“You fence better than half the young lads I have seen,” Benedict remarked, pressing her back a step, the weight of his sword steady and sure. “Pray tell, where did you acquire such a talent? Certainly not in a young lady’s sewing circle.”
Anastasia’s eyes glittered, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. “Learned from cousins who thought me too troublesome to be idle. They put a foil in my hand. I daresay it kept me from tormenting them in other ways, but my mother and sisters were not very pleased. Especially my father.”
A reluctant laugh broke from him, though his wrist never wavered, his blade cutting with ruthless precision. “My father left me in my uncle’s clutches. The old tyrant declared that if Iwere ever to be master of my name, I must master a dozen skills—swordplay, Latin, riding until I could scarcely walk.”
“Then you are forged by duty,” Anastasia said airily, lunging just enough for her sword to graze his sleeve. “While I, it seems, was forged by mischief.”
When she had first plucked the sword from the rack, he had thought it would be an amusing interlude—a few reckless lunges, some posturing, and then she would surrender with a huff. But she matched him, stroke for stroke.
Damnation, she might actually beat me.
The thought rattled him. Not because his pride quailed at being beaten by a woman—though Anastasia would never let him live it down—but because of the wager.
If she wins… she will leave.
Was that not what he wanted? Since the moment she had walked into his life—into his house, his every waking thought—had not he prayed for her departure? And yet the idea of her slipping away, untethered from him, made his chest ache with something perilously close to dread that had nothing to do with his inheritance.
Sweat slicked his brow, though not from the effort alone. She was fighting for freedom. And he for possession.
“Careful, Miss Dawson,” he murmured, circling her and hoping that his words would get in her head. “I am going easy on you.”
“You should not. I can handle you well enough,” she shot back, her sword cutting through the air with conviction.
He smirked, thinking about how he would get her to cave. “I would have sworn you had a hard time handling me… with how you moaned that day in my study.”
The words made her pause for a couple of seconds, and Benedict saw that as an opportunity to quickly slide past her defense and knock her sword to the floor.
Victory.
Her eyes flashed as she straightened, fury and something else burning in them. “You cheated!”
“On the contrary,” Benedict said, lowering his weapon with deliberate calm, every inch the victor. “I merely reminded you of the truth. I did not realize I affected you quite so much.”
Her sword fell at her feet as Anastasia went very still. Too still. “And what does that truth mean, then? That kiss. That night in the study. What am I supposed to make of it?”
The air between them thickened; her words struck harder than her blade ever could. Benedict hesitated, his pulse pounding in his throat. He had always known this question would come, but he had not expected it here, now, with her chest rising and falling in front of him like temptation.
“You are not supposed to make anything of it,” he forced out, his tone flat, merciless. “Because it meant nothing. It was a moment of frustration. Nothing more. It was a mistake.”
He could see the disappointment flicker across her face before she smothered it beneath a smile as sharp as glass.
“Very well then,” she said calmly, as she set her sword back on the rack. “Even though you cheated, you have won. And I will make good on my word. Summon the next suitor, and I willmarry him without so much as a fuss.”
She turned and walked out, every step measured. But Benedict’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles ached. He had won, but he did not know if he could keep his end of the bargain. He had no intention of presenting another suitor to her. Not now. Not ever.
He had told her that night meant nothing. Yet every fiber of his body knew the truth.
It had meant everything.
And God help him, he could not bring himself to let her go.
Chapter 15
“The port is excellent tonight, Benedict,” Cassian declared, raising his glass.
“And the company is even finer,” Amelia added warmly, one hand resting over her husband’s and another on her belly, and Sebastian looked as though he would gladly set the world on fire if it made her smile. Benedict felt a twinge in his chest that suggested he might be envious.
He shook the feeling away, took a deep breath, and scanned the people around the table. It felt good to be in the company of his friends, who had planned on spending the weekend in Frostmore with him. Amelia had been so happy to come; her pregnancy was barely showing, but she had the glow that women always talked about when with child.
