Chapter 22 #2
No—damn him entirely. It was Benedict’s own letter that had brought the Alistairs to Frostmore, his own failure to cancel it the moment he realized he did not want them here, and now he had no choice but to play the part.
Whatever he felt about Anastasia, whatever he had intended to say to her, it would have to wait.
He had responsibilities. He could not simply turn away two women who had made the journey on his invitation.
“Good day,” he greeted.
Cassian looked somewhat relieved to see him appear.
The Duke of Stonevale immediately launched into the introductions.
Mrs. Alistair wore a big grin, her eyes flashing with excitement.
Meanwhile, Miss Penelope seemed like a shy young woman.
She ticked off his list with her calm, reasonable demeanor.
One might not notice her right away because of her quiet ways, but she was beautiful in a more classical, restrained way.
She was the kind of woman men of his rank preferred, as she promised manageable and somewhat predictable domesticity.
“I trust the weather was quite calm during your journey,” he said after clearing his throat.
They had settled in the drawing room, where servants served them tea. Cassian was unusually silent, perhaps to give Benedict and Penelope a chance to get to know each other.
Where was the teasing Cassian when he needed him?
“Yes, Your Grace,” Miss Penelope replied. “It did not rain at all, but we did have to deal with dusty roads.”
“It was fine, Your Grace,” Mrs. Alistair interjected.
There was a back and forth about the weather, with Miss Penelope responding briefly to each question.
“Do you think the government should do anything about the condition of the roads?” he heard himself ask, and realized too late that he sounded as though he were addressing a committee in the House of Lords rather than a young lady at tea.
Penelope blinked. “Oh… I do not know, Your Grace. I suppose it is… tolerable.”
Mrs. Alistair laughed lightly, as though he had made a charming joke. “Oh, Your Grace, we manage quite well. Dust is hardly a catastrophe.”
Benedict forced a polite expression, but inside his mind had already wandered.
He did not want to know whether Miss Penelope found roads tolerable.
He wanted to know what she thought of public spending, of duty, of responsibility—something real.
Anastasia would already have said something sharp.
She would have made a remark about government priorities, or at the very least given him a look of pointed disbelief that would have made him argue, just for the sake of it.
In his head, he reminded himself that this was the order and reason he hoped for. He kept his composure by focusing on his cuffs.
“I heard from Cassian that you have a large ballroom,” Mrs. Alistair interrupted his thoughts.
“That is wonderful and absolutely necessary for a wedding breakfast.”
Wedding breakfast?
Now, the boredom became laced with panic.
Both of them were suffocating feelings. Mrs. Alistair was oblivious, though.
He could not remember when he had confirmed the wedding because she seemed so confident that it would happen.
However, he could not imagine a life spent in such placid predictability.
He could wager nobody had ever guessed his thoughts would go that way.
“What do you think, Your Grace?” Penelope interrupted one of her mother’s monologues, as if embarrassed by it. “Do you believe blue will complement my complexion?”
He was taken aback. Of course, that was one of the things he should expect from respectable ladies of society. Many of them were far too concerned with how they looked to their suitors. He was not her suitor, if he could help it, anyway.
“I am not an expert in such things, Miss Penelope, but I dare say it is suitable.”
Suitable.
It was a safe word that he lived for. Now, the word tasted like ash on his tongue. It would describe the rest of his life if he married the woman before him. He wished that Anastasia were there to hear this so that he could meet her eyes.
He found himself wondering, absurdly, where Anastasia was. Whether she was avoiding the drawing room, or whether she had been told to keep out of sight. Whether she was even aware of who had arrived.
He did not know the rules of courtship as well as he ought to have, which was a shame given who he was. All he knew, in that moment, was that he felt trapped, and that the polite calm of the room was doing nothing to relieve it.
If anything, it was making it worse.
“Definitely dull,” the dowager declared happily. “What do you think, dear? That poor girl is like an unsalted oyster.”
Benedict sat up rigidly. He somehow expected the older woman’s commentary.
Now, his attention was on Anastasia, because it always was, no matter how hard he tried to redirect it.
He had been bracing for her usual response—sharp, irreverent, unapologetically loud.
He expected her to scoff, to agree, to make some comment that would make him grit his teeth, and everyone else laugh.
However, he was not prepared for her answer. It was like a slap in his face.
“Oh no, not at all, Aunt,” Anastasia replied, her voice frighteningly devoid of her usual zest. “I believe that they are a pair made in heaven. Miss Alistair will make the sort of wife a man like His Grace requires, as indicated by his list. From the little I have heard so far, she is sensible. She will provide a balance while also protecting his reputation at all costs. She is a woman who can be relied upon, and she is pretty, too!”
What is she talking about?
Her words sliced through the air like weapons being flung at Benedict. One poisoned dart was fashioned to pierce his self-control. What could he say in front of the dowager? Anastasia was merely agreeing with the principles he kept pushing toward her.
Hearing her parrot his rules and demands felt like defeat, not the victory he expected when each item was crossed off.
Was this what she thought he wanted? Was this her way of punishing him?
Or worse… was she letting him go?
“Are you quite well, dear Anastasia?” the dowager asked, frowning. Her jaw had dropped as her protegee explained why the match was successful.
“I assure you, Aunt, that I have never been better,” Anastasia replied. “His Grace needs a woman who can support him fully in his endeavors, instead of serving as a distraction to them.”
A distraction.
Benedict’s fingers tightened around his glass. He could feel the pressure in his grip, the urge to crush it, to shatter something—anything—because he could not shatter the sick, sharp twist in his chest.
He was not used to being punished like this. Not with politeness. Not with his own rules.
He wanted to speak. He needed to speak with her and explain. But not here, not like this, not with the dowager watching and servants close enough to carry whispers through the estate.
If he reacted, he would expose himself and drag Anastasia to further ruin.
If he did not, Anastasia would think he agreed.
And he could not allow that.
Not when the truth was clawing at his throat.
Not when all he could think was that he had been fighting to find a moment alone with her, and she had been slipping through his fingers every time he reached. He pushed his chair back and rose, slowly enough to look composed, fast enough to avoid saying something reckless.
“Your Grace,” he said evenly, addressing the dowager first, because it cost him less. Then his gaze flicked to Anastasia, and he hated how much he wanted to hold it there. “Miss Dawson, if you will excuse me, I must attend to an unavoidable engagement.”
He turned and walked out with the kind of precision men learned on battlefields, his expression unchanged, his posture perfect.
Only his pulse betrayed him, hammering hard enough that he could feel it in his throat.
He was not leaving because he was done.
He was not leaving because he had given up.
He was leaving because if he stayed one second longer, he would drag Anastasia out of that room and tell her exactly what he had been trying not to admit since the lock clicked, since her mouth met his, since he realized the truth that should have terrified him.
That he did not want a sensible wife.
He wanted her.
And he needed one private moment—just one—to make sure she understood that before it was too late.