Chapter 3
Chapter Three
"Have you heard? The new Duke of Everleigh is here!"
Anthea looked up from her lemonade to find Cassandra practically vibrating with excitement as she joined their small group. Her friend's eyes were bright with the particular gleam that indicated she was bursting with gossip, and Anthea felt her own lips curve into a reluctant smile.
"Good evening to you as well, Cassandra," she said dryly. "How lovely that you could join us."
"Oh, hush," Cassandra said, waving a dismissive hand. "This is far too important for pleasantries. The Duke of Everleigh is actually in attendance! At Sybil's ball!"
"It is my ball," Sybil pointed out mildly, her own expression amused. "I should hope to know who accepted my invitations."
Sybil, the Duchess of Vestiaire now, had been one of Anthea's dearest friends since childhood.
She was also one of the few people who knew, or at least suspected the truth about what had happened three years ago.
The reason she vowed to never wed. More importantly, she was one of the few hostesses who still included Anthea on her guest lists despite the whispers that followed her.
"Yes, but you did not tell us he would actually come," Cassandra accused. "The man has accepted every invitation sent to him, apparently. Every single one! Can you imagine?"
"How... thorough of him," Anthea said, taking a sip of her lemonade. Beside her, Veronica remained quiet, her eyes scanning the ballroom with the wariness of a doe in hunting season.
"Thorough?" Cassandra laughed. "It is extraordinary! No one does that. Especially not a duke. They are far too important to attend every ball and soirée."
"Perhaps he is attempting to establish himself in Society," Sybil suggested reasonably. "He has only recently inherited, has he not?"
"Yes, and therein lies the scandal," Cassandra said, leaning in conspiratorially. "They say he is a brute. An absolute beast. Big and wild and completely uncivilized."
Anthea rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Cassandra, you cannot believe every bit of gossip you hear."
"But it is not merely gossip," Cassandra protested. "Everyone is saying so. Lady Pemberton told me he can barely string two words together. And Lord Fenton said he has the manners of a common soldier."
"He was a soldier," Sybil interjected. "Though an uncommonly successful one who rose through the ranks on merit rather than purchase."
"You know what I mean," Cassandra said impatiently. "The point is that he actually worked for his position. Can you imagine?"
I can imagine it quite well, Anthea thought. It sounds infinitely more admirable than purchasing one's way to authority.
"That does sound rather impressive," Veronica said softly, speaking for the first time since Cassandra's arrival.
"Oh, it is impressive," Cassandra agreed readily. "But it also means he is likely quite... rough. They say he is ruthless in battle. That he was willing to do what others would not."
"You mean he was competent," Anthea said, unable to keep the edge from her voice. "What a shocking quality in a military officer."
Cassandra laughed. "You are always so contrary, Anthea. Though I suppose it is probably just the ton's snobbery," she admitted. "They cannot abide the thought of a duke who was not raised to be one."
"Undoubtedly," Sybil agreed. "The ton prefers their Dukes to be born in marble halls and educated at Eton. A man who has actually experienced hardship is far too... real for their tastes."
Anthea shook her head, wondering if she was the only person in London capable of not immediately believing every scrap of gossip that circulated. Or perhaps she was simply the only one not interested in the Duke's arrival at all.
She had more pressing concerns than some soldier playing at nobility.
"Still," Cassandra continued, her voice dropping to an even more conspiratorial whisper, "they say he is quite imposing. Tall and broad and—oh! There he is!"
Anthea followed Cassandra's gaze across the ballroom to where a knot of people had gathered. She could see very little through the crowd, only glimpses of a tall figure and the occasional flash of dark evening clothes.
"He does appear rather large," Veronica observed hesitantly.
"Large and dangerous," Cassandra said with evident relish. "Look at how Lady Thornbury is watching him. Like she expects him to overturn the refreshment table at any moment."
Anthea was about to make another comment about the absurdity of ton gossip when her attention was caught by a different figure across the room.
Beatrice.
Her stepmother was speaking very insistently to Poppy, her face set in that particular expression that Anthea had learned to dread. Even from this distance, she could see Poppy's distress, the way her shoulders hunched, the way her hands twisted together.
"Excuse me," Anthea murmured, already moving.
"Anthea?" Sybil called after her, but Anthea was no longer listening.
She wove through the crowd with single-minded determination, her eyes fixed on her stepmother and stepsister. Beatrice was gesturing now, pointing toward—
Toward the Duke.
Anthea's blood ran cold as understanding dawned. The tall figure with broad shoulders and an undeniably powerful build. The man who moved with deliberate intention even when simply standing in conversation. And there, following reluctantly in his wake as he departed the ballroom, was Poppy.
No, Anthea thought fiercely. Absolutely not.
She did not know what scheme Beatrice had concocted, but she would not allow Poppy to be caught in whatever trap had been set. Brute or not, soldier or not, no man would be permitted near her stepsister without supervision.
Anthea quickened her pace, slipping out of the ballroom and into the corridor beyond. She caught a glimpse of Poppy's pale pink gown disappearing around a corner and followed, her heart pounding with equal parts anger and fear.
What was Beatrice thinking? What could she possibly hope to accomplish by sending Poppy after a duke? Unless—
Unless she hoped to trap him. To force a scandal that would require marriage.
The thought made Anthea's stomach turn. She had suspected Beatrice was capable of many cruelties, but this? This was beyond even her usual machinations.
She rounded the corner and saw Poppy slip into a room, the music room, judging by the pianoforte visible through the briefly open door.
Anthea did not hesitate. She pushed open the door and stepped inside.
"Poppy," she said firmly.
Her stepsister whirled around, her face streaked with tears. "Anthea! I—you should not be here—"
"Neither should you," Anthea said, closing the door behind her. "What were you thinking? Following a man you do not know into an empty room?"
"I did not wish to," Poppy said miserably. "Mama said… she said if I did not at least attempt to speak with him privately, she would force Veronica to do so instead. And you know Veronica could not bear it! The scandal alone would destroy her, not to mention being forced to marry a—a brute!"
Anthea's hands clenched into fists. "Beatrice has gone too far this time."
"I know, but what choice did I have?" Poppy's voice broke. "I thought perhaps I could simply speak with him for a moment, then claim we were never truly alone, but—"
"But Beatrice would have arranged for witnesses," Anthea finished grimly. "She would have ensured you were caught together, forcing his hand."
"I am so sorry," Poppy whispered. "I know this is not what you wanted. I know you hoped to find us suitable matches, but Mama would not wait—"
"Hush," Anthea said, pulling her stepsister into a brief embrace. "This is not your fault. And I will not allow Beatrice to manipulate you into a marriage with a man you do not know. We shall simply explain that this was a misunderstanding and—"
A sound from outside the door made them both freeze.
Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate footsteps approaching the music room.
"Hide," Anthea hissed urgently, pushing Poppy toward the heavy curtains that framed the windows.
"But—"
"Now!"
Poppy scrambled behind the curtains just as Anthea dove behind the pianoforte, pressing herself into the shadows. Her heart hammered against her ribs as the door opened.
Please let it be a servant, she thought desperately. Please let it be anyone but—
But of course, the universe had never been particularly inclined to grant her wishes.
The man who entered was unmistakably the Duke. Even without the gossip and speculation, Anthea would have known him by his bearing alone, the straight spine, the controlled movements, the air of command that clung to him like a second skin.
He was also, she noted with irritation, frustratingly handsome.
Tall, certainly. Broad-shouldered, undeniably.
But his face was neither brutal nor beast-like.
Strong features, yes, a firm jaw, a straight nose, dark brows—but there was an intelligence in his eyes that no amount of ton prejudice could disguise.
And his hair, dark brown and slightly disheveled, only added to an overall impression of—
Stop it, Anthea commanded herself furiously. This is hardly the time to be admiring the man's appearance!
The Duke moved further into the room, and Anthea realized with sinking dread that he was heading directly toward the violin that rested on a stand near the window, near where Poppy was hiding.
She had to do something. Had to distract him before he discovered her stepsister and created the very scandal Beatrice had orchestrated.
Anthea took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the pianoforte.
"Good evening, Your Grace."
The Duke spun around with a speed that spoke of military training, his hand moving instinctively toward his hip. For a moment they simply stared at each other, and she saw surprise flash across his features before it was replaced by something harder.
Suspicion.
"Who are you?" he demanded, his voice a low rumble that should not have affected her in the slightest but somehow did. "And what are you doing here?"