“Anastasia, are you all right?” Benedict asked. The hands that gripped her elbows did not hurt. Instead, they steadied her.
Anastasia pulled away. There was no need for her to embarrass herself. Yet, her body knew him too well. Its reaction was too potent, making her cheeks flush and her body tremble.
For a heartbeat, the concern in his expression was plain enough to make her throat constrict. His eyes swept her face as though he were searching for something he feared to find, and she hated that he could look at her like that and still keep so much of himself hidden. She stepped back quickly because her body had no restraint around him.
“I am sorry, Your Grace,” she managed, smoothing her voice into something respectable. “I was distracted.”
Benedict’s hands dropped, but he did not move away. He stood there in front of her as if he had been looking for her, and the silence that followed felt charged. His jaw worked once, and his gaze flicked briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes with a look that made her breath catch.
“Anastasia,” he began again, lower this time, and there was nothing cold in it. He sounded almost… strained. “We need to talk about last night. About—”
She held perfectly still, because she could not tell if she wanted him to say it or if she was terrified he might. He had never started a sentence like that with her before. He had never offered an explanation. Never anything that sounded like he might be about to admit that he had done wrong by her.
And then the moment broke.
A footman appeared at the far end of the hall, hesitant only a second before he bowed. “Your Grace,” he said apologetically, as though he could feel he was interrupting something he ought not to. “Your guests have arrived. They are asking for you.”
Anastasia watched Benedict’s expression tighten. Yet, for one brief heartbeat, his gaze remained fixed on hers as if he wanted to ignore the summons entirely, as if it cost him to turn away.
His mouth parted, as though he meant to finish what he had started. Instead, he drew a slow breath, and when he spoke, it was quiet, meant only for her.
“We need to talk later,” he murmured, his voice rough with restraint.
Later. The word should not have lodged in her chest the way it did. It sounded far too close to a promise.
Then he stepped back, and she could see in the stiffness of his posture that leaving her there was not effortless. He hesitated once more, his gaze holding hers as though he were trying to say what he could not say with words, and then he turned and strode toward the footman, every step measured as if he were marching to an execution rather than greeting guests.
Bumping into Anastasia raised several emotions within Benedict. He was still musing about his next steps after what had happened between them. It was thrilling and confusing to see her rushing around that corner. Then, he saw her face. It was not the face of someone excited to see him. She looked like she had been struck.
Damn Cassian.
No—damn him entirely. It was Benedict’s own letter that had brought the Alistairs to Frostmore, his own failure to cancel it the moment he realized he did not want them here, and now he had no choice but to play the part. Whatever he felt about Anastasia, whatever he had intended to say to her, it would have to wait. He had responsibilities. He could not simply turn away two women who had made the journey on his invitation.
“Good day,” he greeted.
Cassian looked somewhat relieved to see him appear. The Duke of Stonevale immediately launched into the introductions. Mrs. Alistair wore a big grin, her eyes flashing with excitement. Meanwhile, Miss Penelope seemed like a shy young woman. She ticked off his list with her calm, reasonable demeanor. One might not notice her right away because of her quiet ways, butshe was beautiful in a more classical, restrained way. She was the kind of woman men of his rank preferred, as she promised manageable and somewhat predictable domesticity.
“I trust the weather was quite calm during your journey,” he said after clearing his throat.
They had settled in the drawing room, where servants served them tea. Cassian was unusually silent, perhaps to give Benedict and Penelope a chance to get to know each other.
Where was the teasing Cassian when he needed him?
“Yes, Your Grace,” Miss Penelope replied. “It did not rain at all, but we did have to deal with dusty roads.”
“It was fine, Your Grace,” Mrs. Alistair interjected.
There was a back and forth about the weather, with Miss Penelope responding briefly to each question.
“Do you think the government should do anything about the condition of the roads?” he heard himself ask, and realized too late that he sounded as though he were addressing a committee in the House of Lords rather than a young lady at tea.
Penelope blinked. “Oh… I do not know, Your Grace. I suppose it is… tolerable.”
Mrs. Alistair laughed lightly, as though he had made a charming joke. “Oh, Your Grace, we manage quite well. Dust is hardly a catastrophe.”
Benedict forced a polite expression, but inside his mind had already wandered. He did not want to know whether Miss Penelope found roads tolerable. He wanted to know what she thought of public spending, of duty, of responsibility—something real. Anastasia would already have said something sharp. She would have made a remark about government priorities, or at the very least given him a look of pointed disbelief that would have made him argue, just for the sake of it.
In his head, he reminded himself that this was the order and reason he hoped for. He kept his composure by focusing on his cuffs.
