"It is what needs to happen," Anthea said, hearing the defensiveness in her own voice. "Given the circumstances. The scandal from yesterday would ruin all of us if we did not—if he did not?—"
"So you are marrying him to avoid scandal?" Veronica's voice was small, worried.
"No. Yes. Partially." Anthea pressed her fingers to her temples. "I do not know. He proposed—or rather, announced—and I agreed, and now it is happening, and I cannot seem to form a coherent thought about any of it."
The sisters exchanged glances.
"Do you love him?" Poppy asked bluntly.
"I—that is not—we barely know each other!"
"That is not an answer."
"It is the only answer I have." Anthea reached for the tea Poppy had brought, needing something to do with her hands. "This is an arrangement. He needs help with Society. I need—we need—security for both of you. It makes sense."
"Practical arrangements do not usually involve dramatic lake rescues," Poppy pointed out.
"Or carrying you through London while soaking wet," Veronica added.
"Or announcing betrothals in your bedroom," Poppy finished.
Anthea took a long sip of tea and wished desperately that her sisters were less observant.
"The Duke seems... intense," Veronica said carefully. "When he carried you in yesterday, he looked—Anthea, he looked terrified. And then when Mama tried to argue with him, he was so forceful. So protective."
"That does not mean anything.” Her mouth twisted. “He would have done the same for anyone."
"Would he?" Poppy tilted her head. "Because it did not look that way to me."
Before Anthea could respond, another knock sounded.
"Miss Anthea?" A maid's voice called through the door. "The Duchess of Vestiaire and Miss Burrow have called. They are waiting in the drawing room."
Anthea closed her eyes. Of course. Sybil and Cassandra would have heard by now. The entire ton had probably heard by now.
"Tell them I will be down shortly," she called back.
Twenty minutes later, dressed and armored with as much composure as she could muster, Anthea descended to find her friends occupying the drawing room with the air of women prepared for interrogation.
"You are getting married," Cassandra announced the moment Anthea entered. "In one week. To the Duke of Everleigh. The same Duke you swore you had no interest in marrying."
"Good morning to you as well, Cassandra."
"Do not 'good morning' me. Sit down. Explain." Cassandra pointed imperiously at a chair.
Anthea sat, feeling rather like a student called before a particularly stern governess.
Sybil, at least, offered a sympathetic smile. "We heard about the accident yesterday. Are you recovered?"
"Physically, yes. Emotionally..." Anthea gestured vaguely. "That remains to be seen."
"Start from the beginning," Sybil suggested gently. "What happened after you walked away at the menagerie?"
Anthea explained—the distraction, the fall, the terror of drowning, Gregory's rescue. Her friends listened with widening eyes, occasionally interjecting with gasps of shock or concern.
"And then he simply announced you were betrothed?" Cassandra demanded when Anthea finished. "Just declared it as fact?"
"More or less."
