Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Anthea set down her embroidery with a frown. The stitches had gone crooked again—she had been too distracted to focus properly. Her mind kept wandering to the garden party, to strong hands lifting her into the air, to green eyes that had looked at her with something she dared not name.
Gregory had said he would call today. She had spent the entire morning in her room, alternating between reading the same page of her novel a dozen times and pacing before the window. Every carriage that passed made her heart leap. Every footstep in the hallway made her straighten.
But it was well past three o'clock now, and he had not come.
Perhaps he had reconsidered. Perhaps yesterday's victory at Pall Mall had been merely an enjoyable diversion, nothing more. Perhaps she had imagined the way he had looked at her when he set her down, the way his hands had lingered—
A sharp knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts.
"Come in," she called.
Veronica slipped through the door, her face tight with worry. "Anthea, you should come downstairs."
"Why? What has happened?"
"Mama is in a state." Veronica twisted her hands together. "She keeps muttering about presumptuous Dukes and proper respect. I think—I think the Duke of Everleigh might have called while you were up here."
Anthea's stomach dropped. "What?"
"I only caught bits of what she was saying to Watkins, but she mentioned sending someone away, and then she said something about 'that man' thinking he could dictate terms to her, and—Anthea, I think she turned him away."
The embroidery hoop clattered to the floor as Anthea stood. "She did what?"
"I am not certain, but—"
Anthea was already moving, her skirts swishing as she strode down the corridor. Fury built with each step, hot and righteous and entirely justified. If Beatrice had dared to interfere, if she had prevented Gregory from calling, if she had lied about Anthea being unavailable…
She found her stepmother in the drawing room, calmly pouring tea as though she had not just committed an act of sabotage.
"You turned him away, didn’t you," Anthea said without preamble.
Beatrice looked up, her expression perfectly composed. "Good afternoon to you as well, Anthea. I trust you had a pleasant morning in your room?"
"Do not play games with me. The Duke called, did he not? And you told him I was not at home."
"I told him you were unavailable," Beatrice corrected, setting down the teapot with deliberate care. "Which was true enough. You were sequestered in your room and clearly not prepared to receive callers."
"You had no right—"
"I had every right." Beatrice's voice turned sharp. "This is my household, and I will not have some upstart soldier waltzing in here as though he owns the place, demanding to see you specifically while completely ignoring my daughters."
"He is a duke," Anthea said through gritted teeth. "And he came to call on me. Me, Beatrice. Not Poppy. Not Veronica. That was his choice to make, not yours."
"Was it?" Beatrice rose, her tea forgotten. "Because it seems to me that you have been rather clever about this entire situation. Getting yourself caught with him not once but twice. Ensuring he feels obligated to offer for you. All while pretending you have no interest in marriage."
"I did not plan any of this!"
"Oh really?" Beatrice moved closer, her eyes glittering with malice. "How convenient that you just happened to be in that music room. That you just happened to be positioned exactly where I would find you. That you just happened to be partnered with him at the garden party—"
"Lady Pemberton assigned the partners for Pall Mall, and you know it!"
"What I know," Beatrice said, her voice dropping to something soft and venomous, "is that you are trying to steal what should rightfully belong to my daughters.
You surely don't believe I would let you become a Duchess instead of one of my own!
They come from an illustrious bloodline, one that would be advantageous to a duke and his heirs. "
The words stung, but Anthea kept her chin raised. "The Duke does not seem to care about bloodlines."
"Beatrice's smile was cruel. "Let me remind you of a few facts, my dear. You came from nothing. Your mother was the daughter of a mere Baron, your father a Baron himself with no fortune to speak of. And you—" She paused, letting the silence stretch. "You are nothing."
The words hit over and over.
Anthea felt the air leave her lungs, felt something inside her crack and splinter. She had heard variations of this sentiment throughout the years since Beatrice married her father—ten long years of being told she was worthless—but hearing it stated so baldly, so certainly, made it somehow worse.?
"You have nothing to offer a duke," Beatrice continued, clearly warming to her subject.
"No connections, no fortune, no particular beauty or accomplishment.
The only reason he is interested at all is because circumstance forced his hand.
And even that would not have been necessary if you had simply stayed out of the way as you ought to have done. "
Anthea's hands clenched into fists at her sides. "I was protecting Poppy."
"Poppy did not need protecting. She needed to do her duty to this family.
" Beatrice moved even closer, invading Anthea's space in a way that felt like an attack.
"But you could not bear that, could you?
Could not bear to see one of my daughters succeed where you had failed so spectacularly.
So you interfered. And now you dare to act as though you deserve the rewards of that interference? "
"Get out," Anthea whispered.
"This is my house," Beatrice reminded her coldly. "Or have you forgotten that as well? Your father may have left it to you in his will, but you are still unmarried, still dependent on my goodwill to manage it. Without me, you would have nothing. You would be nothing."
"I said get out." Anthea's voice rose, stronger now, fueled by fury rather than pain. "Out of my sight. Now."
For a moment, they stared at each other. Then Beatrice smiled, cold and triumphant.
"Run to your room, little girl. Hide away as you always do. But remember—the Duke will not wait forever. And when he realizes what you truly are, he will move on. Men always do."
She swept from the room, leaving Anthea standing alone, shaking with rage and hurt and something uncomfortably close to despair.
"A plague upon humanity?" Anthea repeated, and despite everything that had happened that day, she felt her lips twitch. "That seems excessive."
"Excessive?" Sybil set down her teacup with enough force to rattle the saucer.
They sat in Sybil's private sitting room, where Anthea had fled within the hour of her confrontation with Beatrice.
"That woman told you that you are nothing.
Nothing, Anthea! If anything, I am being too kind.
She deserves to be exiled to a deserted island.
With terrible weather. And no servants."
"And presumably no tea?"
"Absolutely no tea. She can drink rainwater and contemplate her sins." Sybil's fierce expression softened slightly. "Are you all right? Truly?"
Anthea wrapped her hands around her own teacup, letting its warmth seep into her cold fingers. "I do not know. Part of me wants to laugh at how ridiculous she is. Another part wants to cry. And the largest part simply feels... tired."
"Tired of what?"
"Everything. Trying to protect my sisters.
Trying to manage Beatrice. Trying to figure out what I want versus what everyone else expects of me.
" Anthea stared into her tea. "Do you know what the worst part is?
She is partly right. My father did marry her because of me.
He needed someone to raise me, and she thought she was getting a better match than she did, and—"
"Stop," Sybil interrupted firmly. "We are not doing this."
"But Sybil?"
"We are not taking responsibility for every adult's poor choices simply because you happened to exist." Sybil leaned forward, her dark eyes intent.
"Your father chose to remarry. Beatrice chose to accept him.
Those were their decisions, not yours. You were eight years old, Anthea.
A child does not ruin lives simply by existing. "
"Beatrice seems to think otherwise."
"Beatrice is a bitter woman who resents her own disappointments and has decided to blame you for them rather than examining her own choices." Sybil's voice gentled. "But that is her failure, darling. Not yours."
Anthea wanted to believe her. Wanted to shed the guilt she had carried for so long like an ill-fitting cloak. But it clung to her, stubborn and familiar.
"I still feel responsible for Poppy and Veronica growing up with a mother who—" She stopped, throat tight.
"With a mother who chose cruelty over kindness?" Sybil finished. "Yes. That is tragic. But again—not your fault. Beatrice could have been kind to her daughters. She chose not to be. That speaks to her character, not yours."
Before Anthea could respond, the door opened.
"My dear, I apologize for the intrusion—oh." Sybil’s husband stood in the doorway, tall and elegant, his cravat tied with casual perfection. His gaze moved from Sybil to Anthea, and understanding dawned in his expression. "You have a guest. Forgive me."
"Hugo, you remember Miss Croft?" Sybil's entire demeanor softened as she looked at her husband.
"Of course." Hugo, the Duke of Vestiaire, bowed slightly. "It is good to see you again, Miss Croft, though I hope the circumstances are pleasant ones?"
"Pleasant enough, Your Grace," Anthea managed, though her voice emerged smaller than she intended.