Anastasia forced down the rest of her meal in furious silence. When at last the table was cleared, she rose, seized her shawl, and escaped into the night. The door clicked shut behind her, and only then did she release the shaky breath she had been holding.
She marched toward the gardens, pulling her shawl even closer to her. The gardens were silver in the moonlight, hydrangeas and lilies glowing faintly along the path. Her slippers whispered over gravel as she circled the house once, twice, her thoughts marching in time with her steps.
No matter how far I go, the whispers arrive first.
There was barely even the illusion of choice for her. She would be lucky if a reputable man even looked at her, let alone offered marriage. Whatever happened now would determine how well or how terribly she would live the rest of her life. But of course, he did not care. He just wanted her out of his home as quickly as possible.
Or does he? That kiss… How could he have hated himself so much for it?
Anastasia rounded the house a second time, barely aware of where she was going as she walked in a trance-like state. Her heart had slowed, the night air cooling her skin, but the chaos inside her refused to settle. She was more levelheaded than she had been all evening, but the ache in her chest remained. And when she rounded the corner, she froze.
What is he doing out here?
Leaning against a stone column as though he had built it from the ground up himself, a cigar smoldered lazily between his fingers, its smoke curling upward in sinuous spirals. His cravat was loosened, his posture at ease, yet somehow he still managed to look like command embodied—effortless, immovable, infuriating.
Her breath caught before she forced herself to move, her slippers crunching against the gravel. He did not so much as stir at her arrival, only lifted his gaze, sharp as flint, and found her at once.
“Pray tell,” Benedict said, his voice low, “why are you wandering like a ghost in the dark?”
“Me?” Anastasia gave him a brittle smile. “I could ask you the same thing. Why are you lurking here, smoking like a highwayman?”
He exhaled smoke in a slow stream. “I am the master of this house. I can go wherever I want. You, on the other hand, appear intent on haunting the hydrangeas.”
She walked a step closer, gravel grinding underfoot, her pulse quickening with every inch. “I needed air. An escape from that suffocating house and from…” Her gaze locked on his, unyielding. “…certain people in it.”
Benedict chuckled, the sound low and edged with something far too suggestive. His gaze dipped, briefly, to the line of her shawl, then back up, and heat rushed traitorously to her cheeks.
“I cannot say I am flattered,” he murmured, “but at least you are honest.”
Honest? If he only knew.
She tightened her shawl, fighting the warmth crawling up her throat. “You mistake courtesy for honesty, Mr. Straton. If I were truly honest, I would tell you that you are—” she broke off, breath tangling.
“Go on,” he urged, infuriatingly mild. “Tell me what I am.”
“Impossible,” she snapped. “Arrogant. Pretentious. Entirely too pleased with yourself. It baffles me how a man with so much power lives his life with so many self-imposed rules and limitations.”
He drew on his cigar, the tip flaring, his eyes fixed on her as though he could read every secret thought she had tried to bury.
“Do you always go out of your way to wound a man’s pride, Miss Dawson?”
Her name on his lips sent a shiver racing through her. “Only when the man insists on lecturing me about my future while I am trying to enjoy a perfectly good bowl of turtle soup.”
His mouth curved, and it was all she could do not to stare at it, not to remember its bruising weight on hers.
“Those are strong words,” he said softly. “And yet here you are, flushed and lingering instead of retreating to your room. One might begin to suspect…” His gaze swept deliberately down, then up again, a deliberate provocation. “…that you find my company less intolerable than you claim.”
God help me, perhaps I do.But she tilted her chin higher.
“You mistake proximity for preference, Mr. Straton. I merely refuse to let you win by fleeing.”
He smirked. “So, it is a contest, then?”
Was it not? The way he looked at her—hungry, assessing, as though he dared her to falter. Her pulse thundered, her body remembering too well how it felt to be pressed to the wall against him. But she refused to retreat, not now.
The night air throbbed with silence, broken only by the faint hiss of his cigar. He flicked ash onto the gravel, his gaze never loosening its hold.
“You are not the only one who wanders for air,” he said.
