remembered it wrong as he let out an uneasy sigh. He opened the door, pushing it wide to take in the whole study in one glance.
Aha, I knew it.
There were paw prints on the rug and even a slight one on the leather chair. Hints of fur where the pillow was slightly askew alerted him to a particular kind of intruder. He shook his head in grim amusement.
The dogs.
Then, he saw his list open on his desk.
His first reaction was fury. Who dared pull his papers from under the paperweight? Who would dare invade his privacy?
Of course.
It could be nobody else but her. She dared to touch his private papers. He flipped through the pages. To his surprise, she did not just read them. She left comments. Amendments.
How dare she!
As he read the comments line by line, he could not help the slow smile that spread across his face.
He had never met anyone like Anastasia Dawson, full of wit and audacity.
A chuckle escaped from his throat, surprising him and shocking him.
It was then that his feelings of amusement retreated, replaced by annoyance.
At himself.
I must be losing my mind.
He reminded himself that this was not funny at all. Instead, it was proof that she had burrowed deep under his skin. She had managed to infiltrate his space without inspiring anger in him. Instead, he chuckled!
Whatever this was, it unnerved him. This woman had been making him emotionally and physically frustrated. He could not even think of her without being aroused or infuriated, and his life had gone astray. Even his sense of being had been put into question. His list had been violated.
Benedict stormed out of the study and out of the house. He did not know what he needed. Not then. Air, perhaps. Just a moment alone. But destiny seemed to think that what he needed was a mere glimpse of her.