Anastasia shook her head quickly, disagreeing with Amelia while also banishing the thoughts that were ramming into her. Amelia was sorely mistaken; she knew Benedict could not stand her. He had been vocal about it since they met.
She chuckled, trying to clear the air and not give what Amelia had said too much thought. “You place too much importance onme, Your Grace. I am flattered, but Mr. Straton does not think of me that way. Far from it, actually.”
Amelia just smiled at her, not saying anything as they talked about other things that interested them. And when they parted by the staircase, Anastasia could not help but replay her words in her head.
Is there any possibility of the truth in what she said? Surely, Amelia knows Benedict more than I do. Should I listen to her?
She was turning the words over in her head when she nearly walked straight into him.
Benedict.
He looked freshly shaven, neat, and cold. As if the last thing he wanted to do was even encounter her.
“Miss Dawson.” His voice was polite. Too polite.
“Mr. Straton.” She nodded to him, deliberately using the name that questioned his title and authority. “How fortunate. I was just saying to myself, what a shame it is not to meet one’s host in his own house. But then, you do seem intent on avoiding me. After last night, I—”
“On the contrary,” he interrupted, his tone so level it nearly fooled her. “I find you difficult to avoid. As much as you find it difficult to use my proper title even in the presence of company.”
“Really? One might almost think you were jealous at breakfast,” she said, instead. The questions had died on the tip of her tongue.
“Jealousy,” he said coldly, “is a waste of energy and a lapse in control. I believe both to be unacceptable.”
“Mm. How fortunate for you,” she murmured, savoring the sting of his words. They might wake her from her languorous dream. They had to. “Because if you were, it might mean you cared. And that, of course, would be absurd.”
She tried her best to get a reaction from him, but got nothing. Anastasia’s fingers curled at her sides. She could still feel him on her skin—she could still hear him—and here he stood acting as though she were nothing more than an inconvenience with a sharp tongue.
He stepped closer to her and whispered so only she could hear.
“If you wish to play with fire, Miss Dawson,” he murmured, “do not be surprised when you burn. Do not call me Mr. Straton again, either. You have no idea what it means to me.”
Before she could gather herself enough to ask what he meant, he stepped back just enough to restore distance, just enough to make it clear the conversation was finished.
And then he was gone, leaving her confused about what he meant.
Chapter 18
“The interest payments on mortgages down south will bankrupt us by the end of the year, Your Grace. We have to liquidate the land. Anyway, we do have several other properties that we could keep with no such issues.”
With his guests returned to London, Benedict was free to focus on estate affairs. For years, it had been the highlight of his days, with some teasing from Sebastian and Cassian to break the monotony. However, today, his mind was scattered entirely, but he tried not to let the steward notice.
He listened to his steward intently and tapped the leather-bound ledger with a silver pen. As was usual with him, he kept his expression neutral. “Liquidation is not an option. I will not succumb to the effects of past mismanagement. We can find a viable tenant who can make the most of the land. Someone with adequate capital. We will find a way to accelerate the contract.”
“I… I shall do that, Your Grace,” the steward said, shifting in his seat. Sweat beaded on his temples and upper lip. Benedict knew that even though he might disagree with him, his employee did not really have a choice.
“What of our wheat yields?” he asked after checking the list in his hand. “I asked for them three days ago.”
“Deepest apologies, Your Grace. The weather has not been too good, but we have managed to arrive in time for this meeting.”
The steward would have been given days more of peace to put his information together if not for a tempting blonde with green eyes. Anastasia had Benedict wrestling with a ghost for the past three nights. Now that he knew how she tasted, the memory was not merely haunting him, but it had become a fever that burned through his usually meticulously planned hours. He had failed in his own strict personal discipline because of her.
The steward passed him a sheaf of papers, which he inspected.
Benedict felt a deep-seated dissatisfaction despite doing everything as he should. He rose at dawn and rode his horse for about an hour. By noon, he was done reviewing the estate accounts. He even had a meticulously planned and carefully written speech for the House of Lords.
What else could he be but disciplined, productive, and constantly on schedule? Despite it all, the satisfaction that often accompanied his routine and rules was gone.
A man who was reclaiming his destiny should feel triumph above anything else. However, hollowness seemed to have taken over as of late. It appeared that the relevance of one such woman had taken over him.
