"You will wait as long as necessary to see my sisters well-matched," Anthea countered.
"Fine," Beatrice said, turning back toward the settee. "But all three of you shall be wed by then. Even you, my dear."
"I have no intention of marrying."
"Then I shall make other arrangements for you." Beatrice settled herself among the cushions once more. "Now leave me. This conversation has worsened my headache considerably."
Anthea stood frozen, her chest tight with helpless fury. Every instinct screamed at her to argue further, to fight, to refuse. But Beatrice had already dismissed her, had already made clear that continued protest would only invite retaliation.
She turned on her heel and walked from the drawing room with her spine straight and her head high. Only when the doors closed behind her did she permit herself a single, shaking breath.
No,she thought with fierce determination, her hands still trembling with rage.No, you will not win this. I will not allow it.
Poppy and Veronica were waiting in the corridor, their faces anxious and pale.
"Well?" Veronica whispered.
Anthea looked at her stepsisters, these girls she had protected and loved despite having no true claim to them beyond affection. Poppy with her bright spirit and romantic heart. Veronica with her gentle soul and quiet strength.
She would not let Beatrice destroy them. She would not let them suffer as she had suffered, trapped by men who saw them only as possessions to be acquired and used.
"We have until season's end," Anthea said quietly. "And I promise you both, here and now, I will find you matches worthy of you. Men of honor and kindness. And Beatrice will have no say in the matter whatsoever."
"But how?" Poppy asked tremulously. "We have already met every eligible gentleman in London."
Anthea's mind was already turning, already planning. She had withdrawn from Society, yes. Had avoided balls and soirées and all the glittering cruelty of the ton. But she still had friends. Cassandra, who knew every secret and scandal. Sybil, who had married well despite similar obstacles.
And she had something Beatrice did not: determination born of desperation.
"Leave that to me," Anthea said, squeezing both their hands. "I will not fail you. I swear it."
Even if it meant facing the very world she had spent three years avoiding. Even if it meant risking her own carefully constructed walls.
She would not let Beatrice win.
Chapter Two
"And tell me, Your Grace, how are you finding London Society thus far?"
Gregory Briarson, Duke of Everleigh, resisted the urge to inform Lord Pemberton precisely how he was finding London Society.Insufferable. Artificial. And populated entirely by peacocks who have never done an honest day's work in their privileged lives.
"Most illuminating, my lord," he said, his voice carefully neutral.
The circle of gentlemen surrounding him tittered. Gregory's jaw tightened fractionally. In the army, when men wished to insult you, they did so plainly. Here, every word seemed to carry three additional interpretations, none of which he could decipher.
"The Duke has only recently assumed his title," a lady said from somewhere behind her fan. "We must make allowances for his... adjustment period."
"After all, His Grace comes from rather... rustic circumstances, does he not?" another gentleman added, his soft hands folded over his softer belly.
Rustic.As though his childhood of poverty and violence was something quaint and pastoral rather than brutal and desperate.
"I spent the last decade in His Majesty's service," Gregory said, steel entering his voice. "I would hardly characterize military campaigns as rustic."
Lord Pemberton's smile turned sharp. "Your military career is most impressive, Your Grace. Most... vigorous."
The wordvigoroussomehow sounded like an insult.
"Though one does wonder," Lady Thornbury continued, "whether military discipline translates effectively to the requirements of the ton."
