Of course. Benedict. Anastasia pressed her palms together to keep them from shaking.
He kisses me senseless in a corridor and then sends me a suitor? The man is truly deranged.
Aunt Hyacinth flapped a hand at Anastasia’s maid. “Well, do not just stand there gaping like a fish. Clara, change her gown.Something with long sleeves, mind you. Nothing too enticing. We do not want him thinking her fast.”
Anastasia groaned. “I do not need to change my gown.”
“Nonsense. You look as though you have been wrestling Lupita and Pepita, which I am certain you have after the mess they caused,” her aunt declared, pinching at her niece’s rumpled sleeve. “So put on a clean gown and smile like you are happy to be alive,” she ordered briskly, then added with a twinkle in her eye, “though I cannot promise I shall not test the man’s mettle myself.”
Within minutes, Anastasia found herself ushered into fresh muslin, her hair pinned hastily back, her lips pressed into something that only the most generous observer might call a smile. Her stomach churned. No fabric, no ribbon could hide the truth: beneath it all, she was still burning with the Duke’s kiss.
Anastasia plastered a smile on her face as she entered the drawing room. Sir Kamden Reids stood to greet her, bowing with a stiff awkwardness. He was neither handsome nor unpleasant—simply… plain. His sandy hair was cropped too short, his shoulders a little sloped, his expression earnest to the point of dullness.
“Miss Dawson,” he said solemnly. “An honor.”
“Sir Kamden,” she returned, curtsying. She took the seat across from him, her back very straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Aunt Hyacinth, of course, settled herself nearby with the teapot, clearly eager to enjoy the performance.
Kamden cleared his throat. “I must say, your estate is… impressive.”
“Thank you,” Anastasia said politely. “I am merely a guest here.”
A pause. He glanced at the carpet, then at the ceiling, then at his hands. “Have you… have you found the weather agreeable of late?”
“Perfectly agreeable,” Anastasia replied, already suppressing a yawn.
“Yes, indeed. A fine, temperate spring.” He brightened slightly, as though this were a triumph. “Not too much rain. Not too much sun.”
“I have to agree that it is splendid,” Aunt Hyacinth said cheerfully, pouring tea with great ceremony. “Nothing like moderate weather to soothe the soul.”
Kamden took his cup reverently as he noticed the pies in front of them. “Quite so. I must say, Miss Dawson, that my late mother made the most divine blueberry pie. I should like my future wife to master it. A small thing perhaps, but of great sentimental value. Have you made these?”
Anastasia blinked.Blueberry pie. An admirable foundation for matrimony.
She smiled thinly. “No, but I do enjoy… pastry.”
“Excellent!” His whole face lit up, as though she had professed undying love. “A woman’s skill in the kitchen, though not essential, is a treasure.”
Aunt Hyacinth, lips twitching, murmured, “I daresay my niece would be an absolute disaster in a kitchen. She has never even boiled water. If she ever lifted a pan, the entire household would evacuate.”
Anastasia sputtered. “Aunt!”
But the dowager only tilted her head with a sly smile. “What? It is true, my dear. You were born to manage households, not ruin their dinners.”
Sir Kamden gave a strained chuckle, clearly unsure whether this was meant as a jest.
What followed was a half hour of pure drudgery. Sir Kamden discoursed on the same topics: the weather, his father’s sermons, and—at painful length—his late mother’s blueberry pie recipe.
Aunt Hyacinth kept on pouring tea, her expression a picture of smug contentment. Anastasia caught her aunt’s eye once and nearly tipped her teacup over just to break the monotony.
Then Sir Kamden, as if reaching for a jewel to dazzle them, announced, “Did I tell you that I served in the navy once?”
Aunt Hyacinth’s spoon clinked sharply in her cup. “Ah, how fortunate. Anastasia has always admired naval men. Why, she nearly eloped with one. An admiral, no less.”
Anastasia nearly inhaled her tea. She spluttered, coughing, tea spilling into her lap as she dabbed furiously with her napkin, her wide eyes cutting to her aunt in a look that promised bloody murder.
Sir Kamden froze, his eyes round as saucers. “An… admiral?”
Why in heaven’s name would her aunt say such a thing? The entire family had sworn to bury that incident, terming it alapse in judgment. And yet here her aunt was, tossing it into the air like confetti.
