Epilogue
The Dowager Duchess of Frostmore sat in the drawing room. However, this time, she chose a shadowed corner. Anastasia noticed that she looked smaller and more fragile than usual, and for good reason. At first, the silence hung heavy in the room, but she knew that revelations would follow it.
“We know the truth,” Benedict declared, not mincing any words. “Anastasia told me everything. You pushed Uncle Morton down the stairs. You also forced her to keep her silence in exchange for securing her future.”
“Benedict!” Anastasia protested.
Nobody forced her; that was what she was certain of. If she did not want to be hushed, nobody could tell her to.
“I also discovered that you paid Mr. Deacon, the solicitor, to read a forged and fabricated will, making me believe that Anastasia would have to marry for me to inherit.”
“You are absolutely right about every detail, Benedict,” the dowager replied, bowing her head.
It was the first time Anastasia had ever seen her aunt looking so humbled. She was not quite afraid, but she seemed prepared for punishment. She supposed one must be if they were willing to make that push.
When she lifted her eyes, Aunt Hyacinth looked fierce once more. Yes, there were hints of tears, but she was not going to let them fall without a fight.
“Your uncle was a beast, Benedict. The way he went about it was subtle, too. Nobody knew what he was like beneath the steady demeanor. He was obsessed with having an heir who could follow in his footsteps. However, everything else was redeemable, at least in my eyes, until I saw him try to seduce Anastasia.”
“He thought that just because my reputation was compromised, I was easy,” Anastasia admitted, shuddering at the memory of the late duke’s advances.
“I knew him well enough to recognize the glint in his eyes whenever he looked at you. I could not let him ruin you,” the dowager said, her voice down to a ragged whisper, and yet, the rage was still there.
Quieter and tempered, but still present.
“I pushed him and watched him fall. Most would say it was murder, but I believe it to be self-defense. I will defend myself and my niece in every way I can,” she admitted, her eyes flashing.
“I had to secure Anastasia. She had already suffered enough. The incident was unplanned. It just happened. Rage took over me when I saw him for what he really was. However, the forgery was planned. I was desperate. I knew that my niece’s reputation would work against her.
What I needed was a way to make you want her close.
You could have just banished her if not for her link to your inheritance. ”
There were a few beats of silence before Benedict took a deep breath and said, “It did not take long for me to want to keep her, not because of the inheritance.”
“You were willing to have me married to any lord who would take me,” Anastasia reminded him.
There was no accusation or bitterness in her tone, simply a statement of facts.
She was in terrible anguish at the thought that he would choose her merely because she was a means to an end.
But now, she knew better. All that had happened before no longer mattered, at least not as much as their feelings for each other.
“You made a terrible mistake,” Benedict said, his eyes clear and unwavering. “But know this. You protected Anastasia when she needed it most. When I was not yet in her life to do it for her. I owe you for that and will not go to the authorities.”
The dowager exhaled audibly. She closed her eyes and placed a hand on her chest, looking every bit as relieved.
“And for the forgery?” she asked, her eyes still closed.
“It does not matter,” Benedict said dismissively, waving a hand. “Nobody was hurt, and all’s well that ends well in that particular matter, although I may now be looking at Mr. Deacon with some suspicion.”
The dowager wept with relief. Benedict held out a hand to cut her off gently.
“However, you cannot remain here anymore. Your presence carries a heavy burden of secrets to this household. I intend to start a family here, one that is not tainted by the past. From now on, you will be living at the Dower House. You are still our family, and we will provide for you, but you may not interfere in what happens to the Frostmore family ever again. Even though I have to admit I will miss your daily presence. Even Lupita and Pepita.”
The decision was both stern and merciful. The dowager accepted it with a nod and some tears. Anastasia could still feel the weight lifting from her aunt. It must have been difficult to pretend to be hale and hearty when your soul was full of guilt.
Six weeks later, Anastasia and Benedict were finally married.
It was a moment of love, relief, and happiness.
Anastasia did not even mind the fact that the dowager and her mother, the Viscountess of Wilkins, were placed in charge of planning.
The result was as expected: the affair was extreme and slightly tacky, with an abundance of clashing colors and unbridled decorations.
It was a glorious affair, nonetheless.
Every silk and lace seemed to have been used to adorn the drawing room. It was a display of excess rather than subtle charm and good taste. Anastasia had spied her groom laughing in secret in one corner, and she could not help but chuckle.
Why would she care what people thought of the most wonderful day of her life?
They had dragged her name into the mud so many times; their commentaries on her garish pink floral arrangements placed near the Straton family’s traditional blue did not matter.
The cake was taller than Benedict, making people gawk at it for the wrong reasons, such as whether they would get a plop of icing on their heads at some point.
Her mother handpicked the musical selection, full of sentimental frivolity.
Again, it was perfect.
Her sisters, Evangeline and Serenity, were there with their husbands. Sebastian, Amelia, and Cassian were present, too, with less teasing and more offered congratulations. The people who mattered the most seemed content with the union and its haphazard decorations.
Later that night, the married couple retreated to their bedchambers, as the day’s festivities transitioned into quiet intimacy.
“I am glad they at least let me choose my gown,” Anastasia admitted, as she unpinned her hair in front of her dresser.
“My God, Anastasia. Look at you.”
The raspy sound of his amazement surprised her. She let the final pin slip from her hair and faced her husband, her heart pounding so hard she swore he could hear it.
“It was a beautiful gown,” she said softly, almost shyly, as she stood in nothing but her chemise. “However, I am glad that I am out of it.”
“Oh, so am I,” Benedict reassured her, giving her a smirk. It made the heat pool low in her belly. She liked seeing him like this, with her barriers down and his cravat loose.
What happened next was a blur of desperation, of clothes falling to the floor. Their first time at the pond held mystery and frantic passion, while tonight, their love was more assured.
Yet, this was the real consummation. She could finally tell the world that he was hers, and she was his.
“I have been thinking of this all day,” he murmured as he embraced her, pressing her against her hard length. “All damned day, we were surrounded by people, but all I wanted was to have you alone. Here. In our bedchamber.”
“I had the same thoughts, Benedict,” she whispered.
His hand slid from her cheek to the nape of her neck, gentle and possessive at the same time. He tilted her face up to his so he could see her heavy-lidded eyes, glazed with desire. It made her feel weak.
“I love you,” he uttered, voice roughened by emotion. “My wife.”
My wife.
Who knew anyone would ever want her to become their wife, much less him? He was perfect, and she was chaos.
Finally, they kissed. This was not the gentle kiss they shared with the world after the marriage vows were made. This promise was more carnal and more intense, paving the way to forever. Her mind fractured with the taste of their wedding cake and brandy, mixing with the flavor of him.
His hands were all over at once, as if he had been waiting for this since that encounter by the pond.
And he was, but she was equally urgent in her movements.
He lay her on the bed and nudged her thighs apart to make way for him.
There, he molded her shape from her cheeks to her neck to her breasts and waist. At the pond, there was no time for familiarization.
Here, they had all the time in the world.
“You are so beautiful. Always have been. A temptation,” he muttered, as he let his gaze caress her body.
She knew it for what it was. He was worshipping her with all that he had, and it made her shiver. Even though everyone talked about her as fallen, nobody had touched or kissed her as Benedict had, and would continue to do so.
“You are beautiful,” Anastasia whispered, and she meant it.
Benedict was magnificent, sculpted to perfection. She did not get to appreciate how well-formed he was, honed by sport and duty. Her eyes could not help but rake every inch of him. This powerful man was hers.
He spread her legs and dipped his body low so he could claim her lips once more.
The kiss was now slower and deeper, an exploration that he seemed to be savoring as he palmed her breast. She ached even more.
For his touch. For him. Every time his thumb circled her nipple, the sensation coursed through her core.
She whimpered when his mouth left hers to suckle her nipple and lash it with his tongue.
“Please,” she begged, as her mind dimmed and her body took over.
Benedict knew what to do, his lips trailing down and letting hers open to him. She shuddered at the anticipation, which coiled tight just like her desire and pleasure.
“Benedict,” she uttered his name, the name that she had always wanted to say. Not Your Grace. Not Mr. Straton.
It was enough permission for him to feast on her. He let his tongue circle and lick the center of her pleasure, making her gasp, beg, and moan.
“Don’t stop,” she cried when he rose from her.
“I am not stopping. I am giving you more,” he grunted as he slid into her in one thrust.
A tear rolled down her cheek from the pleasure and the relief of feeling him inside her once more.
She clutched at his shoulders as he began the rhythm that both of them had learned even in the short period they had known each other’s bodies.
She met his every thrust as the pleasure within her threatened to explode.
His pace became relentless, urging on and on until she reached the precipice and let herself soar and fall.
He pounded into her a few more times until his movements became more erratic.
Soon, he let out a cry of triumph and spilled himself into her.
Benedict collapsed against Anastasia, his chest heaving and slick with sweat. He was so different from the well-dressed man who hoped to be in the House of Lords, or the cold, indifferent lover to some of his past paramours. With Anastasia, he was completely destroyed.
The room was thick with the scent of her passion and the sounds of their soft panting as they tried to descend from the heights they had reached. He raised his head to look at her.
“I love you, Anastasia,” he murmured reverently, even as the words spilled out, unsteady but fierce. “You are the only chaos I will allow myself to break rules for.”
Her throat tightened. She reached for him, her fingers sliding into his hair, drawing him closer until their foreheads touched.
“I love you too,” she whispered. “And you need not fear losing me. You have married me now. You are stuck with me.”
Something almost helpless crossed his face—relief so sharp it looked like pain.
“Thank God,” he breathed, and the words came out like a confession.
He kissed her again, slow and lingering, as though he had all the time in the world now. As though there would never again be a morning when he had to leave her.
When he finally pulled back, he wrapped her tighter against him and murmured against her mouth, almost reverent, “My wife.”
Anastasia smiled, still trembling, and pressed a kiss to his jaw.
“My husband.”
Benedict closed his eyes as if the words were the sweetest thing he had ever heard, and he held her as the fire died low, as the night stretched on, as if he intended to keep her safe there for the rest of his life.
The End?