Benedict lifted his own glass. “I did not invite you here to praise my wine.”
“No,” Sebastian said, amused. “You invited us because if you remain alone in this house much longer, you will begin issuing the dogs written schedules.”
Across the table, Lupita and Pepita were already prowling with the solemn focus of seasoned thieves. Pepita planted herself directly beneath Amelia’s chair, eyes fixed on the roast as if willing it to fall.
Cassian leaned down, offering a bit of bread beneath the tablecloth, and both dogs immediately decided he was their favorite man alive. Anastasia, seated beside her aunt, let out a laugh that she tried to smother behind her napkin.
Benedict saw it. Of course, he saw it.
The dowager clicked her tongue. “My girls are quite unruly. Much like my niece. Benedict, did you tell Cassian and Sebastian how you and Anastasia are forever quarreling with each other? They cannot seem to get along, and I cannot seem to get them to act in a civilized manner. I would have better luck with Lupita and Pepita than the both of them.”
Benedict froze because that was not the direction he had expected the conversation to go. Sebastian’s eyebrows rose suggestively, Cassian grinned like the devil himself, and Anastasia choked on her wine.
“My aunt,” Anastasia managed, when she could breathe again, “has a particular talent for exaggeration.”
“Oh?” the dowager replied, looking delighted rather than corrected. “Then it must have been my imagination when I heard you declare, only a few days ago, that you would rather leap into the pond than accept a single instruction from His Grace.”
“That,” Benedict started, his index finger in the air, “is a gross misrepresentation of what really happened. I would say that Miss Dawson and I just bicker, and not argue. We are barelyeven acquainted to have quarrels.”
Liar,the voice in his head hissed. You know her better than anyone at this table, having seen her undone.
He forced a smile. After all, this was supposed to be a friendly meal. However, deep inside, the simple comment felt like having to grind glass between his teeth. As the Duke of Frostmore, he dealt with finances, strategy, and decorum. These days, though, the dowager, seemingly oblivious, threw pebbles through his wall of composure.
“Ah. No quarreling, just bickering. Understood,” Cassian murmured, his tone suddenly dry as dust. He paused, his mischievous look quickly replacing the momentary seriousness. “Still, what level of acquaintance would be required for a duke as highly composed a gentleman as you to lose his temper?”
“Nothing more than usual in most homes,” Benedict explained, looking a little pained.
The footman, who was pouring wine into Cassian’s cup, raised an eyebrow but fixed his expression before anyone could notice. Everyone knew too well how he and Anastasia argued, but he hoped he was doing a good job of fooling his friends.
Cassian only grinned and reached beneath the table to scratch Lupita’s ears. Lupita promptly rolled onto her back, shamelessly adoring him.
Anastasia laughed again—quieter this time, but it still landed like a small needle beneath Benedict’s skin.
Sebastian leaned forward, clearly delighted by the entire situation. “You know, Benedict, I had almost forgotten how insufferable you can be when someone interrupts your preciousroutine.”
Benedict’s eyes narrowed. “My routine is the reason this house is not falling apart.”
The dowager was not done spreading their dirty linen to dry in front of company. “Well, my niece always interrupts his routine, but I think it is charming. Besides, quarrels build passion, don’t you agree, Cassian?”
Cassian’s eyes lit up. He had been dying to be asked a question all night. “I will not say the same, Your Grace. Personally, I do not bother wasting my breath on someone that I do not care for. But when I do, I could argue with them till the end of time. Don’t you think, Miss Dawson?”
Anastasia rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes, Your Grace. Nothing says passion quite like engaging in a heated argument with someone else.”
Cassian threw his head back, his body shaking with quiet laughter. Meanwhile, Benedict gripped his fork so hard he thought he might bend it.
As if matters were not already intolerable, Sebastian, in his mild, reasonable way, asked, “And what of your list, Benedict? Are you making any progress on it?”
All right, they definitely had a vendetta against him because he had planned a nice, wholesome weekend. But now, he felt bombarded from all sides, and he could feel the white-hot panic of becoming exposed. His list was his armor, the only defense against his former life. It made him feel in control, not like when he was young, and his uncle decided whether to coddle or discard him on a whim. He was the spare who never was, but with a list, he was the master. Now, they were treating it like ajoke.
For a second, no one uttered a word, and he almost let out a sigh of relief when Anastasia chimed in. Of course, she would not let it go.
Her head snapped toward him; he was scared it was going to roll off her neck. “You have a list? What kind of list?”
Benedict’s blood ran cold. “It is nothing,” he mumbled.
“Nothing?” Amelia leaned in, smiling with a hint of mischief, her eyes shining at Anastasia. “Sebastian told me all about it. Apparently, Benedict has kept a list since his school days. An actual list of rules and goals to govern his life. He swears by it.”
Anastasia gasped, pressing her hand over her mouth in faux disbelief. “A list? You mean to tell me that Mr. Straton does not even sneeze without consulting a page in his little book? How utterly surprising.”
