Time to use it.
"Mrs. Croft," she said, stopping beside Beatrice. "Might I have a word? In private?"
Beatrice's smile tightened. "Of course,Your Grace. How could I refuse?"
The title—spoken with just enough emphasis to make it sting—made several nearby guests turn to look.
Anthea led her stepmother to a small sitting room off the main hall. She closed the door firmly behind them and turned to face Beatrice.
For a long moment, they simply looked at each other.
"Well?" Beatrice said finally. "What is it you wish to discuss that could not wait until after your wedding breakfast?"
"My sisters," Anthea said. "I want them to come live with me. Under my protection and sponsorship."
Beatrice's expression turned cold. "Absolutely not."
"I was not asking your permission," Anthea said calmly. "I was informing you of my decision."
"You have no right?—"
"I have every right." Anthea kept her voice steady, even as her heart raced. "I am a Duchess now. I have the social standing and financial resources to sponsor them properly. To give them the opportunities you cannot—or will not—provide."
Beatrice's face flushed with fury. "How dare you suggest I have not provided for my own daughters?—"
"You have provided them with dresses and dowries," Anthea interrupted, her voice sharp. "But you turned away a gentleman caller from Veronica simply because he lacked a title. You would have forced Poppy into a marriage she did not want. You care more about your own pride than their happiness."
"And you think you can do better?" Beatrice's voice dripped with venom. "You, who are not even related to them? You are nothingto them, Anthea. Nothing but their father's bastard daughter from his first marriage."
The words landed like a physical blow.
Anthea had known—had always known—that Beatrice did not consider her family. But hearing it stated so baldly, with such contempt, still hurt.
She forced herself to remain calm. To not let Beatrice see how much the words stung.
"Perhaps I am not completely related to them," Anthea said quietly. "But I love them. And I will do whatever is necessary to protect them. Even if that means taking them away from you."
"You cannot?—"
"I can." Anthea took a step closer. "And I will. My husband has already agreed. He has offered to provide them with proper dowries—substantially larger than anything you could afford. With his support and my sponsorship, they will have opportunities you could never give them."
Beatrice's expression twisted with rage and something that looked almost like fear.
"They are my daughters?—"
"And they will still be your daughters," Anthea said. "I am not trying to replace you. I am simply offering them a better chance at happiness. At finding husbands who will cherish them rather than simply tolerate them."
"By implying I am incompetent? By suggesting I cannot care for my own children?"
"By acknowledging reality," Anthea said bluntly. "You do not have the resources. I do. It is that simple."
Beatrice stared at her for a long moment, clearly torn between pride and practicality.
"And what do you want in exchange?" she asked finally. "What is the price for this... generous offer?"
Anthea had anticipated this. Had prepared her answer carefully.
"I want you to agree to let them go," she said. "To allow them to live with Gregory and me, to accept my sponsorship without interference. No more turning away callers you deem unsuitable. No more manipulating them into matches that serve your interests rather than theirs."
