For a heartbeat, she considered defying him further, just to see what he would do. The gleam in his eyes promised ice and danger in equal measure. Her body screamed to test him; her pride forced her lips into a tight, mocking curve.
“As you wish…Mr. Straton,” she whispered, her voice tinged with challenge, though her pulse betrayed her.
Chapter 4
What was I thinking, to challenge him so rashly? And worse, to let him touch me so boldly…
The memory of his hand at her neck, the heat of his nearness, refused to leave her.
I should be furious. I am furious. And yet—oh, heavens—what am I to make of the way my heart raced beneath his grip? I will have to pray that Evangeline and her husband are feeling both charitable and hospitable to take me in, or I might as well end up on the streets.
As soon as she had fled the study, Anastasia had locked herself in her bedroom and dropped into the chair at her writing desk. She had tried to compose a letter to her sister, setting out the urgency of her plight now that the new Duke of Frostmore had ordered her gone. Yet her quill hovered uselessly above the paper, her thoughts looping back again and again to the man himself.
The Duke of Frostmore. Arrogant. Irritating. Entirely insufferable. Everything she had suspected from the momentshe first glimpsed him on the road. But also so unyieldingly strong. His voice still echoed in her ears, low and rough, a command given form. And his hand—firm, unrelenting—claimed her as though she were something he had every right to control. It had been infuriating… and it had made her shiver with something dangerously close to excitement.
I cannot afford to think of him in this way. Not with my future so uncertain. Not when the very same man is threatening to turn me out. And yet…
“Anastasia, darling, there you are.” Anastasia blinked as she entered the breakfast room in the morning, her tumultuous thoughts scattering. She had hoped to find her aunt in the breakfast room, but had not expected her to still be at the table. All at once, relief and dread tangled in her chest. “Did you sleep well, my dear?”
“I did not. Not after my encounter with the new Duke of Frostmore.” Anastasia scowled. “Did you know that he arrived last night, and the first thing he did was to order me out of the house?”
“Oh, tosh. He may have said something foolish, but I assure you, you will be going nowhere, not unless you wish to.” Aunt Hyacinth patted her hand with an air of confidence. “I promise you that.”
“It is unwise to make promises you cannot be assured of keeping, Aunt.” Anastasia’s gaze darted to the door just as it swung open. “How well do you know this man?”
“It has been years since I last saw him, but…”
They were silenced as the Duke entered with his usual aura of command. His hair was damp from a recent wash, his chinfreshly shaved, his very presence filling the room. He glanced at her with the faintest frown, and Anastasia—against her will—felt a betraying warmth creep into her cheeks.
“Mr. Straton,” she said quickly, lifting her chin. “I thought you might still be abed, given the late hour of your arrival.”
“I always rise before the sun,” he replied, his tone clipped. “I find the hour before dawn the most conducive to exercise.” His brow arched, the expression perilously close to disdain. “Only the idle, or the undisciplined, remain abed once the sun has risen.”
She was tempted to snap back at him. Her tongue itched with the perfect retort, but she forced it back, schooling her features into a serene mask. “Then I must apologize for being… laggardly, as you would call it.”
“At least you are awake and dressed,” Benedict returned coolly, taking his place at the table. “The solicitor will be here at any moment for the reading of the will. I am gratified that I do not need to summon you.”
“That is right,” Aunt Hyacinth interjected briskly. “And until then, you ought not to be uttering pronouncements and trying to send my niece away. It is most improper of you to play the tyrant before you have even heard your uncle’s last wishes.”
Benedict’s mouth twitched—as if with the effort of holding back a sharper reply.
“As you say.” He unfolded his napkin with crisp precision and began to serve himself. Anastasia, still prickling beneath his earlier jab, yet unwilling to let him see it, took the seat closest to her aunt. She accepted the food the servants offered, though she found her appetite curiously unsettled under the weight of his presence.
Anastasia then allowed herself a closer look at him. He was taller than she had first registered, his build broad and unmistakably strong beneath the cut of his coat. He looked freshly bathed, his hair still dark at the edges, his skin clean and faintly warm with color, as though the water had not entirely cooled the effects of exertion. And his face—stern moments earlier—was undeniably handsome when unguarded. She looked away a moment later, irritated to discover she had noticed at all.
They had scarcely finished when the butler entered with a bow. “Your Grace, the solicitor has arrived.”
“Very well, send him in. We will receive him here.” Benedict dismissed the butler with a flick of his hand. Moments later, the man returned, ushering in a portly gentleman burdened with a leather satchel stuffed with papers.
The newcomer bowed politely. “Jonathan Deacon, solicitor. I presume you are all gathered for the reading of the will of Morton Straton, the late Duke of Frostmore?”
“Indeed,” Benedict said crisply.
Anastasia was anxious, but the Dowager Duchess seemed disturbingly at ease. Her chin jutted forward, and a smirk played on her lips. It did not look like the behavior of a woman concerned about the reading of the will. Did she possess information about what might be in it, or did she not care anymore?
“Then let us begin.”
Mr. Deacon withdrew a sheaf of parchment and adjusted his spectacles with a solemn air. He cleared his throat.“I, Lord Morton Straton, being of sound mind and body, do here and now inscribe this as my last will and testament, to be enactedupon my demise…”
