This time she would prove—well, mostly to herself—that she was not beyond saving. So yes, she would see this caller. And she would see to it that she looked and felt her best. She submitted to her maid’s ruthless attentions like a soldier arming for battle.
After being let down by men twice, she could no longer afford the luxury of romance or daydreams. She needed a man she could tolerate in the same room for more than an hour without longing for a pistol. How difficult could that be?
And still, her mind betrayed her. It wandered back to the gardens the night before: the loosened cravat, the low chuckle, the way he had looked at her—not like a burden to be foisted on the next fool, but like a man who… She shook her head sharply.
“Not Benedict,” she muttered under her breath. “Never him.”
Clara paused, hairpins in hand. “My lady?”
“Nothing,” Anastasia said sweetly. She practiced the voice she would need in the drawing room: soft, polite, pliant. It made her teeth ache. “Just preparing what I will say to the gentleman.”
Clara giggled, blissfully unaware that her mistress was arming herself for execution rather than courtship.
Anastasia walked into the drawing room, which was already prepped and set for tea, sunlight streaming from the windows into the gorgeous room. At the side, her aunt was having tea,dressed up too for a stunning first impression. She was there to serve as a chaperone, and part of Anastasia wished she were not.
Of course. Chaperone and saboteur in one.
The dowager winked at her, and Anastasia’s stomach sank.
Heaven help me. I hope she behaves this time.
Anastasia curtsied with all the grace drilled into her since childhood, a bright, practiced smile pinned to her face. Mr. Hayman bowed in return—tall, mild-looking, his hair neatly combed, his demeanor polite without being pompous. Perfectly… ordinary.
“I am Mr. Hayman, Miss Dawson,” Mr. Hayman introduced himself. He sounded very polite, not too full of himself, and a bit reserved.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Hayman.”
“I have heard pleasant things about the Lady of Frostmore,” he said to the dowager, a genuine smile playing on his lips as he sat down. “Please let me offer my condolences about the late Duke.”
The mention of her uncle made her wince, but Aunt Hyacinth swept in smoothly, changing the subject with her usual elegance.
“Thank you, Mr. Hayman,” Aunt Hyacinth said, smoothing the moment effortlessly. “The late Duke had his faults—he collected them the way some men collect pocket watches—but he would have appreciated your sympathy.”
Soon, Anastasia found herself almost—almost—relaxed. They spoke of common things, just as she had expected. Things like the weather, what flowers were popular by this time of the Season, and even, surprisingly, the last book they both read.
Imagine that. A man who reads something entertaining other than sermons and betting ledgers.She caught herself smiling at his earnestness, and for the briefest moment, dared to think,Perhaps this could work. Perhaps I could find an agreeable man who would not try to smother or deceive me.
But her aunt’s eyes gleamed with a particular mischief that made Anastasia’s stomach twist. The dowager cleared her throat.
“Mr. Hayman,” the dowager purred. “I think you should have some tea. You have been so engrossed in talk with my niece that you have quite forgotten refreshment.”
Anastasia felt her stomach sink because she could tell that her aunt was up to something. The civilized time that she was having with Mr. Hayman was about to come to an abrupt end, and she did not know how to stop it. She knew her aunt’s tone too well; it was the same one she had used the last time before she ruined her meeting with Sir Kamden.
Still, she smiled brightly as Mr. Hayman, polite to a fault, accepted his cup. He lifted it carefully, while Anastasia watched with dread pooling in her stomach. Her aunt’s hand trembled ever so slightly.
And then it tipped.
“Oh, heavens!” Aunt Hyacinth cried—rather too delightedly—as a scalding golden wave cascaded down Mr. Hayman’s waistcoat and trousers. “How very clumsy of me!”
The poor man leaped up, blotting furiously, his face a study in horror. Anastasia thrust her handkerchief at him, mortified.
“Mr. Hayman! I am so terribly sorry—”
“Oh, it is entirely my fault,” the dowager interrupted, dabbing at her lips with dainty unconcern. “How careless of me! These wrists of mine at this age… utterly unreliable. Now, what would you think of us, Mr. Hayman!”
Anastasia’s eyes narrowed. She could swear her aunt’s lips twitched with the faintest smile.
Mr. Hayman rallied gamely. “No matter, Your Grace. We all have accidents.” His chuckle was strained, his waistcoat and trousers soaked, but he still managed to take a handkerchief out of his pocket.
