Her aunt, naturally, pretended not to notice.
“Yes indeed,” the dowager continued, blithe as ever, as though she had announced nothing more scandalous than a fondness for roses. “Though he turned out to be… not quite the gentleman he appeared. Quite the rascal, in fact. But really, my niece has such spirited tastes. Admirals, barons… she has always aimed rather high.”
Anastasia wanted the carpet to rise and smother her. She might not have been too eager to marry, but she had to find a match if she were to leave Frostmore. Her aunt had promised to help her, not completely throw her to the wolves without so much as a caution.
“It was a lapse in judgment,” she said quickly, mirroring her own father’s words, which she hated. “I am no longer as young and naïve as I once was.”
Aunt Hyacinth only patted her arm soothingly. “Of course it was, my dear. But at least you were ambitious. Far better than swooning over a curate or a clerk. A woman ought to aspire.”
Aspire?To ruin herself?Anastasia nearly groaned aloud.
The dowager prattled on cheerfully, “He tricked her, of course. She has such a trusting heart. Convinced her to elope, the rogue, but fortunately, she came to her senses before thedeedwas done.” A mournfultskfollowed.
Anastasia braced for the fallout, her pulse thundering.
Sir Kamden cleared his throat, his face pinched as though he had swallowed vinegar. “I have never paid much mind to idle gossip, Your Grace. But I can see now that the whispers about Miss Dawson’s past are not mere rumors.” He set down his teacupwith trembling precision. “Forgive me, but I cannot attach myself to a woman so… compromised.”
Aunt Hyacinth shook her head gravely. “We are an honest household, Sir Kamden. And we would never withhold the truth from any suitor who wishes to court Anastasia.”
His flush of indignation deepened as he turned on his heel and left.
Silence stretched between them as Anastasia turned to her aunt, her cheeks burning hot with rage.
“Why? Why humiliate me like that, Aunt? You said you would protect me!”
“That is precisely what I am doing.” Aunt Hyacinth did not flinch. She calmly stirred her tea, then looked up with eyes sharp as glass. “You did not like him. I could see it the instant he opened his mouth.”
“That is not the point—”
“Oh, but it is.” Her aunt’s lips curved faintly, though her voice carried iron. “If one mention of your past sends him running, then he would never have lasted. A man so spineless as to be frightened by scandal would make a dreadful husband for you.”
Anastasia did not say anything else because she knew deep down that her aunt’s words were true. But true or not, it changed nothing.
Every man who crossed her path would eventually hear the whispers, and one by one, they would leave, just as Sir Kamden had. She should be glad, she should. And yet, she could not shake the shame that ran through her veins or the thought that getting married would solve her family’s problems. And how itwould allow her to leave Frostmore once and for all.
She pressed her napkin hard against her lap, her mind turning—not to Sir Kamden, not even to her aunt’s smug serenity, but tohim.
What would the Duke say if he knew how quickly her past had been thrown into the open? Would he feel vindicated, coldly triumphant, telling her this was precisely why she needed his interference? Or would he look at her the way he had in that corridor—dark, conflicted, loathing himself for caring at all?
Her throat tightened. She could not decide which answer frightened her more.
Chapter 11
Anastasia would never have termed herself a violent lady, not even in her most unguarded moments. And yet, the poor bits of turtle swimming in her soup were forced to endure a rather unladylike assault beneath her spoon. Each jab was a silent exorcism—of Sir Kamden’s horrified face, of her aunt’s blithe betrayal, of lips that still burned from a kiss she had no business remembering.
“Miss Dawson,” Benedict began at last, his voice carrying a particular weight of irritation that made her shoulders stiffen. He had not said a word about the disastrous afternoon—or their kiss—until now, but she had known it was coming.
“Miss Dawson,” Benedict repeated, slower this time, as though repetition might grind her into submission.
Her grip tightened around the spoon. She could still feel his hand at her neck—possessive, devastating—and the thought of him now, calmly dissecting her like a magistrate passing judgment, made her want to fling the soup in his maddeningly composed face.
How can he sit there looking so untouched, so composed, when I…
Anastasia forced her gaze upward, her expression carefully schooled. “Yes, Mr. Straton?”
“I would like to understand,” he said, each word clipped and deliberate, “exactly what went wrong with the vicar’s son this afternoon. He did not seem that hard to please, so what could you have done to send him bolting out of the drawing room like the devil was on his heels?”
Precisely the question she had known he would ask.
