The grand staircase—hisgrand staircase—was blanketed in a storm of feathers. Shredded linen trailed like banners of surrender across the corridor, fluttering with every draft. Servants darted this way and that, red-faced and harried, armed with brooms and dustpans as though preparing for battle.
Benedict’s jaw tightened, a headache already forming. He did not need to imagine what his uncle would have called this. Laxity. Incompetence. Failure.
“What in the devil is going on here?” he bellowed, his voice carrying across the chaos, hoping that one of the confused and guilty-looking servants would have an answer for him.
The head housekeeper rushed to him, bowing clumsily. She looked around as though praying for another volunteer to face his icy glare, but when no one was forthcoming, she stepped forward.
The head housekeeper shifted nervously in her place, wringing her hands. “Your Grace, please forgive the disarray—”
“What happened?” he cut in, his tone like a blade.
The housekeeper faltered, twisting her apron, and Benedict felt his patience slip a notch. He drew a steady breath through his nose.
“What happened, Mrs. Feldman?” he repeated, each word precise.
“A pigeon, Your Grace. It flew in through Her Grace’s window and… and the dogs gave chase, hence the disruption and mess.”
“The dogs,” Benedict repeated flatly.
“Yes, Your Grace. They… attempted to catch the bird. It flew through the corridors. In the pursuit, beddings were destroyed, pillows gutted—”
A maid scurried past carrying what looked like the corpse of a pillow, its innards trailing after her.
“And what are you going to do about the mess?” Benedict asked.
“It shall be cleaned at once, Your Grace. Pardon the state of things.”
Benedict let out a long, silent breath. He was a man of iron control, of composure, and of organized order, but on his very first day back to Frostmore, he encountered havoc. Of course. Feathers, chaos, and dogs—it could only mean one thing. He did not know how, but somewhere at the heart of this storm would be Anastasia Dawson.
“See that this is all back in order,” he said curtly. Then, muttering to himself, “I will have to speak to the dowager duchess about those hounds.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the housekeeper said, bowing slightly as she went back to ordering the servants about.
Benedict wondered how his uncle had even let his wife have dogs in the house. The man had despised animals. In any case, he had some very firm words for her regarding her dogs, and so he headed toward the east wing, where her drawing room was.
He strode up the staircase, feathers clinging treacherously to his boots, his mood darkening with every step. He was halfway to the east wing when he rounded the corner—only to collide with something soft, warm, and far too familiar.
Someone.
Benedict’s hands shot out unconsciously, steadying the figure before it could topple. The faintest trace of vanilla filled his senses, and when he looked down, Anastasia stared up at him.
Heaven above.
For one damning heartbeat, he did not move, time suspended in the air as he inhaled her scent, and he cursed himself, silently, savagely, because the first thought that shot through his mind was not annoyance at her clumsiness, but how perfectly her body fit against his.
He released her at once, stepping back a pace. “Miss Dawson,” he said, his voice colder than he intended.
“Mr. Straton!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide, looking completely shocked to see him in his own home. “I… we did not expect you back so soon.”
Benedict’s jaw tightened. Of course, she would look surprised, standing here in the very center of disaster. “Tell me,” he said icily, “how it is that you are always present at the precise moment havoc descends upon this house?”
Her eyes flashed, her chin lifting with that insufferable defiance that both maddened and—God help him—intrigued him.
“That would be your first thought, would it not? For your information, I was trying to catch Lupita and Pepita. Aunt Hyacinth is far too old to chase after them, and someone had to try.”
Always the heroine, always so certain she was right. He should have admired such a spirit. Instead, it scraped against every nerve he possessed, made him want to discipline it—or kiss itinto silence.
“And in the attempt, you found it wise to barrel into me?” he pressed, his tone clipped. “You nearly sent us both flying.”
