Her brows arched. The admission startled her more than any cutting remark could have.
“You?” she said, incredulous. “The very picture of order and suffocation? Surely you thrive in it.”
For once, his lips curved into something that was not mockery. A ghost of a real smile. “You think I am made of ice. Without feelings. Without needs. But sometimes…” He took a drag, exhaled. “Sometimes I need the quiet, too. A place where no one is expecting anything of me.”
Her throat tightened. She had not expected honesty—not from him. And worse, she believed it.
“At least you are not called scandalous every time you breathe,” she said softly, more vulnerable than she intended. “At least you can stride into the world without consequence. If you want quiet, you may take it. If I want freedom, I am ruined for it.”
He laughed, warm and softly, startling her again. Not cruel, not cold—almost human.
“You are sharper than you let people think,” he said.
Her arms folded instinctively. “I never let them think anything. They decide for themselves and make me the villain. That is simply how it is; everyone has their own story of me to tell.”
He stepped closer, heat rolling off him, until her shawl felt like the flimsiest of shields.
“And what story,” he murmured, “are you playing with me, Miss Dawson?”
Her breath hitched. She should have given him a sharp retort, but her lips betrayed her with silence.
“Do not tempt me to answer that,” she whispered.
“Then do not make me ask questions you do not wish to answer.”
The suggestiveness wrapped around her like smoke, heavy and suffocating. He looked undone in the half-light, his shirtunfastened, the faint dark hair revealed. Ungoverned, yet still radiating control. It was unfair. Utterly unfair.
She forced a brittle laugh. “Imagine my surprise. I almost thought you resembled a human being without all your stiff rules and commands.”
“Careful, Anastasia,” he murmured, his eyes darkening. “Do not test my temper further.”
“Or what?” she challenged, her voice hushed but reckless. “Will you lecture me into submission?”
His gaze sharpened, dangerous. “No. I would not waste words.”
Her heart lurched. He meant it. She could hear it in the low thrum of his voice, couldfeelit in the heat rising between them.
She had to leave—now—before she did something far more dangerous than stay, like mention their kiss. With as much composure as she could summon, she gathered her shawl and lifted her chin.
“Careful, Mr. Straton,” she said, her voice cool though her blood raced. “The night air might loosen that stiff composure of yours.”
Chapter 12
“Miss Anastasia,” Mrs. Feldman, the housekeeper, said as she set down the breakfast tray with her usual briskness. “I thought it best you know there is to be a caller for you this morning.”
Anastasia, who had been buttering her toast, stilled at once, her knife hovering above the slice. She knew it was hardly proper to take her breakfast in her room, but the thought of facing the duke after… everything had sent her flushing. He made her feel too confused, and she did not trust herself around him.
“A caller? That early?” The words felt foreign, like trying on a borrowed bonnet.
“Yes, miss. I was given to understand he made inquiries at the door himself early in the morning. Very insistent. Quite particular. He must have been traveling all night from London.”
Anastasia laughed lightly—too lightly. “Well, I shall not keep the gentleman waiting. Thank you, Mrs. Feldman. I shall see to myself.”
Once the housekeeper left, Anastasia stared down at her toast, her appetite gone.
Another caller.
This time, she would not squander it. This time, she would charm.
