Chapter 23
Benedict moved with frantic, uncharacteristic haste, determined to corner Anastasia and speak to her. He knew that he could not live without her. It was the way it was; his list and rules be damned. His sanity depended on her. On having her. On kissing her. She was his and his alone.
He discarded his morning coat and was immediately halfway toward the door, focused on finding her in her favorite haunts. The butler intercepted him.
“Your Grace, forgive the intrusion. His Grace, the Duke of Stonevale, Mrs. Alistair, and Miss Penelope are waiting for you in the day room.”
Benedict cursed under his breath. Cassian had been kind enough to house his cousin and niece on his estate up north, and it was probably instinctive on his part, too.
His friend must have discerned the coldness with which he received the duo.
Perhaps the two women were preparing to travel back home.
Still, he hoped he would be allowed to forgo this formality.
He had to politely cut ties with the Alistairs, at least in terms of a romantic engagement. The two women were still related to his friend.
“My apologies, my ladies. I had been preoccupied with various meetings regarding my seat in the House of Lords, a matter that requires immediate focus. Therefore, I regret that you must cut your visit short. I am ensuring you all have some presents and a generous travel allowance.”
“Y-you do not have to do that, Your Grace!” Penelope protested, looking truly horrified at the thought of accepting money. “We are happy to have been able to visit. We also spent a wonderful time at our cousin’s. That is enough.”
“Please do not mind her, Your Grace. We may need some allowance, after all, for traveling all this way up here,” her mother said sheepishly.
Cassian’s eye twitched at his cousin’s blatant request. He was already aware of the situation at hand and how the decision was based on Benedict’s feelings and not his seat at the House of Lords.
Penelope, in a rare act of defiance against her mother, glared at her.
Benedict was almost tempted to ask her to stay back.
Almost. Perhaps she would have been a good match if it were not for Anastasia, who had made a mark in his life.
Penelope possessed the quiet control he once thought he valued above all else.
Once more, Cassian narrowed his eyes at his relatives.
Then, he turned his suspicious gaze upon Benedict.
It was clear that he did not quite believe his dismissal of the mother and daughter was accidental, or that it had anything to do with the House of Lords, but he could not say anything in front of them.
As soon as his visitors’ carriage pulled away, Benedict resumed his search for Anastasia. He had never felt this frantic before. He discovered that she had locked herself away, at least from him. There was no response from her, audible or otherwise. He had missed his chance with her.
Benedict did not really care about the Alistairs—where they were going or what they thought of him.
However, he knew with painful clarity that Anastasia had become a ghost. She no longer haunted the gardens and chose to take her meals in her room.
Whenever he sent her little notes, he would get formal responses from a footman.
She seemed to be done with him.
Whenever he sent her notes, his words became desperate and raw, and his penmanship less precise. He would get dismissive responses through a footman.
Benedict was puzzled, furious, and acutely hurt.
It was the first time in his whole adult life that he had been so effortlessly ignored and dismissed, and by the person he realized he could not stand to lose.
Moreover, he found himself terrified that he was no longer the man he had been.
The man of discipline had become a floundering man, who was driven by emotion and not logic.
Lost.
On the other side of the wall, in her own turmoil, Anastasia was trying to deal with her own crisis.
Every frantic, poorly written note from Benedict displayed how his calm was slowly breaking apart.
She tried to stay strong, reminding herself that it was the same thought—that he was letting her inside his icy walls, which made her trust him wholly, even after having been burned twice before.
He had become her greatest fear and greatest hope.
Anastasia was tempted to share her feelings with Benedict, only to end the agony.
She wanted to confess that she yearned for his reckless pursuit, but she also knew it was not a good idea.
The memory of his kisses commanded her, reminding her of his passion.
By the pond, she thought that she had finally gained power over him.
She felt that he actually loved her. The notes seemed to suggest the same.
She shook her head, hoping to clear her thoughts about Benedict. She needed space and time to breathe. She wanted to be certain that the wild devotion was love, or something akin to it, rather than a form of control.
“What if he only wanted you as his mistress?” she whispered to herself.
Her reputation seemed to support this suspicion. She had seen Miss Penelope, too. She was blameless. Spotless. She should be the next Duchess of Frostmore.
Anastasia was still standing there, trying to breathe past the tightness in her chest, when the knock came.
It was not Benedict or one of the maids this time. It was a footman, holding out a letter on a silver tray.
“For you, miss. Delivered this moment.”
Her stomach dipped before she even touched it. London letters carried a particular weight.
The seal was Wilkins.
Her fingers tightened around the missive as she broke it open, her eyes scanning the lines too quickly, as if she could not bear to read them slowly.
Serenity is to be married!
Her breath left her in a single, shaky exhale.
For a moment, she stood there, the paper trembling slightly in her hand, as if her body could not decide whether it was relief or dread that had flooded her.
Serenity’s marriage meant her future was secured, her Season concluded, and the burden Anastasia had carried for two years would finally be lifted.
It also meant something else.
It meant she had an excuse—an unimpeachable one.
Yes, finally, there was a reason to leave.
She went straight to the dowager, letter in hand, because she knew she could not do this alone and pretend she still had the right to leave Frostmore like that.
“Aunt,” she said, quieter than usual, “Serenity is getting married.”
The dowager’s eyes widened. Then her face split into delighted triumph, as if she had personally arranged the match. “Is she? How wonderful!” She clasped Anastasia’s hands. “Of course, we will go together. I would not miss it for the world.”
Anastasia nodded, swallowing hard. Of course. After everything, she could hardly gallivant to London unchaperoned as if she were still an unblemished young lady. She had no right to tempt fate, not after what she had done at Frostmore and what Benedict had allowed her to do.
The thought of telling him made her throat tighten. She could picture his expression—controlled, unreadable—while his eyes gave away too much. She could imagine the things he might say if he caught her leaving.
Or worse, what he might not say at all.
So she made the decision quickly, before she could lose her nerve.
She would leave without telling Benedict.
She would go to London with her mind on Serenity’s wedding and nothing else, and she would not give him the chance to pull her back into whatever this had become.
Not until she could breathe again.
Anastasia missed her family. She was in awe of the atmosphere in her mother’s drawing room. It was of gentle but unrestrained joy. She still could not believe that Serenity was already married in an intimate affair, a quiet ceremony that felt like it was designed to push away gossipmongers.
At least, that was what she felt. She wondered when the ghosts of her past would stop haunting her. She swallowed hard.
Her other sister, Evangeline, looked more radiant than the bride for some reason.
It might be Anastasia’s imagination. Then again, her mind could not be trusted these days.
She thought Benedict wanted her, but he wanted a respectable wife, one whose reputation was not besmirched by scandal. She felt ashamed and confused.
“I am so happy our little sister has finally married,” Evangeline breathed, beaming at her.
“Oh, I am so happy for Serenity,” Anastasia agreed. Her sullen feelings had nothing to do with her sister’s wedding. Not at all.
Evangeline looked at her, eyes shifting with curiosity. Anastasia recognized that expression. Her sister’s mind was working. She was surprised when the words that came out were gentle, even kind.
“You look well, Anastasia,” Evangeline murmured, reaching for her hand to squeeze it. “You are thinner than I remember, but there is a fire in your eyes that I have not seen for quite some time. Have you been up to mischief again?”
Anastasia knew what Evangeline meant. Something dulled her after the scandal. Some people might not notice it. They still thought she was as feisty and inappropriate as society deemed.
“I suppose the country air has helped,” Anastasia mumbled, forcing a smile.
“Mm, maybe,” Evangeline said in a soft voice, raising an eyebrow.
“Never mind that, though. You will talk to me when you are ready. While Frostmore seems to have done you some good, you have no reason to stay there anymore. Serenity is now securely married. You can return to London whenever you want. We can be a complete family again.”