She shook her head, hoping to clear her thoughts about Benedict. She needed space and time to breathe. She wanted to be certain that the wild devotion was love, or something akin to it, rather than a form of control.
“What if he only wanted you as his mistress?” she whispered to herself.
Her reputation seemed to support this suspicion. She had seen Miss Penelope, too. She was blameless. Spotless. She should be the next Duchess of Frostmore.
Anastasia was still standing there, trying to breathe past the tightness in her chest, when the knock came.
It was not Benedict or one of the maids this time. It was a footman, holding out a letter on a silver tray.
“For you, miss. Delivered this moment.”
Her stomach dipped before she even touched it. London letters carried a particular weight.
The seal was Wilkins.
Her fingers tightened around the missive as she broke it open, her eyes scanning the lines too quickly, as if she could not bear to read them slowly.
Serenity is to be married!
Her breath left her in a single, shaky exhale.
For a moment, she stood there, the paper trembling slightly in her hand, as if her body could not decide whether it was relief or dread that had flooded her. Serenity’s marriage meant her future was secured, her Season concluded, and the burden Anastasia had carried for two years would finally be lifted.
It also meant something else.
It meant she had an excuse—an unimpeachable one.
Yes, finally, there was a reason to leave.
She went straight to the dowager, letter in hand, because she knew she could not do this alone and pretend she still had the right to leave Frostmore like that.
“Aunt,” she said, quieter than usual, “Serenity is getting married.”
The dowager’s eyes widened. Then her face split into delighted triumph, as if she had personally arranged the match. “Is she? How wonderful!” She clasped Anastasia’s hands. “Of course, we will go together. I would not miss it for the world.”
Anastasia nodded, swallowing hard. Of course. After everything, she could hardly gallivant to London unchaperoned as if she were still an unblemished young lady. She had no right to tempt fate, not after what she had done at Frostmore and what Benedict had allowed her to do.
The thought of telling him made her throat tighten. She could picture his expression—controlled, unreadable—while his eyes gave away too much. She could imagine the things he might say if he caught her leaving.
Or worse, what he might not say at all.
So she made the decision quickly, before she could lose her nerve.
She would leave without telling Benedict.
She would go to London with her mind on Serenity’s wedding and nothing else, and she would not give him the chance to pull her back into whatever this had become.
Not until she could breathe again.
Anastasia missed her family. She was in awe of the atmosphere in her mother’s drawing room. It was of gentle but unrestrained joy. She still could not believe that Serenity was already married in an intimate affair, a quiet ceremony that felt like it was designed to push away gossipmongers.
At least, that was what she felt. She wondered when the ghosts of her past would stop haunting her. She swallowed hard.
Her other sister, Evangeline, looked more radiant than the bride for some reason. It might be Anastasia’s imagination. Then again, her mind could not be trusted these days. She thought Benedict wanted her, but he wanted a respectable wife, one whose reputation was not besmirched by scandal. She felt ashamed and confused.
“I am so happy our little sister has finally married,” Evangeline breathed, beaming at her.
“Oh, I am so happy for Serenity,” Anastasia agreed. Her sullen feelings had nothing to do with her sister’s wedding. Not at all.
