The air in the room thinned.A cold, sinking dread slid down Bea’s spine.“You cannot be serious.”
“He is serious,” Mother said softly, almost sadly.“And so am I.I fear I’ve been far too indulgent with you, Beatrix.”
“But Lord Vanover and I do not suit.”Bea stood as if movement alone could steady the quiver beneath her ribs.Her heart climbed into her throat.“He’s smug and vexing and—” Her voice cracked despite her best efforts.“Surely, you must see that we are ill-matched.”
“Nonsense.”Father sliced the air with a decisive wave, as though her objections were no more than a child’s tantrum.“Archer is anidealmatch.He has wealth, lineage, influence—everything a young woman in your position could want.And he agreed to the courtship long ago.Frankly, he’s shown an extraordinary degree of patience.He’s been more than reasonable.”
“Reasonable?”Bea echoed, the word tasting so bitter she nearly choked on it.“Reasonable would have been speaking tomebefore arranging my future like I’m a parcel to be posted.Was this his idea?”
“No,” Father replied, tugging sharply at the front of his waistcoat.“But I expect he’ll be pleased to hear I’ve finally come to my senses.The man needs an heir someday, after all.”
Something jolted inside of Bea, sudden as a snapped harp string.Mysenses.As though her future were a lever to be pulled at his discretion, rather than a life she intended to direct herself.And mentioning Archer’s heir so flippantly, as thoughshewere nothing more than a breeding horse.
Her father continued, voice hardening.“Let me be perfectly clear.I do not require your agreement.You aremydaughter, and this is the wisest course.”
Bea’s throat tightened until it ached.“You speak as though I’m not even in the room,” she said, voice simmering.“As though my life is some strategy to be plotted.”
“Your mother and I have discussed it,” Father said.“You will have time to grow accustomed to the idea of the marriage, but the courtship will begin.Immediately.”
Her mother reached out as if to offer comfort, but Bea turned away.
She could still picture Archer in his coat, that slow, knowing smirk when he’d parried every one of her remarks with effortless precision.The maddening, magnetic pull of him.The way his gaze had lingered, as if he understood something about her she hadn’t meant for anyone to see.
And he was going to be formally courting her?
Truly?
A cold sweep of dread washed over her, sharp enough to make her shudder.Nicholas Archer—handsome, infuriating, arrogant man—would soon be parading around her life with her father’s blessing, invading her routines, her peace, her sanctuary.And he would do it with that insufferable confidence of his, as if the entire arrangement were merely a puzzle waiting for him to solve.
Oh, they had gravely—spectacularly—miscalculated.
Because if her father thought she would simply accept this…
And if Archer thought he could waltz through her defenses as neatly as he wielded that wicked tongue of his…
They were both about to learn precisely how formidable Beatrix Winslow could be.
War—quiet, strategic, and devastating—was already taking shape in her mind.
