“Thank you, my lord.” Anastasia gave him a small, measured smile. “But it is all the Duke of Frostmore’s estate. And I must warn you—I grow suspicious when compliments come tooearly.”
He chuckled. “Then I shall ration them. One every mile.”
Anastasia’s lips curved despite herself. “Do you flatter all your hostesses so shamelessly, my lord?”
“Only the ones that are quite deserving of flattery,” he said quickly, his banter even more remarkable than she had hoped.
Their steps fell into rhythm, his questions carefully chosen, his remarks agreeable in that way of men who had spent their lives being listened to. He spoke of flowers in season, of a painter he admired, of roads to Bath and the merits of each. He even described a dish of veal in Naples as though it were a sermon worth delivering twice.
Anastasia realized that she had kept her guard meticulously high, noticing Lord Chamberlain’s smooth cadence. The man had a silver tongue, designed to say all the right things to flatter women. She had already mistaken charm for genuine affection twice before, and she had paid the price dearly for that. This time, she played the role of demure Miss Dawson quite well, if anyone asked her, even though she was weary of every word he said.
And yet, even as he spoke, her thoughts betrayed her. That garden column rose in her memory again—the loosened cravat, the smoke curling between them, the flash of something ungoverned in Benedict’s eyes. He intruded like a shadow cast across her mind, dark and unshakable.
Lord Chamberlain glanced at her sidelong, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “I have to admit, you are not what I expected.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Is that a warning?”
“A compliment,” he said smoothly. “I expected a simpering debutante with more silk than wit. Instead, I find a lady who is more than capable of answering back.”
Her lips curved, then steadied. She would not let him, or any man, mistake her sharpness for invitation; she knew better than to trust men’s words.
Benedict would have turned that remark into a challenge,she thought with a flicker of irritation.
She fixed her gaze ahead, refusing to let the phantom of the Duke linger in her mind.
“I daresay, my lord, you have only to spend another hour in my company to realize your mistake.”
He smiled with a confidence she suspected he practiced in mirrors. “I do not think I would. I think you would challenge me, and I love a good challenge.”
Anastasia managed a polite laugh, though inside her thoughts twisted.A challenge. If only you knew half of it.But perhaps this was enough. Perhaps this—steady, handsome, respectable—man was the key out of Frostmore’s suffocating halls.
For the first time in what felt like years, the possibility of spinsterhood did not hover at her shoulder. A future opened before her, one not defined by whispers or disgrace. What if she was wrong? He could be an honest man.
The path curved beside the pond, its surface catching the orange glow of the evening. Anastasia thought fleetingly that perhaps this was the sort of place where respectable courtships were meant to unfold. But before she could even allow herselfto exhale into that fragile vision, a pair of high-pitched barks shattered the moment.
Pepita and Lupita.
They came barreling across the lawn like cannon fire, ears flapping, tongues lolling, their stubby legs carrying them at speeds that defied nature. Anastasia’s heart plummeted.
The viscount stumbled back a step, blinking at the charging balls of fur.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed, laughter bursting from him as they circled his legs. He tried to step aside, but they only redoubled their efforts, leaping at his polished boots as though he were a gamekeeper carrying sausages in his pockets.
Anastasia was absolutely mortified. She looked around, hoping to see a maid who would scoop them up and take them back into the house.
“Down! Down, you naughty girls!” Anastasia scolded, clapping her hands, her voice pitched in desperation. The dogs ignored her entirely, their tails wagging furiously as they bounded higher, nipping at Lord Chamberlain’s trousers with gleeful abandon.
Normally, a sharp command and a stern look would rein them in. Today, of course, they chose rebellion. And then she saw it—what had so thoroughly ensnared their canine devotion.
The viscount’s walking stick.
A gleaming, polished piece of wood, topped with a silver head that glinted in the sun like an irresistible treasure. To Pepita and Lupita, it might as well have been carved from marrow and roasted over a fire.
“Oh no,” Anastasia breathed, too late. “They want your walking stick.”
With a triumphant bark, Lupita lunged, her teeth clamping onto the gleaming stick as though it were a delicious bone. Pepita, not to be outdone, hurled herself at the other end with a joyful growl. In seconds, the polished walking stick became the rope in a vicious tug-of-war.
“Release it at once!” Anastasia cried, lunging for Pepita’s collar. “Bad girls! Let go, it is not yours!”
