Not when the truth was clawing at his throat.
Not when all he could think was that he had been fighting to find a moment alone with her, and she had been slipping through his fingers every time he reached. He pushed his chair back and rose, slowly enough to look composed, fast enough to avoid saying something reckless.
“Your Grace,” he said evenly, addressing the dowager first, because it cost him less. Then his gaze flicked to Anastasia, and he hated how much he wanted to hold it there. “Miss Dawson, if you will excuse me, I must attend to an unavoidable engagement.”
He turned and walked out with the kind of precision men learned on battlefields, his expression unchanged, his posture perfect.
Only his pulse betrayed him, hammering hard enough that he could feel it in his throat.
He was not leaving because he was done.
He was not leaving because he had given up.
He was leaving because if he stayed one second longer, he would drag Anastasia out of that room and tell her exactly what he had been trying not to admit since the lock clicked, since her mouth met his, since he realized the truth that should have terrified him.
That he did not want a sensible wife.
He wanted her.
And he needed one private moment—just one—to make sure she understood that before it was too late.
Chapter 23
Benedict moved with frantic, uncharacteristic haste, determined to corner Anastasia and speak to her. He knew that he could not live without her. It was the way it was; his list and rules be damned. His sanity depended on her. On having her. On kissing her. She was his and his alone.
He discarded his morning coat and was immediately halfway toward the door, focused on finding her in her favorite haunts. The butler intercepted him.
“Your Grace, forgive the intrusion. His Grace, the Duke of Stonevale, Mrs. Alistair, and Miss Penelope are waiting for you in the day room.”
Benedict cursed under his breath. Cassian had been kind enough to house his cousin and niece on his estate up north, and it was probably instinctive on his part, too. His friend must have discerned the coldness with which he received the duo. Perhaps the two women were preparing to travel back home. Still, he hoped he would be allowed to forgo this formality.
He had to politely cut ties with the Alistairs, at least in terms of a romantic engagement. The two women were still related to his friend.
“My apologies, my ladies. I had been preoccupied with various meetings regarding my seat in the House of Lords, a matter that requires immediate focus. Therefore, I regret that you must cut your visit short. I am ensuring you all have some presents and a generous travel allowance.”
“Y-you do not have to do that, Your Grace!” Penelope protested, looking truly horrified at the thought of accepting money. “We are happy to have been able to visit. We also spent a wonderful time at our cousin’s. That is enough.”
“Please do not mind her, Your Grace. We may need some allowance, after all, for traveling all this way up here,” her mother said sheepishly.
Cassian’s eye twitched at his cousin’s blatant request. He was already aware of the situation at hand and how the decision was based on Benedict’s feelings and not his seat at the House of Lords. Penelope, in a rare act of defiance against her mother, glared at her. Benedict was almost tempted to ask her to stay back. Almost. Perhaps she would have been a good match if it were not for Anastasia, who had made a mark in his life.Penelope possessed the quiet control he once thought he valued above all else.
Once more, Cassian narrowed his eyes at his relatives. Then, he turned his suspicious gaze upon Benedict. It was clear that he did not quite believe his dismissal of the mother and daughter was accidental, or that it had anything to do with the House of Lords, but he could not say anything in front of them.
As soon as his visitors’ carriage pulled away, Benedict resumed his search for Anastasia. He had never felt this frantic before. He discovered that she had locked herself away, at least from him. There was no response from her, audible or otherwise. He had missed his chance with her.
Benedict did not really care about the Alistairs—where they were going or what they thought of him. However, he knew with painful clarity that Anastasia had become a ghost. She no longer haunted the gardens and chose to take her meals in her room. Whenever he sent her little notes, he would get formal responses from a footman.
She seemed to be done with him.
Whenever he sent her notes, his words became desperate and raw, and his penmanship less precise. He would get dismissive responses through a footman.
Benedict was puzzled, furious, and acutely hurt. It was the first time in his whole adult life that he had been so effortlessly ignored and dismissed, and by the person he realized he could not stand to lose. Moreover, he found himself terrified that he was no longer the man he had been. The man of discipline had become a floundering man, who was driven by emotion and not logic.
Lost.
On the other side of the wall, in her own turmoil, Anastasia was trying to deal with her own crisis. Every frantic, poorly written note from Benedict displayed how his calm was slowly breakingapart. She tried to stay strong, reminding herself that it was the same thought—that he was letting her inside his icy walls, which made her trust him wholly, even after having been burned twice before. He had become her greatest fear and greatest hope.
Anastasia was tempted to share her feelings with Benedict, only to end the agony. She wanted to confess that she yearned for his reckless pursuit, but she also knew it was not a good idea. The memory of his kisses commanded her, reminding her of his passion. By the pond, she thought that she had finally gained power over him. She felt that he actually loved her. The notes seemed to suggest the same.
