Anthea pressed her lips together, fighting sudden tears. "How did you become so wise?"
"Marriage to Hugo. He has excellent judgment and it is apparently contagious." Sybil's tone turned lighter, teasing. "Though in your case, I suspect the Duke already has rather more investment in you than a mere practical arrangement would suggest."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that men who view women as practical solutions do not typically lift them into the air after winning garden party games. Nor do they attempt to call on them multiple times despite being blocked by evil stepmothers."
Heat crept into Anthea's cheeks. "?That does not mean anything."
"Darling, it means something. Whether it means enough is what you need to determine." Sybil rose and crossed to her writing desk. "But you cannot determine anything while hiding in my sitting room. Write to him. Explain what happened. Arrange to meet. And then talk to him the way Hugo and I talked before we married—honestly, specifically, and without pretty lies."
"What if he has changed his mind after today?"
"Then you will know, and you can move forward accordingly." Sybil set paper and ink before Anthea. "But I suspect he has not changed his mind. The Duke strikes me as a man who decides what he wants and pursues it with considerable determination."
"You make him sound like a military campaign."
"Well, he is a military man. Perhaps that is how he approaches everything." Sybil grinned. "Including stubborn bluestockings who argue with him at every opportunity."
Despite everything, Anthea laughed. "I do not argue at every opportunity."
"You absolutely do. It is one of your most charming qualities." Sybil's expression sobered. "Now. Will you write to him? Or shall I stand here looking disappointed until you agree?"
"The disappointment is working."
"I know. I have perfected it over years of taking care of the girls." Sybil pushed the paper closer. "Write, Anthea. Take the next step. See where it leads."
Anthea looked at the blank page, then at her friend's encouraging smile. She thought about Hugo's casual kiss, about Sybil's unexpected happiness, about Gregory's green eyes and rare smile and the way he had held her after their victory as though he never wanted to let go.
She thought about Beatrice's cruel words and the weight of guilt she had carried too long. She thought about practical arrangements and pleasant surprises and the terrifying possibility that she might actually deserve something more than mere survival.
"All right," she said quietly, picking up the pen. "I will write to him."
As she dipped the pen in ink, Sybil squeezed her shoulder—brief, warm, supportive.
"For what it is worth," Sybil said softly, "I think you are far braver than you believe yourself to be."
Anthea did not feel brave. She felt terrified and uncertain and utterly overwhelmed.
But she began to write anyway, and perhaps that was bravery enough.
Chapter Twelve
The Royal Menagerie was far more crowded than Anthea had anticipated.
Families pressed close to the enclosures, children shrieking with delight at the exotic creatures while their parents attempted to maintain order. The air smelled of animals and too many people packed into too small a space, and the cacophony of roars, trumpeting, and human chatter created a din that made Anthea's head ache.
Still, she had promised to chaperone Veronica's outing with Mr. Thornbury—the scholarly gentleman who had invited her after their meeting at the garden party. Sybil had graciously agreed to accompany them as well, providing an additional layer of propriety that even Beatrice could not object to.
They had paused before the tiger enclosure, where a magnificent Bengal tiger paced behind iron bars. Veronica had made someinnocent observation about the beautiful creature, which had immediately prompted Mr. Thornbury's correction.
"Miss Veronica, I must correct you on that point. The Bengal tiger originates from the Indian subcontinent, not from Bengal specifically. The nomenclature is, I fear, rather misleading to those unfamiliar with taxonomic precision."
Mr. Thornbury adjusted his spectacles and peered down at Veronica with the expression of a schoolmaster addressing a particularly slow pupil. They had been at the Royal Menagerie for less than a quarter hour, and already Anthea wanted to throttle the man.?
"Oh," Veronica said quietly, her shoulders hunching inward. "I had thought?—"
"A common misconception." Mr. Thornbury waved a dismissive hand. "But one must be precise in these matters. Precision, Miss Veronica, is the cornerstone of intellectual discourse."
