Her lips curved, sharp and knowing. “And you think too highly of yourself, Mr. Straton. Perhaps we are evenly matched after all.”
The words pricked him, not because they were untrue, but because she delivered them with the same insolent poise that had undone him in his study. She wielded defiance like a blade, and every part of him longed to disarm her—whether with sword or with hands.
Before he could answer, she swept past him, skirts whispering against the floor, and plucked another sword from the rack. The weapon looked far too heavy in her hand, yet she held it with startling confidence. She cast him a glance over her shoulder, deliberately provocative. “Besides, I rather thought you would still be recovering with your friends after all that port. But no—here you are, fencing alone.”
“You truly have no fear, do you?” Benedict asked, his voice low.
“What is there left to fear once a woman like me has already been hurt?”
He let out a breath, a shrug of mock indifference that cost him dearly. If she was going to lose—and shewouldlose—he wanted to be the one to make sure of it. To strip that smug little smile from her face.
“Very well. But if we are to spar, there will be rules.”
Anastasia groaned dramatically. “I should have known. You are the grand Duke of Rules.”
“Rules,” he countered, allowing the edge of a smirk, “are what keep fools alive.”
“Rules,” she shot back, stepping closer, “are dull. They limit your life.” Her scent drifted to him—vanilla, wild air, something whollyher—and Benedict felt his composure tighten like a thread about to snap.
She tilted her head, her eyes glittering. “Let’s make it more interesting, shall we?”
His sword dipped fractionally, suspicion sharpening his gaze. “And what do you have in mind?”
“A wager.” Her smile was pure provocation. “If you lose, you stop parading suitors in front of me, and you will stop breathing down my neck.”
Benedict thought that the rule was too loose. He could not simply let her do whatever she wanted; that was sure to be a recipe for disaster, and he hated disasters or things he could not control.
“I do not breathe down your neck.” The protest escaped him sharper than intended.
“Oh, but you do, Mr. Straton,” she said sweetly, knowing she had struck true. “And you must give me your word—no more matchmaking. You will allow me my peace and let me go. You will find another way to get your inheritance.”
For the briefest second, his blade faltered, the thought of her gone, making his chest constrict. His voice, when it came, was iron over breaking glass. “Let you go?”
“Precisely.” Her smile was sweet, which only made her look more dangerous. “I have written to my sister, Evangeline, and she is more than happy to have me stay with her. So if I win, I get my freedom to leave this place once and for all.”
“And if you lose?” His voice was deceptively mild, though every muscle in him coiled at the prospect.
“Then I will marry the next man you bring before me. No protests, no clever evasions. I will become the most dutiful bride you could imagine.”
The air seemed to thin around him. Benedict had not expected her to gamble with her future so boldly, and it unsettled him more than he wished to admit. She spoke as if she had already won, as if she were free of him already.
“Are you certain you want to do this?” he asked, each word drawn out, testing her resolve.
She lifted only one elegant shoulder in a shrug. “Are you afraid that you will lose, Your Grace?”
He wanted to argue, to forbid it outright. Instead, he lowered the mask over his face, each movement deliberate, meant to hidewhat was burning in his eyes. The sword slid into his hand like an extension of his fury.
Anastasia mirrored him, her mask in place, her sword raised. Defiance incarnate.
The first clash rang out, steel against steel, sharp enough to reverberate through his bones.
They sparred in silence, save for the quick breaths of exertion and the metallic swish of blades slicing the air. Benedict had not expected her to be so skilled—not even a little. He had thought this would be easy, laughable even. But Anastasia was quick on her feet, her strikes sharp, her parries unhesitating.
Too quick. Too sharp.
With each exchange, irritation mixed with something far more dangerous. Admiration.
And beneath that, the gnawing realization that he might actually lose.
