"I do." Beatrice sat up slowly, wincing. "They have each had their fair share of seasons with nothing to show for it. I will not permit them to waste another chasing after romantic nonsense."
"Romantic nonsense," Anthea repeated slowly. "You mean the desire to marry a man who might actually care for them? How terribly unreasonable."
"Do not presume to lecture me." Beatrice's voice turned sharp as a blade. "I gave you every opportunity to rise above your common birth. I taught you everything necessary to navigate the ton. I introduced you to gentlemen of quality and standing. To_"
"To vultures and fortune hunters?"
"To your betters! And you still failed spectacularly." Beatrice rose from the settee, her dressing gown billowing around her like a thundercloud. "You rejected perfectly suitable matches. You withdrew from Society. You became... whatever it is you are now. Cold. Unmarriageable. A burden."
The words struck deeper than Anthea cared to admit, but she kept her expression impassive. "I am none of those things."
"Are you not?" Beatrice circled her slowly, like a cat toying with a mouse. "The whispers follow you everywhere. 'Poor Miss Croft,'they say. 'Something happened, you know. With an Earl's son. Nothing proven, of course, but...' And you did nothing to dispel those rumors. You simply... retreated."
Because telling the truth would have ruined Poppy and Veronica along with me,Anthea thought fiercely.Because some secrets must be kept, no matter the cost.
"My choices are my own," she said aloud. "And they have no bearing on your daughters' futures."
"Do they not?" Beatrice's smile was cruel. "When you drag their reputations down with your own? When your presence in their lives marks them as associated with... whatever scandal you refuse to name?"
"There was no scandal."
"Then why does no gentleman call upon you? Why do invitations dwindle? Why do the other ladies eye you with such speculation?" Beatrice leaned closer. "You may have convinced yourself that you chose this solitude, but we both know the truth. You were ruined, whether in deed or merely in reputation, and now you wish to drag my daughters into your misery."
Anthea's fingernails bit into her palms. "I wish nothing but happiness for Poppy and Veronica. Which is precisely why I cannot allow you to marry them off to whatever ancient lecher or cruel fortune hunter you have selected."
"You cannot allow?" Beatrice laughed, sharp and bitter. "You have no authority here, girl. This is my household?—"
"Left to me by my Father."
"—and they are my daughters. I shall see them wed to whomever I please."
"Even if it destroys them?"
"Better unhappily wed than unwed entirely." Beatrice's expression hardened. "The Season ends in mere weeks. We do not have sufficient funds for another year of this charade. The house costs must be paid. My own expenses must be maintained. And I will not reduce myself to poverty simply because my daughters have unrealistic expectations about love and romance."
"Perhaps if you had not spent the last three years purchasing new gowns and attending every card party in London."
"Do not speak to me of economy," Beatrice hissed. "You, who live rent-free in your father's townhouse whilst the rest of us struggle to maintain appearances!"
"My townhouse," Anthea corrected coldly. "A house far larger than you could afford on your widow's portion, and which I graciously allowed you to share so that I might remain with my sisters."
"Graciously?" Beatrice's face flushed crimson. "You insufferable little?—"
"I will not allow you to marry them against their wishes," Anthea interrupted, her voice steady despite the rage coursing through her veins. "Poppy dreams of marrying for love. Veronica deserves gentleness and kindness. I will not stand by whilst you auction them off like this."
"You will do precisely as I say," Beatrice said, her voice dropping to something soft and dangerous. "Or have you forgotten? You may own your precious townhouse, but I am still their mother. I hold legal authority over them until they wed. And if you interfere..." She paused, letting the threat hang in the air. "Well. There are establishments for young women of unstable mind. So very tragic when a lady of quality loses her wits entirely. But what choice would I have, if you began making wild accusations? Spreading lies about my character? Becoming... hysterical?"
Anthea's blood ran cold. "You would not dare."
"Would I not?" Beatrice smiled pleasantly. "Test me, my dear stepdaughter. Please do test me."
For a long moment, they stared at one another across the drawing room. Anthea's mind raced, cataloguing options, calculating risks. Beatrice held the legal power, there was no disputing that. But she also held debts, and dependencies, and a reputation nearly as tarnished as she claimed Anthea's to be.
"You speak as though the season is our only opportunity," Anthea said, her voice gaining strength. "But matches need not be arranged during the season itself. Betrothals are announced throughout the year. We have months beyond season's end to secure suitable arrangements."
Beatrice's expression flickered with uncertainty.
"I will not wait indefinitely," Beatrice said, but her tone had lost some of its earlier venom.
