Anastasia glared at her aunt. What was she doing again? One minute, she wanted her to get married and leave her reputation with the scandal behind, and the next, she was trying to sabotage all the men who called on her. What was wrong with this one?
Mr. Hayman dabbed frantically at his clothes, blotting with the urgency of a man trying to salvage both linen and dignity. Anastasia thrust another handkerchief at him, her cheeks burning, willing the floor to open and swallow her whole.
A maid slipped into the room with fresh towels. “Shall I assist, sir?”
Before Mr. Hayman could reply, Aunt Hyacinth gave a sorrowful shake of her head. “Yes, yes, do help him, poor dear. Wet trousers are very unfortunate. People might think he has had another sort ofaccidententirely.”
Anastasia choked. “Aunt!”
But the dowager pressed on, serenely relentless. “What, my dear? These thingsdohappen. My late husband suffered similar difficulties in his later years. Tragic really. Quite impossible tokeep up appearances when one’s trousers are never dry.”
Mr. Hayman went crimson from collar to hairline. “Your Grace! I—I beg your pardon, but that is outrageous and far from—”
“Of course, of course,” the dowager said, patting his arm as if he were a wounded child. “I mean no insult. But gossip is cruel, Mr. Hayman. Once people see a stain, they rarely ask how it got there. A gentleman rumored to… leak… will have difficulty maintaining authority. Don’t you agree?”
The man’s lips pressed into a furious line. He bowed so stiffly it looked painful, mumbled something about his carriage, and fled the room with damp breeches slapping indignantly.
Anastasia buried her face in her hands, muffling a groan.
Oh heavens. At this rate, I will never be able to return to London for the rest of my life.
“I believe you are being rather dramatic, my dear.”
“Dramatic?” Anastasia collapsed into her chair, her composure in ruins. “You threw tea on him, Aunt,” she said, her voice pitched somewhere between disbelief and despair. “There will never be another man who takes such an interest in me again. Never.”
“It was a mistake, Anastasia. Compose yourself at once,” her aunt scolded. “You remind me of your mother and her silly dramatics when you act like that.”
Anastasia narrowed her eyes at her. “You cannot possibly expect me to believe that was an accident.”
Her aunt gave her the most angelic smile. “Darling girl, you wound me. Of course, it was an accident. My poor hands are notwhat they once were, and I simply wanted to serve him some tea. How is that wrong?”
Anastasia was not fooled, but she knew she could not prove that her aunt was sabotaging her.
“At this rate, I will never marry anyone or be able to show my face in London ever again.”
The dowager’s lips twitched as though she were repressing a laugh, or perhaps a secret. She reached across and patted Anastasia’s hand with surprising gentleness. “Oh, my dear, do not fret. The right man will come along. Trust me, I will make sure of it. And then, everyone will be envious of you.”
Anastasia sighed. “I will need to keep all other gentlemen away from you, and I might just never leave this house.”
Anastasia had been ready to retire for the day after her encounter with Mr. Hayman. She could imagine their life together in platonic companionship. It would not necessarily be bridled with desire or passion, but she would be content while they read books by the fireplace every evening. It was perfect given the situations she had already imagined herself in, but the possibility of that happening was now zero. Her aunt had made sure of that.
And how very different it would be with Benedict—no quiet evenings of measured comfort, but rather a life of disquieting glances, uncontrolled passion, and the dangerous pull of feelings she dared not name. He made her furious, too, with his arrogance, his ability to unnerve her with a single careless word or half-smile, as though he knew exactly how much power he held over her and delighted in wielding it.
Stop it,she told herself fiercely.Do not give him space in your head.
So, when Lord Chamberlain called later that day, she was stunned. A viscount—a handsome one at that. Her maid quickly dabbed a fresh layer of rouge on her cheeks as she raced downstairs to meet him. This time, she made sure that her aunt was nowhere near them.
“The drawing room seems a bit too suffocating, don’t you think?” was one of the first things Lord Chamberlain said to her.
“You might be right about that, my lord.”
He smiled brightly. “Well then, why don’t we take a turn around the gardens, and we can talk there?”
Anastasia inclined her head and let him offer his arm. A maid followed at a proper distance, as etiquette demanded. He was tall, well put together, and carried himself with the easy assurance of a man who had never known the sting of rejection. Handsome certainly, but to Anastasia’s eyes his face already seemed a little too polished, a little too practiced.
The late afternoon sun poured liquid gold across the hedges. A breeze carried the perfume of lavender and roses, and for a moment she let it soothe the restless knot in her chest.
“You have a remarkable estate,” Lord Chamberlain said, his eyes moving across the gardens and then back to her face. “But even with all the gorgeous flowers scattered around the gardens, none of them is quite as remarkable as you.”
