An Offer from a Duke (Unlikely Duchesses #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

"Icannot do it, Veronica. I simply cannot!"

Anthea heard her stepsister Poppy's anguished cry before she reached the morning room. She quickened her pace, her heart sinking with each step. When she pushed open the door, she found Poppy, face blotchy and wet with tears, collapsed in the arms of her eldest stepsister, Veronica.

"Whatever is the matter?" Anthea demanded, crossing the room swiftly to kneel beside them both.

Poppy lifted her tear-stained face. "Mama has declared she will no longer wait for us to secure matches of our own choosing. She intends to arrange marriages for both Veronica and me before season's end."

The words struck Anthea like a physical blow. "She what?"

"She made the announcement not a quarter hour ago," Veronica said quietly, though her hand trembled where it stroked Poppy's hair. "She has apparently been in correspondence with several gentlemen of her acquaintance."

"Gentlemen of her acquaintance," Anthea repeated, her voice flat. She knew precisely what sort of men those would be: wealthy enough to overlook a mediocre dowry, old enough to desire a young bride, and cruel enough to appeal to Beatrice's particular sensibilities. "Did she mention any names?"

Poppy shook her head miserably. "She said only that she would not allow us to end up like–" she stopped abruptly, her eyes darting to Anthea with horror. "Oh, Anthea, I did not mean..."

"Like me," Anthea finished calmly, though fury was beginning to simmer in her veins. "Six and twenty years old and unwed. A cautionary tale for young ladies everywhere."

And whose fault is that, precisely? she thought with bitter clarity. Not mine, certainly, though the ton seems to believe otherwise.

"You chose not to marry," Veronica said firmly, her loyalty as steadfast as ever. "That is entirely different from being unable to secure a match."

"Is it?" Anthea rose to her feet, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. She had indeed chosen to remain unwed, but only after... No.

She would not think of that night, of a cruel man’s lies and false promises. "It matters not what I chose or did not choose. What matters is that Beatrice has no right to dispose of you both as though you were inconvenient parcels to be shipped off at her earliest convenience."

"She is our mother," Poppy whispered, though the word sounded hollow. "Surely she wishes for our happiness?"

Anthea nearly laughed at the na?veté of it. "Your mother wishes for her own comfort and consequence. She always has."

"Anthea," Veronica cautioned gently.

But Anthea was beyond caution. Poppy wanted to marry for love, romantic, foolish girl that she was.

And Veronica, sweet Veronica who had comforted Anthea through her own heartbreak, who deserved nothing but kindness from the world, would never survive being shackled to whatever monster Beatrice selected.

"Where is she now?" Anthea demanded.

"The drawing room," Veronica said, her eyes widening. "Anthea, perhaps you should wait. "

"I have waited quite long enough."

Anthea swept from the morning room with purpose, already composing the blistering speech she would deliver.

She understood why Beatrice despised her; she was a living reminder of her stepmother's descent in the world, of marrying a mere baron when she had once dreamed of earls and dukes. But Poppy and Veronica were her own daughters. Her own blood.

Though blood has never meant much to that woman, Anthea thought viciously as she approached the drawing room doors. Cruelty is her only true relation.

She did not bother knocking. The doors swung open with perhaps more force than was strictly ladylike, revealing Beatrice sprawled upon the settee in her dressing gown, one hand pressed dramatically to her forehead.

"Good morning, stepmother," Anthea said with exaggerated politeness. "I trust you are recovering well from last evening's ball?"

Beatrice cracked open one eye. "Lower your voice, girl. Some of us are suffering the aftereffects of Society's demands."

"How terribly taxing it must be," Anthea said, her tone dripping false sympathy, "to consume three glasses of champagne whilst gossiping about your betters."

Both of Beatrice's eyes opened now, narrowing dangerously. "Mind your tongue."

"I shall mind my tongue when you mind your duty as a mother." Anthea crossed her arms. "Poppy tells me you intend to arrange marriages for her and Veronica."

"I do." Beatrice sat up slowly, wincing. "They have each had their fair share of seasons with nothing to show for it. I will not permit them to waste another chasing after romantic nonsense."

"Romantic nonsense," Anthea repeated slowly. "You mean the desire to marry a man who might actually care for them? How terribly unreasonable."

"Do not presume to lecture me." Beatrice's voice turned sharp as a blade. "I gave you every opportunity to rise above your common birth. I taught you everything necessary to navigate the ton. I introduced you to gentlemen of quality and standing. To_"

"To vultures and fortune hunters?"

"To your betters! And you still failed spectacularly." Beatrice rose from the settee, her dressing gown billowing around her like a thundercloud. "You rejected perfectly suitable matches. You withdrew from Society. You became... whatever it is you are now. Cold. Unmarriageable. A burden."

The words struck deeper than Anthea cared to admit, but she kept her expression impassive. "I am none of those things."

"Are you not?" Beatrice circled her slowly, like a cat toying with a mouse. "The whispers follow you everywhere. 'Poor Miss Croft,' they say. 'Something happened, you know. With an Earl's son. Nothing proven, of course, but...' And you did nothing to dispel those rumors. You simply... retreated."

Because telling the truth would have ruined Poppy and Veronica along with me, Anthea thought fiercely. Because some secrets must be kept, no matter the cost.

"My choices are my own," she said aloud. "And they have no bearing on your daughters' futures."

"Do they not?" Beatrice's smile was cruel. "When you drag their reputations down with your own? When your presence in their lives marks them as associated with... whatever scandal you refuse to name?"

"There was no scandal."

"Then why does no gentleman call upon you?

Why do invitations dwindle? Why do the other ladies eye you with such speculation?

" Beatrice leaned closer. "You may have convinced yourself that you chose this solitude, but we both know the truth.

You were ruined, whether in deed or merely in reputation, and now you wish to drag my daughters into your misery. "

Anthea's fingernails bit into her palms. "I wish nothing but happiness for Poppy and Veronica. Which is precisely why I cannot allow you to marry them off to whatever ancient lecher or cruel fortune hunter you have selected."

"You cannot allow?" Beatrice laughed, sharp and bitter. "You have no authority here, girl. This is my household—"

"Left to me by my Father."

"—and they are my daughters. I shall see them wed to whomever I please."

"Even if it destroys them?"

"Better unhappily wed than unwed entirely.

" Beatrice's expression hardened. "The Season ends in mere weeks.

We do not have sufficient funds for another year of this charade.

The house costs must be paid. My own expenses must be maintained.

And I will not reduce myself to poverty simply because my daughters have unrealistic expectations about love and romance. "

"Perhaps if you had not spent the last three years purchasing new gowns and attending every card party in London."

"Do not speak to me of economy," Beatrice hissed. "You, who live rent-free in your father's townhouse whilst the rest of us struggle to maintain appearances!"

"My townhouse," Anthea corrected coldly. "A house far larger than you could afford on your widow's portion, and which I graciously allowed you to share so that I might remain with my sisters."

"Graciously?" Beatrice's face flushed crimson. "You insufferable little—"

"I will not allow you to marry them against their wishes," Anthea interrupted, her voice steady despite the rage coursing through her veins. "Poppy dreams of marrying for love. Veronica deserves gentleness and kindness. I will not stand by whilst you auction them off like this."

"You will do precisely as I say," Beatrice said, her voice dropping to something soft and dangerous.

"Or have you forgotten? You may own your precious townhouse, but I am still their mother.

I hold legal authority over them until they wed.

And if you interfere..." She paused, letting the threat hang in the air.

"Well. There are establishments for young women of unstable mind.

So very tragic when a lady of quality loses her wits entirely.

But what choice would I have, if you began making wild accusations?

Spreading lies about my character? Becoming. .. hysterical?"

Anthea's blood ran cold. "You would not dare."

"Would I not?" Beatrice smiled pleasantly. "Test me, my dear stepdaughter. Please do test me."

For a long moment, they stared at one another across the drawing room.

Anthea's mind raced, cataloguing options, calculating risks.

Beatrice held the legal power, there was no disputing that.

But she also held debts, and dependencies, and a reputation nearly as tarnished as she claimed Anthea's to be.

"You speak as though the season is our only opportunity," Anthea said, her voice gaining strength. "But matches need not be arranged during the season itself. Betrothals are announced throughout the year. We have months beyond season's end to secure suitable arrangements."

Beatrice's expression flickered with uncertainty.

"I will not wait indefinitely," Beatrice said, but her tone had lost some of its earlier venom.

"You will wait as long as necessary to see my sisters well-matched," Anthea countered.

"Fine," Beatrice said, turning back toward the settee. "But all three of you shall be wed by then. Even you, my dear."

"I have no intention of marrying."

"Then I shall make other arrangements for you." Beatrice settled herself among the cushions once more. "Now leave me. This conversation has worsened my headache considerably."

Anthea stood frozen, her chest tight with helpless fury. Every instinct screamed at her to argue further, to fight, to refuse. But Beatrice had already dismissed her, had already made clear that continued protest would only invite retaliation.

She turned on her heel and walked from the drawing room with her spine straight and her head high. Only when the doors closed behind her did she permit herself a single, shaking breath.

No, she thought with fierce determination, her hands still trembling with rage. No, you will not win this. I will not allow it.

Poppy and Veronica were waiting in the corridor, their faces anxious and pale.

"Well?" Veronica whispered.

Anthea looked at her stepsisters, these girls she had protected and loved despite having no true claim to them beyond affection. Poppy with her bright spirit and romantic heart. Veronica with her gentle soul and quiet strength.

She would not let Beatrice destroy them. She would not let them suffer as she had suffered, trapped by men who saw them only as possessions to be acquired and used.

"We have until season's end," Anthea said quietly. "And I promise you both, here and now, I will find you matches worthy of you. Men of honor and kindness. And Beatrice will have no say in the matter whatsoever."

"But how?" Poppy asked tremulously. "We have already met every eligible gentleman in London."

Anthea's mind was already turning, already planning. She had withdrawn from Society, yes. Had avoided balls and soirées and all the glittering cruelty of the ton. But she still had friends. Cassandra, who knew every secret and scandal. Sybil, who had married well despite similar obstacles.

And she had something Beatrice did not: determination born of desperation.

"Leave that to me," Anthea said, squeezing both their hands. "I will not fail you. I swear it."

Even if it meant facing the very world she had spent three years avoiding. Even if it meant risking her own carefully constructed walls.

She would not let Beatrice win.