“He made my life a prison. A gilded, silken prison, but a prison all the same. There was no cruelty visible to others—only to me. And no one ever suspected or cared.”
“Aunt…” Anastasia whispered. “That sounds dreadful.”
Aunt Hyacinth sniffed, regaining some of her iron composure. “It was. Which is why I will not let Benedict—or anyone—decide your future as though you were some pawn on a chessboard. You are my sister’s daughter, and I shall not see you sold off to the highest bidder in the name of respectability.”
Emotion rose sharply in Anastasia’s throat. “But that is exactly what the Duke intends. He speaks as though a husband is my only key out of Frostmore. He cannot fathom that I might choose another way. Rather, it is his key to his inheritance.”
Her aunt squeezed her hand firmly. “Then he shall have to learn. You will not be bartered like cattle. You will have a husband worthy of you or none at all.”
Anastasia blinked rapidly against the sudden sting in her eyes. None at all. She had thought it so often, but hearing her aunt say it aloud steadied her.
“And if none at all is what I choose?” she asked softly.
“Then none at all it shall be,” Aunt Hyacinth said without hesitation. Her lips curved into a small, almost fierce smile. “Though I warn you, my dear, I will not let you slip into spinsterhood without at least testing the waters. I should like to see the men of London quail before your wit.”
Anastasia gave a watery laugh. “That would be worth the price of a Season.” She leaned her head briefly against her aunt’s shoulder, drawing comfort from her nearness. “Thank you, Aunt. You always know how to make me feel less… alone in all this.”
“You are never alone,” Aunt Hyacinth said simply. “And you never will be.”
Anastasia lifted her embroidery hoop again and studied her blazing sunset with new eyes. Perhaps her aunt was right. Perhaps she was not so alone as she had believed. But the thought of Benedict returning with his rules and his order and his unshakable plans still made her bristle.
If he thinks I will be easily married off to the first man he finds, he has another thing coming.
She stabbed the needle through the cloth once more, as if to punctuate the thought.
Chapter 9
Benedict had never known a week to crawl by so tediously. London, which usually offered distraction enough, had provided nothing but dull routine: appointments with his late uncle’s bookkeepers, dinners laced with endless estate talk, and evenings at White’s where Sebastian glowed with marital bliss, and Cassian drowned himself in every vice available.
Typically, such diversions would have been welcome. Not this time.
He had declined every advance, no matter how artful or blatant, from the ladies who crowded the balls and soirees. He told himself it was on principle that he had no patience for coyness or simpering. The truth was harsher: none of them stirred him. Not one.
And yet…
Even the thought of Anastasia did.
The thought alone made his jaw clench as he shifted in the carriage seat. Of all women, she was the one who should least tempt him. Stubborn, sharp-tongued, infuriating AnastasiaDawson, with her disheveled hair and laughing green eyes. She was a complication he neither wanted nor could ignore, a woman whose presence under his roof unsettled every carefully laid plan.
He told himself it was irritation—that she provoked him. After all, she refused to be docile, contradicting him at every turn because she dared to look at him with that defiant spark that set his blood alight.
But deep down, in the silent hours of night, he knew Cassian had been right. He was intrigued. Hopelessly, dangerously intrigued.
And that was precisely why he needed distance.
He wondered what it would be like to tame her. Benedict could not stop himself from imagining her lips moving with that ceaseless wit of hers, and how it would feel to silence them with his own. The thought of her lithe body pressing against his made all his senses go up in disarray.
How would she react to that?
It was even stupid to think about, but he had lost count of the times he spent thinking about her in his bed. Lying naked on her back, with her hair splayed all over his sheets, looking ready for him to take her. His breeches tightened once again.
What a ridiculous notion! I must be losing my mind.
The carriage rolled to a halt before Frostmore, and Benedict stepped down with relief at the thought of order restored—his kind of order, unshaken by London’s noise or his friends’ pestering about Miss Dawson.
That must be it. I have let their silly jabs get under my skin.
But the moment the great doors swung open, the sight that greeted him nearly drove him back outside.
