“I would rather stand.”
His gaze lifted to hers, cold and cutting. “Sit.”
Her eyes flickered, but she stayed near the door, her hands folded demurely in front of her. She was already refusing him before the conversation had begun. A very terrible sign that told him all he needed to know. She was guilty of everything the men had written.
Benedict leaned back in his chair, studying her with the patience of a predator. Silence stretched, deliberate, until he saw the faintest shift of her weight, the smallest tightening in her jaw. Then, finally, he spoke.
“Tell me, Miss Dawson. Are you happy now?” His voice was deceptively calm, laced with something that made the air prickle.
Her eyebrows shot up. “Happy?”
“I mean,” he continued, slower this time. “Are you pleased with yourself?”
She blinked, confusion shadowed with indignation. “I do not understand. Why would I be happy or pleased?”
He leaned back, his expression unreadable, though the hard set of his jaw betrayed the storm beneath. Her gaze flickered to the crumpled letter on his desk—the wax seal of Chamberlain’s house still glistening faintly. Recognition dawned in her eyes, and Benedict caught it at once. She knew.
“Well,” he drawled, each word deliberately slow, “since you claim not to understand, allow me the courtesy of explaining.” He let the silence stretch. “Are you pleased, Miss Dawson? Pleased that you have managed to drive away the onlymen reckless enough to call on you at all—even with your… reputation?”
Her spine stiffened, color rising in her cheeks. He paused, savoring the flicker of fury in her eyes.
“I received three letters this week,” he continued, his voice sharp as a whip, “and not one of them spoke well of you.”
“Even Mr. Hayman?” she asked quickly, incredulity breaking through her composure.
Ah, there it was. This was the reaction he had been waiting for. A corner of his mouth curved, but it was no smile—it was a predator’s satisfaction.
“Yes. Even Mr. Hayman, who tried to mask his retreat with politeness, will not return after being so thoroughly humiliated. As for the viscount…” His hand tapped the letter, the sound like a gavel striking judgment. “He speaks of indignity. Of hounds. Of humiliation beyond repair. Tell me, Miss Dawson, how does a lady contrive to have a man doused like a common stable boy in her own pond?”
“That was hardly my fault—”
Benedict’s palm struck the desk, the sharp crack silencing her. His voice cut across the space, low and dangerous.
“Do not insult me with excuses. If it were not your fault, then who, precisely, shoved the man into the water?”
“Lupita and Pepita,” she said without hesitation.
He stared at her.
She stared right back.
A muscle ticked in his jaw as he leaned back in his chair, dragging a hand over his temples as though she were the worst kind of torment.
He stared at her. The audacity of her. The utter, unshakable insolence.
And yet… God help him, he almost admired it.
She stared right back, her chin tipped high, those eyes glittering with defiance. No shrinking, no simpering, no attempt to placate him. Just open challenge.
He dragged a hand down his face, fighting the urge to laugh in disbelief. His temples throbbed.
She is going to drive me mad.
“I do not know why you had assumed I shoved the viscount into the pond when—”
“Enough.” His own voice cut across hers before he could stop it, low and sharp, a lash through the still air, and she froze. For the first time in the entire exchange, she looked momentarily unsure. His blood heated at the sight. Hell, why did victory taste so much like sin when it came to her?
Benedict rose, slowly, deliberately, until the scrape of the chair legs was the only sound in the room. He came around the desk and stood before her, deliberately invading her space. He knew he should step back, keep the proper distance, but the temptation was too strong.
