“It is for business,” Benedict replied. “I will not be gone long.”
He stepped past her, but she did not move.
“Of course,” she said, with false sweetness. “Your time is important. Mine is merely… available.”
His patience thinned. “Do not start.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” she said. “I forgot. I am meant to sit quietly and be grateful for my confinement.”
Benedict’s gaze sharpened. “You are not confined. You are protected—by necessity. The moment you step into London, you will be torn apart for sport.”
Her eyes flashed. “How kind. You sound exactly like my father.”
The words hit more sharply than he expected. He kept his face still. “I am not your father.”
“No,” she said, looking him up and down. “You are worse. At least my father admits he enjoys giving orders.”
He should have walked away. He did not.
“Will you regret my absence?” he asked, his tone clipped.
“Not at all. I have not enjoyed your presence.”
Her mouth tightened as she said it—stubborn, petulant—and Benedict had to force his hands to remain at his sides.
“Yes,” he said coldly. “Then we shall both be relieved.”
He turned and left before she could see anything else.
Yes, leaving is the best thing to do.
Chapter 7
“Ido not deserve her, not by half,” Sebastian said, leaning back in his chair with the ease of a man utterly content. “And yet Amelia treats me as though I were the very sun itself, and she, content to orbit.”
Cassian groaned and dropped his head against the back of his chair. “God above. If you begin comparing her to celestial bodies, I shall order laudanum for myself and whiskey for you until you forget you ever married.”
Benedict allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch. “One wonders how White’s still permits your entry, Sebastian. Surely there is a rule against such indecent displays of happiness.”
“There should be,” Cassian said darkly, lifting his glass. “This is a club for gentlemen, not a nursery for besotted husbands. Marriage is nothing but a rope. You have tied yours so tightly, Sebastian, you scarcely notice you are choking.”
Sebastian only laughed, unshaken. “If I am choking, then it is on bliss.”
Benedict reached for his glass, more to occupy his hands than from any real thirst. The air inside White’s was thick with smoke, brandy fumes, and the sound of men congratulating themselves on wit they rarely possessed. It should have been a reprieve from Frostmore, from her. Yet even here, in the dim hush of London’s most exclusive club, Anastasia Dawson intruded on his thoughts like a spark in dry tinder.
She would have laughed at Cassian’s dramatics, her eyes glinting with that infuriating defiance. She would have challenged Sebastian’s words with something sharper, something wicked that left them all fumbling. And damn her, Benedict could almost hear it.
Benedict twirled his glass of whiskey, letting the amber liquid catch the low light as Sebastian, married for a year and insufferably pleased with himself for it, waxed on about domestic bliss.
“She is with child now,” Sebastian announced, his grin wide enough to shame the sun.
Cassian shot upright so quickly his chair gave a protesting creak.
“Good Lord, it multiplies! Do you think that gypsy will be proven right after all?”
The table shook with Sebastian’s laughter while Benedict rolled his eyes and took another measured sip of brandy. A year ago, when Sebastian had still been London’s most incorrigible rake, a gypsy had told him he would father seven children. At the time, they had all called it nonsense. Now, watching his friend beam like a fool, he wondered if his friend and his bride had taken the prediction as a challenge.
Cassian raised his glass, his grin wicked. “To Amelia then. For making a liar of every man in London who swore the Duke of Firaine would never be shackled. And to the heir already on the way. The finest bottle you have,” he called to a passing footman, his voice carrying with the authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
