She just kept pushing the turtle around her plate, her eyes glued to it, and not knowing if she could handle looking at the maddeningly composed man across the table.
Why didn’t he save her the embarrassment and not try to rehash the memory of Sir Kamden’s face when her aunt had mentioned the scandal? She did not need to report every embarrassing detail of her life back to him, yet Anastasia knew that he was now the man of the house and in charge of these matters.
Why must it be him?
Heat prickled at her cheeks, not from guilt but from the memory of his mouth on hers. She pressed her lips together, willing the thought away. He had kissed her, yes—but now he sat there across the table as though nothing had happened, demanding to know why her suitor was dissatisfied.
And they say I am the odd one.
“I will be waiting for a response any moment now,” Benedict said, his voice slicing through her thoughts like steel.
“Perhaps the devil himselfwascalling,” she said sweetly. “Or perhaps he remembered that he needed to cover evening service for his father.”
Benedict’s grip on his spoon tightened. She forced her gaze downward, unable to be so unfazed while looking him in the eye.
Before the silence grew unbearable, Aunt Hyacinth dabbed daintily at her mouth and announced, “It was embroidery.”
Both Anastasia and Benedict turned to her.
“Embroidery?” Benedict repeated, his tone one shade short of incredulous.
“Yes,” the dowager said serenely, as though she had delivered a diagnosis beyond dispute. “Sir Kamden mentioned he preferred a wife with accomplished stitches. I told him Anastasia’s attempt at roses looked more like bleeding cabbages. He was overcome with horror and fled. Entirely understandable.” She lifted her spoon unbothered and resumed her soup.
Anastasia choked on a laugh, pressing her napkin furiously to her mouth.
“Bleeding cabbages?” she hissed.
“Well,” Aunt Hyacinth said primly, “you have a bold hand with the needle, my dear. No man could handle your outrageous choice of color.” Her eyes twinkled wickedly. “Had I shown him your sunset, he might have fainted altogether.”
Benedict dragged a hand over his face, looking every inch the man whose patience was hanging by a thread.
“Are you telling me a promising match was undone by thread work?”
Anastasia observed the almost imperceptible sheen of sweat above his brow and even the way his hand slightly trembled as he ran his fingers through his hair. She recognized the barely placated frustration but also realized that the sentiment was not directed at her, but at the loss of control in general. It must be so tiring to maintain such composure in his world.
“Promising?” Anastasia muttered, unable to stop herself. “The man’s greatest passion was his mother’s blueberry pie.”
Aunt Hyacinth gave a sniff. “Precisely. He wanted a wife to bake, stitch, and nod on cue. My niece is not a maid.”
Anastasia tried not to laugh outright at the look that flickered across Benedict’s face—something taut, as though Hyacinth’s words struck closer than he would admit. Instead, she took a sip of her soup and said lightly, “There you have it. It was not I who frightened Sir Kamden away. We were simply an unmatched pair.”
“You seem overjoyed about it,” Benedict bit out, sharper than she expected. His hand tightened briefly around his glass, and for the briefest instant, she thought of the same hand braced at her neck, pulling her into a kiss he looked determined to forget.
She resisted the urge to shift in her seat. “I know how much you want me gone from this house, but your discomfort will not be the reason I settle for anyone, despite my scandal.”
His gaze snapped to hers, sharp enough to pin her in place. For a heartbeat, she thought she saw more than irritation—something darker, heavier. But then it was gone, replaced by cold precision.
“I have been very clear about my lack of fondness for you,” he said, each word as controlled as if he were dictating estate accounts. “But you must make more of an effort. It would bebetter for me—and for you—if you were happily married.”
“And removed from this estate,” she returned sweetly, narrowing her eyes at him over the rim of her glass.
One brow lifted, entirely unruffled. “Again, you know my stand on that.”
Anastasia set her spoon gently on her napkin, her movements precise though her blood hummed hot. “Rest assured, Mr. Straton, no one under this roof wishes for my departure more than I do. Were it within my power, I would have left this place weeks ago.”
Her glare lingered, sharp enough to cut, though what unsettled her most was not his composure but the flicker she thought she caught beneath it—a muscle tightening in his jaw, a fleeting shadow in his eyes, as though he despised himself for caring at all.
Why do I even notice that? Why do I care whether he cares or not?
