Anthea had initially considered declining the invitation. Between the house party's success and Veronica's upcoming wedding, her schedule was already overwhelming. But Veronica had wanted to go, had practically begged with those soft eyes that Anthea could never quite refuse, and so here they were.
The exhibition hall smelled of earth and flowers and too many competing perfumes. Anthea navigated through the crowds with practiced ease, Veronica on one arm and Poppy on the other, admiring displays of roses and orchids while mentally cataloging which matrons to approach about wedding invitations.
"Oh, look at those lilies," Veronica breathed, stopping before a display of white blooms so perfect they looked almost unreal."Mr. Hartley would love to sketch these. The way the light catches the petals?—"
"Everything reminds you of him now," Poppy teased, but her tone was affectionate. "It is sickeningly romantic."
"You are simply jealous," Veronica said, smiling.
"Perhaps a little," Poppy admitted. Then, more quietly, "Though I confess, Mr. Ashford has been very attentive in his correspondence. His last letter was quite?—"
"Veronica Hillington."
The voice cut through the pleasant chatter like a blade.
Anthea's spine stiffened. She knew that tone—cold, imperious, vibrating with barely contained fury.
Beatrice.
She turned slowly, positioning herself between her stepmother and her sisters with instinctive protectiveness. Beatrice stood three paces away, resplendent in burgundy silk that probably cost more than she could afford, her face a mask of aristocratic disdain that did not quite hide the rage burning in her eyes.
"Mrs. Croft," Anthea said, her voice carefully neutral. "What a surprise to see you here."
"Is it?" Beatrice's smile was sharp enough to draw blood. "When my daughter is the talk of the ton? When I discover through gossip—gossip, Anthea—that Veronica has accepted a proposal from a gentleman I have never even met?"
Several nearby guests had stopped pretending to admire the flowers. Anthea could feel their attention like insects crawling across her skin.
"Perhaps we should discuss this privately," Anthea said quietly.
"Why?" Beatrice's voice rose just enough to carry. "So you can continue making decisions about my daughters without consulting me? So you can ruin their prospects behind my back?"
"Ruin?" Anthea felt her jaw tighten. "Mr. Hartley is a respectable gentleman with a good income and excellent character. Hardly ruinous."
"He is an artist," Beatrice spat the word like a curse. "A gentleman, yes, but with no title, no significant property, no connections worth mentioning. You were supposed to improve their prospects, not settle them with the first pleasant man who showed interest!"
"Mr. Hartley is more than pleasant," Veronica said, her voice trembling slightly but determined. "He is kind and thoughtful and?—"
"Quiet," Beatrice snapped without looking at her. "I am speaking to your sister."
The casual dismissal—the way Beatrice refused even to acknowledge Veronica's right to speak about her own future—ignited something hot and familiar in Anthea's chest.
"Do not speak to her like that," Anthea said, her voice going cold in the way that usually preceded her most devastating social strikes.
"I will speak to my own daughter however I please," Beatrice countered. "You may have bought yourself a title, Anthea, but you do not have the right to make decisions about their futures without my consent."
"Your consent?" Anthea's laugh was sharp and humorless. "You gave up the right to make decisions about their futures when you agreed to let me sponsor them. When you took my money for your house and your comfort in exchange for letting them go."
Beatrice's face flushed. "I agreed to let you sponsor them socially. To introduce them to suitable gentlemen. Not to marry them off to second-rate artists who cannot provide for them properly!"
"Mr. Hartley can provide perfectly well," Anthea said. "He has a comfortable income, a house in town, and genuine affection for Veronica. Which is more than can be said for most of the matches you attempted to force on them."
"At least my matches had proper bloodlines," Beatrice hissed. "At least I understood the importance of marrying well rather than indulging romantic fantasies about starving artists!"
"He is not starving," Veronica said, louder this time. "And even if he were, I would rather be poor with a man who loves me than wealthy with one who tolerates me!"
"You do not know what you are talking about," Beatrice said, finally turning to face her daughter. "You are too young, too naive to understand what poverty actually means. What it is like to struggle, to scrape by, to?—"
"To be like you?" Veronica interrupted, and there was steel in her voice now that Anthea had never heard before. "To marry for money and regret it every day? To be bitter and cruel because you chose security over happiness?"
