"And you agreed?"
"I was still half-frozen and in shock. He asked if I had objections, and I said no, and then he said the wedding would be in a week." Anthea twisted her hands together. "It all happened so quickly."
"Do you want to marry him?" Sybil asked quietly.
"I—" Anthea stopped. Did she? "I do not know. I never wanted to marry anyone. But when he asked if I had objections, I found I did not. And I still do not, which is perhaps the strangest part of all this."
"You do not regret agreeing?" Sybil pressed.
"No." The admission surprised Anthea with its certainty. "I do not regret it. I simply do not understand it."
Cassandra leaned forward, her expression intent. "What do you feel when you are with him?"
"Confused. Frustrated. Challenged." Anthea paused. "Alive."
"Alive," Cassandra repeated, a slow smile spreading across her face. "That is not nothing."
"It is not love either," Anthea countered quickly. "This is a practical arrangement. He has been very clear about that."
"Has he?" Sybil's tone suggested doubt. "Because jumping into a lake and carrying you through London while ignoring every rule of propriety does not sound particularly practical."
"He said he would have done it for anyone."
"Oh, darling." Cassandra's expression turned pitying. "Men say all sorts of foolish things when they are trying to protect themselves from their own feelings."
"He does not have feelings for me. This is convenience. Mutual benefit. He needs a wife who understands Society, and I need?—"
"What do you need?" Sybil interrupted gently.
Anthea opened her mouth, then closed it. What did she need? Security for her sisters, certainly. Escape from Beatrice's household. But was that all?
"I need to know what I am agreeing to," she said finally. "I need boundaries. Expectations. I need to know that this arrangement will not—that he will not?—"
"That he will not hurt you the way Maxwell did?" Sybil finished.
The name landed like a stone in still water. Anthea flinched.
"Maxwell was a liar and a manipulator," Cassandra said fiercely. "The Duke is neither of those things. Blunt to the point of rudeness, perhaps, but not dishonest."
"I know that. Rationally, I know that." Anthea pressed her hands together. "But I still feel... unsettled. As though I am walking into something without fully understanding the terms."
"So establish terms," Sybil said simply.
Anthea looked at her friend. "What?"
"As I said before, establish terms. Discuss boundaries. Set expectations." Sybil leaned forward, her expression earnest.
"The Duke does not seem like the type of man who discusses things," Anthea said doubtfully. "He commands. He decides. He announces betrothals in bedrooms."
"Then make him discuss," Sybil replied. "You are not some timid debutante afraid of her own voice. You are Anthea Croft, and you have never been afraid to demand what you need. Do not start now simply because he has a title and looks at you in ways that make you forget your own name."
"He does not look at me in any particular way," Anthea protested weakly.
Both her friends stared at her with identical expressions of disbelief.
"Fine," Anthea conceded. "Perhaps he looks at me in certain ways. But that does not mean?—"
"It means you need to have a conversation," Cassandra interrupted. "Before the wedding. Before you tie yourself legally to a man whose expectations you do not fully understand."
