Chapter 22
“He loves me,” Anastasia whispered to herself.
The events of the night before lingered like an insistent phantom pressure in her mind and on her skin. She was no longer in the pond, the chilly air battling with her heated skin. Instead, she was in her bed after waking up from a satisfying slumber.
Her conviction was absolute. She had not only fallen in love with Benedict, but she was certain that she had witnessed him fall, too.
The beautiful thing was that it was a love that was born not out of security, as she thought it would be, but of recognition.
She had never felt that kind of passion and ferocity before.
The best display of this love was his willingness to discard his rigid rules and do something so out of character for him.
Benedict had abandoned his rules when he had made love to her under the moonlight, even when their skin was still wet from the pond.
She used to think that he would only make love to a chaste wife after a respectable duration of courtship and a wedding that the most influential of the ton would have attended.
For a moment, she felt a pang. There was truth in those thoughts. Then again, why would he abandon his rules if not for the woman who undid him?
Benedict was now hers. He had seen the real her and he had still chosen her. Still floating from her pleasant thoughts, she dressed quickly. She chose a blue muslin because of her buoyant mood and because the color reminded her of the pond. Suddenly, the house felt alive.
Anastasia thought it best to take a stroll. She went to the side gardens, skipping a little and humming a random tune. She neared the entrance when she stopped dead at what she saw.
“Miss Dawson, pleasant morning,” Cassian greeted.
Why was the Duke of Stonevale there? He was also not alone. Two ladies accompanied him, still emerging from a magnificent traveling carriage behind him. Was that luggage being unloaded after them?
What is happening?
As for Cassian, the man looked irritatingly smug.
“What a surprise, Your Grace! I did not realize you were expected this morning,” she said, smiling at him.
He kissed her hand.
“An unexpected pleasure for me, Miss Dawson. As you can see, I have just arrived. I am here on official Frostmore business,” he said, lowering his voice as if they were sharing a secret.
The first woman behind him was in her early forties, her dress made of a stiff, dark silk. The second was much younger, close to Anastasia’s age, and at a closer look, even younger. She had brown hair and an almost shy demeanor. She was pretty and decent in the way the ton liked.
“Oh, allow me to make the formal introductions. Miss Dawson, this is my cousin, Mrs. Alistair, and my niece, Miss Penelope,” Cassian announced with a beaming smile. “They have traveled a long way at the specific request of the Duke of Frostmore.”
“Oh, how lovely. Are they friends of his?”
“Not exactly. He had requested me to find a young lady for him to court, and I thought of my lovely niece.”
The ground seemed to tilt as Anastasia felt the blood rush from her head. She smiled stiffly. Oh, she was trying, trying so hard.
“Oh, did he? How delightful,” she said, even as her throat went parched.
“Ah, absolutely, Miss Dawson. The Duke, bless his heart, finally realized that he must secure his succession as soon as possible,” Cassian said in a conspiratorial tone. “I am happy to have found someone who meets his requirements after he made the request weeks ago. Penny is certainly suitable.”
Each word felt like a blow, each one heavier and colder than the last and more brutal than the chill of the pond water. Benedict had written the letter weeks ago. Long before the kisses started meaning something, and certainly long before last night. And yet, he never sent a letter to undo it.
Anastasia was sorely mistaken in thinking that their intimacy and passion meant anything. It was not love. Instead, it was a final and desperate act of indiscipline before he became the starched, brooding duke once more. He took his reward from a woman who had been besmirched by a scandal.
What an absolute fool I have been. I guess what they say is true, though. Third time’s the charm.
She fell for him like a na?ve debutante, but wasn’t that what noblemen did? Before they married respectable women, they took mistresses. These mistresses were nothing more than diversions, and to avoid being marked as scoundrels, the men chose those who had already been compromised before.
Secure a suitable marriage to a woman of rank and reason.
Penelope Alistair looked the part. However, she was the opposite.
She was a walking scandal, too scandalous to show her face in London.
Her own parents refused to acknowledge her existence, fearing they would be tainted by scandal.
What duke would want her as his wife? The realization felt like a heavy weight crashing down on her.
Benedict Straton did not need to give her a set of rules.
She thought she had become the rule and the rule breaker all in one.
His entire list of requirements for a wife was merely there to exclude everything she represented.
Therefore, she had become the singular diversion he was too weak to resist. Or so she thought.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Dawson,” Mrs. Alistair said, possibly finding her behavior a little strange.
“Likewise, Mrs. Alistair,” she replied as politely as possible.
Then, she turned to Cassian, keeping the light and social tone that was making her jaw hurt.
“You have made an excellent choice with Miss Penelope,” she said honestly, even though her heart was shattering. “Would you like me to inform His Grace of the successful arrival of his prospective bride?”
“Certainly,” he said, raising an eyebrow questioningly. Oh, how their interactions had significantly changed in a matter of days.
All that teasing was to provoke Benedict, and for what? He did not even care for her, not in the way she wanted him to.
Anastasia knew that the best thing to do at that very moment was to walk away before she embarrassed herself in front of the guests.
So, she did. She walked away, feeling the ground under her feet.
The gravity of it. She was no longer bouncing away; instead, she was carrying the weight of her foolish heart.
She hurried toward the entrance, hoping to find a corner for herself. However, as she turned the corner into the main hall, she found herself colliding with a warm, thick wall of muscle.
Benedict caught her immediately, his hands closing around her elbows to steady her.
“Anastasia, are you all right?” Benedict asked. The hands that gripped her elbows did not hurt. Instead, they steadied her.
Anastasia pulled away. There was no need for her to embarrass herself. Yet, her body knew him too well. Its reaction was too potent, making her cheeks flush and her body tremble.
For a heartbeat, the concern in his expression was plain enough to make her throat constrict.
His eyes swept her face as though he were searching for something he feared to find, and she hated that he could look at her like that and still keep so much of himself hidden.
She stepped back quickly because her body had no restraint around him.
“I am sorry, Your Grace,” she managed, smoothing her voice into something respectable. “I was distracted.”
Benedict’s hands dropped, but he did not move away. He stood there in front of her as if he had been looking for her, and the silence that followed felt charged. His jaw worked once, and his gaze flicked briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes with a look that made her breath catch.
“Anastasia,” he began again, lower this time, and there was nothing cold in it. He sounded almost… strained. “We need to talk about last night. About—”
She held perfectly still, because she could not tell if she wanted him to say it or if she was terrified he might.
He had never started a sentence like that with her before.
He had never offered an explanation. Never anything that sounded like he might be about to admit that he had done wrong by her.
And then the moment broke.
A footman appeared at the far end of the hall, hesitant only a second before he bowed. “Your Grace,” he said apologetically, as though he could feel he was interrupting something he ought not to. “Your guests have arrived. They are asking for you.”
Anastasia watched Benedict’s expression tighten. Yet, for one brief heartbeat, his gaze remained fixed on hers as if he wanted to ignore the summons entirely, as if it cost him to turn away.
His mouth parted, as though he meant to finish what he had started. Instead, he drew a slow breath, and when he spoke, it was quiet, meant only for her.
“We need to talk later,” he murmured, his voice rough with restraint.
Later. The word should not have lodged in her chest the way it did. It sounded far too close to a promise.
Then he stepped back, and she could see in the stiffness of his posture that leaving her there was not effortless.
He hesitated once more, his gaze holding hers as though he were trying to say what he could not say with words, and then he turned and strode toward the footman, every step measured as if he were marching to an execution rather than greeting guests.
Bumping into Anastasia raised several emotions within Benedict.
He was still musing about his next steps after what had happened between them.
It was thrilling and confusing to see her rushing around that corner.
Then, he saw her face. It was not the face of someone excited to see him. She looked like she had been struck.
Damn Cassian.