“You do not understand,” she said in a low voice, edging closer to him.
People were now craning their necks as it became harder to eavesdrop. Benedict would have laughed in amusement if not for the fact that he was scared of what she had to say.
She walked away, only to beckon to him to follow her. They found a little nook in the gardens where they could still be seen but not heard. Benedict knew that she was being careful this time, just as he was more prepared to shed his scruples.
“You must know the whole truth before you make a decision. It would not be fair to you. There is so much about me that you probably heard in bits and pieces. Scandal follows girls like me—chaotic minds like mine. I tease you about your list, but I admire your fortitude and discipline. I had escaped a marriageto a duke only to find myself in a terrible scandal when I eloped with a captain. Nobody could be blamed but myself. The baron, whom you had gladly punched into unconsciousness, courted me thereafter, thinking I was easy prey, especially after hearing everything from me. He was sorely disappointed that I was not the woman he thought I was. I slapped him when he attempted to assault me. I was sent away to my aunt so that I would not hurt my sister Serenity’s marriage prospects. It could not be helped. I had become my family’s shame. Unfortunately… your uncle thought the same way the baron did. He was a lecherous man who flirted with me every chance he got. It got to the point that he promised to leave his wife for me. It was disgusting.”
“He did what?” Benedict asked, indignant.
The words came out flat, but there was something lethal beneath them. His gaze fixed on a point past her shoulder, as if he could already see the man in question and was deciding precisely how he would have ended him, had he been given the chance.
All those years.
All that preaching.
All those lectures about virtue and discipline and duty.
Benedict’s throat tightened hard enough to hurt. He could almost hear his uncle’s voice—the cold correction, the contempt for weakness, the relentless insistence that composure was everything, that temptation was for lesser men, that women were distractions to be managed.
And then the same man had looked at Anastasia as if she were something to take.
What a hypocrite.
His voice sharpened, controlled but furious. “That sanctimonious bastard.”
Anastasia blinked, startled by the suddenness of it.
Benedict’s eyes snapped back to hers. “He spent half my life teaching me that discipline was the only thing that separated a man from an animal.” His jaw clenched so hard she thought his teeth might crack. “He made me bleed for it. He made meearnevery scrap of his approval with it.”
His hands tightened again. His composure held—barely.
“And all the while,” he continued, voice lower now, edged with contempt, “he was the very thing he claimed to despise.”
Anastasia’s lips parted, but no words came. She had expected disbelief. She had expected coldness. She had not expected rage on her behalf.
“I am not yet done,” she said, lifting her chin. “One day, my aunt and your uncle were arguing. My aunt took it upon herself to push him down the stairs. I saw it happen with my own eyes. She made me promise not to say anything. In exchange, she would help secure my future. It was the reason I was trapped in Frostmore.”
Benedict felt his composure crumble as he watched her in disbelief.
“The dowager pushed him?”
He tried to visualize the dowager and his late uncle. Suddenly, he could see himself at the top of the stairs like her, watching the life of a terrible man in his hands. That gave him an almost perverse understanding of why she did it. He breathed hard before pulling himself from the vision and gazing at Anastasia’sface.
She was right there. So close. All he could do now was look forward to the future. With her. If she would have him.
“I hope you will not find Frostmore a prison when you live with me there, Anastasia,” he murmured.
“No, it has been different with you there, but I did not dare give myself any hope.”
He turned his head slightly, as though looking at the shadow of Frostmore itself. Then his gaze returned to Anastasia, and the anger shifted again. It became focused.
Not on the dowager.
Not even on the dead man.
But on the fact that Anastasia had endured all of it alone.
Benedict took a step closer. His voice lowered, steadying into something firmer than fury.
