“However, you cannot remain here anymore. Your presence carries a heavy burden of secrets to this household. I intend tostart a family here, one that is not tainted by the past. From now on, you will be living at the Dower House. You are still our family, and we will provide for you, but you may not interfere in what happens to the Frostmore family ever again. Even though I have to admit I will miss your daily presence. Even Lupita and Pepita.”
The decision was both stern and merciful. The dowager accepted it with a nod and some tears. Anastasia could still feel the weight lifting from her aunt. It must have been difficult to pretend to be hale and hearty when your soul was full of guilt.
Six weeks later, Anastasia and Benedict were finally married.
It was a moment of love, relief, and happiness. Anastasia did not even mind the fact that the dowager and her mother, the Viscountess of Wilkins, were placed in charge of planning. The result was as expected: the affair was extreme and slightly tacky, with an abundance of clashing colors and unbridled decorations.
It was a glorious affair, nonetheless.
Every silk and lace seemed to have been used to adorn the drawing room. It was a display of excess rather than subtle charm and good taste. Anastasia had spied her groom laughing in secret in one corner, and she could not help but chuckle.
Why would she care what people thought of the most wonderful day of her life? They had dragged her name into the mud so many times; their commentaries on her garish pink floral arrangements placed near the Straton family’s traditional blue did not matter. The cake was taller than Benedict, making people gawk at it for the wrong reasons, such as whether they would get a plop of icing on their heads at some point. Her mother handpicked the musical selection, full of sentimentalfrivolity.
Again, it was perfect.
Her sisters, Evangeline and Serenity, were there with their husbands. Sebastian, Amelia, and Cassian were present, too, with less teasing and more offered congratulations. The people who mattered the most seemed content with the union and its haphazard decorations.
Later that night, the married couple retreated to their bedchambers, as the day’s festivities transitioned into quiet intimacy.
“I am glad they at least let me choose my gown,” Anastasia admitted, as she unpinned her hair in front of her dresser.
“My God, Anastasia. Look at you.”
The raspy sound of his amazement surprised her. She let the final pin slip from her hair and faced her husband, her heart pounding so hard she swore he could hear it.
“It was a beautiful gown,” she said softly, almost shyly, as she stood in nothing but her chemise. “However, I am glad that I am out of it.”
“Oh, so am I,” Benedict reassured her, giving her a smirk. It made the heat pool low in her belly. She liked seeing him like this, with her barriers down and his cravat loose.
What happened next was a blur of desperation, of clothes falling to the floor. Their first time at the pond held mystery and frantic passion, while tonight, their love was more assured.
Yet, this was the real consummation. She could finally tell the world that he was hers, and she was his.
“I have been thinking of this all day,” he murmured as he embraced her, pressing her against her hard length. “All damned day, we were surrounded by people, but all I wanted was to have you alone. Here. In our bedchamber.”
“I had the same thoughts, Benedict,” she whispered.
His hand slid from her cheek to the nape of her neck, gentle and possessive at the same time. He tilted her face up to his so he could see her heavy-lidded eyes, glazed with desire. It made her feel weak.
“I love you,” he uttered, voice roughened by emotion. “My wife.”
My wife.
Who knew anyone would ever want her to become their wife, much less him? He was perfect, and she was chaos.
Finally, they kissed. This was not the gentle kiss they shared with the world after the marriage vows were made. This promise was more carnal and more intense, paving the way to forever. Her mind fractured with the taste of their wedding cake and brandy, mixing with the flavor of him.
His hands were all over at once, as if he had been waiting for this since that encounter by the pond. And he was, but she was equally urgent in her movements. He lay her on the bed and nudged her thighs apart to make way for him. There, he molded her shape from her cheeks to her neck to her breasts and waist. At the pond, there was no time for familiarization. Here, they had all the time in the world.
“You are so beautiful. Always have been. A temptation,” he muttered, as he let his gaze caress her body.
She knew it for what it was. He was worshipping her with all that he had, and it made her shiver. Even though everyone talked about her as fallen, nobody had touched or kissed her as Benedict had, and would continue to do so.
“You are beautiful,” Anastasia whispered, and she meant it.
Benedict was magnificent, sculpted to perfection. She did not get to appreciate how well-formed he was, honed by sport and duty. Her eyes could not help but rake every inch of him. This powerful man was hers.
He spread her legs and dipped his body low so he could claim her lips once more. The kiss was now slower and deeper, an exploration that he seemed to be savoring as he palmed her breast. She ached even more. For his touch. For him. Every time his thumb circled her nipple, the sensation coursed through her core. She whimpered when his mouth left hers to suckle her nipple and lash it with his tongue.
