Her eyes flashed, bright and unyielding, though her pulse fluttered beneath his hand. “And I am certain that limiting my freedom and treating me as a prisoner will do wonders for my chances of securing a respectable suitor.”
His lips curved, but it was not a smile. “Respectability is not what concerns me. I can arrange your courtship, with or without your cooperation. Liberty is not a requirement.”
“Then you have no reason to keep me here in Frostmore.”
With her chin lifted and her eyes sparkling with fury, she looked…
She looked tempting. Her lips were so close; it would be a simple matter to dip his head to kiss her. He wondered again if a kiss would silence the edge of her sharp tongue and change her defiance to something more… palatable.
Anastasia Dawson was a beautiful woman. Too beautiful. It was difficult to imagine any man not drawn to the fire in her eyes, though he would be the first to admit she was every bit as exasperating as she was entrancing.
Benedict’s gaze cataloged her appearance with what might seem clinical precision or even mild interest. Internally, however, he thought she was far more appealing than propriety—or good sense—allowed. Her hair, lighter than he had first noticed, refused complete submission to its pins, soft strands escaping to frame a face too expressive for her own good. Her mouth was worse—full, vivid, wholly unsuited to polite restraint. This was not the sort of beauty one admired safely. It was the kind that invited distraction, disorder… ruin.
For a heartbeat, the image claimed him—her body beneath his, her sharp tongue silenced by something far more primal than words. His hand tightened reflexively, the urge to pin her against his desk andteach her respectin the most visceral way clawing at his restraint.
He dragged himself back from such thoughts with brutal discipline. Foolishness. Anastasia Dawson was chaos wrapped in silken defiance. Temptation, yes—but temptation was weakness, and weakness had no place in his life. The best course was obvious: find her a husband. Quickly. Preferably, one with estates so distant she would be nothing more than a fadingmemory before the year was over.
Still, the heat between them coiled low in his body, tightening his gut and straining against his breeches. His blood thundered with unwanted desire, and he despised himself for it. Did she feel the same pull? He refused to ask. He refused to care.
With deliberate will, Benedict released her chin and stepped back.
“I care not how you view the matter,” he said, his tone clipped, glacial. “The fact remains. You will stay here at Frostmore until I have secured you an appropriate husband and seen you wed. Until that time, you are under my roof, and you will act accordingly.”
“I—”
“Act accordingly, Miss Dawson,” he cut in, his voice dropping into a low command. “Keep yourself out of my affairs, cause as little chaos as you are able, and we may both endure the trial of this enforced cohabitation without bloodshed.” He took another step back, cold distance sliding into place where dangerous heat had burned. “Is that understood?”
“It is,Your Grace.” She made the title sound like an insult, and Benedict’s jaw locked hard enough to ache.
“Good.” With that, Benedict stepped around the desk, dismissing her. He thought she might deliver some retort. Instead, he heard her footsteps move away, and seconds later, the door closed behind her.
For several moments, he stood motionless, forcing his breath to slow, waiting for the heat raging in his blood and the unbearable tightness in his breeches to subside. Only when the ache dulleddid he allow himself to sink into his chair.
There was work to do—ledgers, contracts, obligations that did not bend to lust or folly. He could not afford a distraction. Least of all from the infuriating, intoxicating woman fate had shackled to him.
Chapter 6
“Jarvis, has the steward sent the tenant accounts?” Benedict’s voice rang sharply in the morning stillness.
“Yes, Your Grace. They are on your desk,” the butler replied, bowing low.
“Good. I expect everything to be in order.” Benedict dismissed him with a flick of his hand, already tugging his cuffs into precise alignment. His life ran on order—he rose with the sun, exercised, worked on his ledgers religiously, and composed correspondence. There was comfort in the discipline, in knowing that each detail was seen to.
Benedict learned at a young age that uncertainty was a weakness. Neglect and conditional approval had taught him this. He had used discipline not as a preference but as a meticulously built armor that he had hoped to show his worth and competence.
There had to be order. Without it, there was chaos.
Unfortunately, chaos had a name.
The days following the reading of the will passed in a sort of haze. Benedict did his work, considered possible candidates for Anastasia, and tried to keep her out of his thoughts. It would have been easier had she been the quiet, demure sort of woman who was content to sit quietly in her rooms and embroider or read. Unfortunately for his composure, Anastasia Dawson was nothing of the sort.
Only yesterday, as Benedict had just sat down to a neat breakfast, the door opened with force. Anastasia swept in, a book under her arm, her cheeks still flushed from the morning air.
“You might consider opening the door more quietly, Miss Dawson,” Benedict had said coldly.
“You might consider smiling, Mr. Straton,” she had retorted, sliding into the chair across from him and helping herself to the last toast as though it were her right.
His jaw flexed. “That seat is not for you.”
