"Nothing improper occurred," she said instead.
"It matters not what actually occurred," Beatrice snapped. "It matters only what appeared to occur. And what appeared to occur was a young woman alone with a duke in a private room. The gossips will be talking about this for weeks."
"Then let them talk," Anthea said, lifting her chin. "They have talked about me before. I survived it then. I shall survive it now."
"Ah yes, your previous scandal," Beatrice said with cruel satisfaction. "Though we have never confirmed what actually happened, have we? Some servant's gossip about an elopement that never was. But this, this shall be confirmed by half a dozen witnesses of impeccable standing."
Anthea's stomach twisted, but she forced herself to remain calm. "The Duke will simply refuse to acknowledge it. He has no reason to offer for me."
"Does he not?" Beatrice's smile turned calculating. "He is a duke attempting to establish himself in Society. A man concerned with propriety and reputation. And now he has been caught in a compromising situation with a lady of quality. His honor will demand he make an offer."
"My honor demands no such thing," Anthea said firmly. "I will refuse any offer he makes."
"Will you?" Beatrice leaned back against the squabs, her expression shifting from fury to something far more dangerous—satisfaction. "How very noble of you. But I wonder if you have considered the consequences of such a refusal?"
"What consequences?"
"For your sisters, naturally." Beatrice's gaze slid to Poppy and Veronica, who had remained silent throughout the exchange. "After all, if word spreads that you were caught in a compromising position and the gentleman offered marriage—which he will, mark my words—and you refused... well. The ton will assume there is something deeply wrong with you. More wrong than they already suspect."
Anthea's blood ran cold. "You would not?—"
Beatrice's smile widened. "All I would have to do is allow the truth to circulate. That you were caught alone with a duke. That he did the honorable thing and offered marriage. And that you proud, foolish girl that you are, rejected him. The whispers about your past would intensify. Questions would be asked. And yoursisters, associated with such a woman, would find their own prospects diminished accordingly."
"That is not fair," Poppy whispered, speaking for the first time since entering the carriage. "Anthea was trying to protect me. She should not be punished for?—"
"Silence," Beatrice said coldly. "You failed in the one simple task I gave you. You have no right to speak."
Tears welled in Poppy's eyes, and Anthea felt her protective instincts surge with renewed force. "Do not speak to her that way."
"I shall speak to my daughter however I please," Beatrice retorted. "Though in truth, this situation may yet be salvaged. Not in the way I originally intended, but perhaps better."
Anthea felt a chill of foreboding. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that while you were the one caught with the Duke, the association still exists. You are connected to this family, after all. Your scandal touches all of us." Beatrice's expression turned thoughtful. "If the Duke offers for you, which he will, and you accept, which you shall, then you become a Duchess. And a Duchess with two unmarried stepsisters would naturally wish to see them well settled."
Understanding dawned with horrible clarity. "You still wish to use this situation to advance Poppy and Veronica."
"Naturally." Beatrice smoothed her skirts with evident satisfaction. "With you as Duchess of Everleigh, your sisters would have access to the finest circles. The best matches. You could provide them with dowries from your husband's fortune. Introduce them to his wealthy friends. In many ways, this outcome is superior to my original plan."
"Except for the minor detail that I have no intention of marrying the Duke," Anthea said through gritted teeth.
"Then you condemn your sisters to spinsterhood," Beatrice said with a shrug. "The choice is yours, naturally. Your happiness and freedom, or their futures. Which shall it be?"
Anthea looked at Poppy, whose face had gone pale with distress, then at Veronica, who squeezed her hand with quiet desperation. She could see the guilt in Poppy's eyes, the burden of knowing that Anthea might be forced into marriage because of her.
This is not your fault,Anthea wanted to say.This is Beatrice's doing, her manipulation, her cruelty.
But saying such things aloud would only make matters worse.
"I will consider the matter," Anthea said finally, her voice carefully neutral.
"You will accept his offer," Beatrice corrected. "Or you will watch your sisters' prospects crumble to dust. Those are your options."
The carriage rolled to a stop outside their townhouse—her townhouse, she reminded herself bitterly—and Beatrice swept out with the air of a woman who had won a great victory. Poppy and Veronica followed more slowly, casting worried glances back at Anthea.
Anthea remained seated for a moment longer, her hands trembling with suppressed fury. She had promised to protect her sisters. Had sworn to find them good matches, kind husbands, futures free from Beatrice's cruelty.
And now she was trapped, caught between her own freedom and their happiness.
