The words blurred into a haze of legal jargon. Anastasia’s mind wandered, her nerves a taut string waiting to snap. Her anxiety had nothing to do with the contents of the will or with mourning. She could not mourn him. The late Duke of Frostmore had been a lecherous tyrant, and his death had not felt like a tragedy so much as a door finally bolted against a threat. What unsettled her was everything that still lived beneath the ceremony—the staircase she could not forget, the promise she had given her aunt, and the man across the room who now had every right to ask questions. She sat a little straighter, waiting for the substance beneath the ritual.
At last, the solicitor’s tone shifted.“I do hereby declare that all worldly assets, including the title and estate, shall pass to my nephew and heir, Benedict Straton. The monetary assets, however, are to be held in escrow until the aforementioned Duke of Frostmore secures a suitable marriage for Miss Anastasia Dawson. Should he fail to secure such an alliance within a year, said funds shall be forfeited and donated to charity.”
The room went silent.
“What?” Anastasia blurted out, her pulse lurching. She was almost glad she had not taken a sip of tea, or she might have choked on it—or sprayed it across the table. “You cannot be serious.”
For a moment, it felt as though the late duke’s hand had reached out of the grave to close around her ankle—one last grasp, one last indignity. And it struck his nephew at the same time, neatly and cruelly.
One blow. Two birds.
Her protest was echoed by none other than Benedict himself. He surged to his feet, his chair scraping harshly against the floor.
“You must have misread something. Surely my uncle would never devise something so irrational.”
“I understand your confusion,” Mr. Deacon replied, unruffled. “However, the will is unequivocal. The title and properties are yours outright, Your Grace, but the monetary fortunes of Frostmore will remain in trust until Miss Dawson is wed. Should that not occur within one year, the entirety is to be given over to charity.”
“That is preposterous!” Benedict’s voice was clipped, but his flush betrayed the strain of holding back a more violent outburst.
“Nonetheless,” Mr. Deacon said firmly, adjusting his spectacles. “The wishes of the deceased must be respected. There are, of course, formalities to be addressed—”
“Of course. I will attend to them in my study.” Benedict flung his napkin onto the table and cast Anastasia a look sharp enough to slice before striding from the room, every muscle taut with fury.
Anastasia sat frozen, her heart pounding. Of all the absurdities she had feared her uncle might arrange, this—binding her freedom to a forced marriage—was beyond imagination. To be tethered yet again, to betradedlike some burden… it was intolerable.
And yet, from the storm etched across Benedict’s features, she knew he was every bit as incensed. Only, his anger came not from fear of being forced into marriage, but from thehumiliation of having his fortune yoked to hers. A ruined woman, the subject of whispered scandal. If he knew anything of her at all, he must despise the situation.
The sudden sound of clapping drew Anastasia’s gaze up from her untouched plate. Her aunt was beaming across the table, her delight utterly incongruous with the tension that hung in the air.
“A wedding! How utterly marvelous. I do adore weddings.”
Anastasia forced a polite smile. “I do not believe His Grace shares your enthusiasm, Aunt. He seemed rather… perturbed by the contents of the will.”
“Nonsense.” Hyacinth waved her hand as if Benedict’s fury were a trifling matter. “He will come around. Everyone enjoys a wedding. It will be just the thing to help him relax and settle in at Frostmore.” She beamed again, so serenely self-assured that Anastasia abandoned the discussion as hopeless.
But her aunt’s blithe dismissal did nothing to ease the heaviness coiling in Anastasia’s chest. The Duke had been livid—his pride smarted at being shackled to her reputation and her fate. She doubted that would change in the foreseeable future. And the longer she remained under his roof, the more it would gall him.
No. Better for both of them if she removed herself from Frostmore altogether. Evangeline’s reply had not reached her yet, but she would take her in—surely she would. Perhaps the Duke would find some clever means of untangling himself from his uncle’s final demand.
Anastasia forced herself to finish her meal, then bid her aunt a quietgood dayand slipped away to her rooms. There, with grim efficiency, she summoned her maid to begin packing. Another servant was sent to ready the carriage. If the Duke wanted hergone, she would go—better on her own terms than dragged out under his cold command.
An hour later, her trunks were stacked neatly by the door, her bonnet tied, her gloves buttoned. She cast one last look about the chamber that had been both her haven and her prison for the past two years, then gathered her skirts and descended the staircase, determined to make her exit with dignity.
“Where do you think you are going?”
The voice cut through the hush like a blade. Anastasia froze, her heart stumbling. At the base of the stairs stood Benedict Straton, his gaze fixed on her with chilling precision. His piercing gaze pinned her in place, daring her to take another step. Anastasia stopped, the maid hovering behind her with two of her bags.
“You directed me to leave, Mr. Straton, did you not?” she managed, though her throat felt tight. “So, I am leaving. I have written to my sister and asked her to receive me.”
Benedict mounted two steps, closing the gap between them until his nearness pressed against her like a wall of cold precision.
“No. You are not going anywhere.”
Her maid shifted nervously behind her, clutching the luggage, but Benedict’s presence commanded all the air in the hall. He advanced another step, so close now that Anastasia could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, smell the clean bite of soap still clinging to his skin.
“You will remain here,” he said, his voice a low growl. His hand lifted—firm, deliberate—and caught her wrist before she could draw back. Not painful, but implacable. “Do not mistake my words last night for permission to leave. You belong under thisroof, and until I release you, here is where you will stay.”
Her pulse raced beneath his grip, traitorously responsive. “You cannot simply decide where I do or do not belong or keep me here against my will!”
