Her brows arched, her smirk deepening. “Whoever you are,Your Grace, you look rather less than graceful. You look so bedraggled that one might mistake you for a servant caught in the rain. A gardener, perhaps.”
The urge to snarl at her was almost uncontrollable. Benedict mastered his anger with significant effort. “I cannot imagine whatyouwould look like were you caught in the rain and assaulted by a pair of yapping, vicious little mongrels, as I was.”
“Ah, you have met Pepita and Lupita, Aunt Hyacinth’s Pomeranians! That is wonderful, especially since you seem to get along well with them. That is important, given how much she loves them.” Anastasia’s smile lingered on the edge of a smirk, making Benedict’s blood burn with anger and frustration. “I am sorry if they were overexcited when they greeted you. I intended to let them out only for a moment, because they were so restless, but I did not—”
“So it wasyouwho delayed me on the road with a tortoise, andyouwho let those wretched animals loose? You appear to be the source of my every misfortune since I set out. Why are you even here? Do you not have a family of your own to plague with such misfortunes, Miss…?”
Something sparkled—some emotion that passed through her expression like quicksilver. It was there and gone too quickly for him to be certain what sort of emotion it was, before she tossed her head and gave him a distinctly unfriendly stare.
“Anastasia Dawson.”
“And why are you invading my house? The last thing I expected when I arrived was to find a disheveled wild woman imposing onmyhome,mydesk, andmychair.”
The hellion had the audacity to smirk at him. “As I said, I live here. The Dowager Duchess is my maternal aunt.”
Benedict felt his lip curl and made no effort to hide his expression. “No one told me when I assumed the dukedom that there was a woman under the dowager’s care. And a hellion at that.”
Anastasia smiled and rose from his desk with an effortless grace that he almost envied. “Well, I understand, Mr. Straton, but I seeno reason—”
“It’s notMr. Straton.” Benedict strode forward, glaring down his nose at her. “The dowager’s hospitality ends tonight. I want you out of my house.”
“You cannot do that! Aunt Hyacinth is my family. I have been living here in Frostmore for two years.”
“And you will live here no longer.” Benedict’s voice was flat as a blade. “Leave my house at once. You will be gone by morning, or I will see you out myself.”
The smile that had sat so easily on Anastasia’s lips vanished as if someone had wiped it away. “You cannot send me away. I… I have nowhere else to go.”
“That is of no concern of mine. You will leave.”
“I will not.”
Benedict closed the distance between them in three long strides, the air shifting with his sudden presence. Anastasia found herself pressed back against the paneled wall, her spine grazing the polished wood. His hand closed firmly at the nape of her neck, tilting her chin upward until their mouths hovered a breath apart. She could feel the heat radiating from him, the steady thrum of his control vibrating in the hard line of his grip.
“That was not a request,” he said, his voice low, vibrating through her. “It was an order.”
Her heart pounded, but Anastasia met his gaze without flinching; the light in her eyes was fiercer than fear. “And what do you expect me to do with your order? Do you expect to bark orders and have me kneel at your feet like a servant?”
“Understand this, Miss Dawson.” His thumb brushed the delicate curve just beneath her ear; whether by accident or cruel design, she could not tell. “I do not bark. I do not repeat myself. And I do not tolerate chaos.”
Despite his hold, despite her quickened breath, a daring smile curved her lips. “If you dislike chaos and discord so much, then you will most certainly hate me.”
His eyes flickered dark, heat sparking beneath his restraint. “Not yet,” he murmured, leaning close enough that she felt the whisper of his breath on her cheek. “But you are making swift progress.”
The air between them crackled. She could feel the strength in the hand that held her, the promise of what it might do if he chose. Her skin tingled, a traitorous warmth curling low in her belly. She forced herself to speak, though her voice came hushed.
“Well, I do like to make progress. What is next in this little game of ours, now that introductions are out of the way?” She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Please do enlighten me… Mr. Straton.”
“That is Your Grace. If you wish to have any chance of remaining here, then perhaps you might consider courting my favor rather than my ire.” Anastasia flushed, uncertain what to make of the heat that danced through her at his dominating tone.
No man had ever made her feel such heat. Anastasia swallowed hard, unwilling to allow him to see the effect he was having on her.
“Why should I court your favor when you have already determined my fate? Or is your intent to play with your words and my future both?”
“I do not play, Miss Dawson.” His grip tightened for the briefest instant, then loosened, his fingertips trailing heat as he released her. Anastasia looked up to see that his face was flushed, as though he felt the same heat she did. She even fancied she might see something more than coldness in his gaze—though it was most likely anger, rather than anything else.
“Do you not? Then what is this?” Perhaps the challenge was foolhardy, but she was determined to preserve her pride, even if she could maintain nothing else. She might be doomed to life as a fallen woman, living in some boarding house, but she would face her fate with dignity and grace, in her own way.
“Introductions and instructions. Now, go to bed, Miss Dawson. Before you regret your defiance.”
