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"No, Grandfather." Breanna shot him one of Anastasia's bold, infectious grins. "I'm not hurt. But my gown is."
"So I noticed." The viscount looked more and more as if he were biting back laughter. "How did you fall?"
"I slipped and landed in a puddle. As I said, I was in too much of a hurry."
"Aren't you always?" George muttered, abandoning the sideboard and marching over to the table. Purposefully, he ignored the girl he assumed to be his niece, instead gesturing for his daughter—or at the least the girl he thought to be his daughter—to take the chair beside him. "Sit, Breanna. You've already delayed our meal long enough." A biting pause. "Perhaps your cousin should change her clothes before she dines?" he inquired, inclining his head to give his brother a pointed look.
"Papa? Mama?" Breanna glanced at her uncle Henry and aunt Anne. "Would you prefer I change?"
Anastasia's father shook his head. "I don't think that will be necessary."
"Darling," Anne inserted, her brows drawn in concern, "are you sure you aren't hurt?"
"Positive," Breanna assured her with that offhanded shrug Anastasia always gave. "Just clumsy. I really am sorry"
"Never mind," the viscount interrupted, gesturing for the girls to be seated. "Dirty or not, you're a welcome addition to the table." He tossed a disapproving scowl in George's direction. "A breath of fresh air, given the disagreeable nature of the conversation."
"It wasn't a conversation," George replied tersely. "It was an argument."
"When isn't it?" his father countered, shoving a shock of hair—once auburn, now white—off his forehead. "Let's change the subject while we enjoy the fine meal Mrs. Rhodes has prepared."
Despite his urging, the meal, however delicious, passed in stony silence, the only sound that of the clinking glassware and china.
After an hour, which seemed more like an eternity, the viscount placed his napkin on the table and folded his hands before him. "I invited you all here tonight to celebrate. Not only my birthday, but what it represents: our family and its legacy."
"Colby and Sons," George clarified, his green eyes lighting up.
"I wasn't referring to the business," his father replied, sadness making his shoulders droop, his already lined face growing even older, more weary. "At least not in the economic sense. I was referring to us and the unity of our family—not only now, but in years to come."
"All of which is integrally tied to our company and its profits." George sat up straight, his jaw clenched in annoyance. "The problem is, I'm the only one honest enough to admit that's what business—and this family—are all about: money and status."
Viscount Medford sighed. "I'm not denying the pride I feel for Colby and Sons. We've all worked hard to make it thrive. But that doesn't mean I've forgotten what's important. I only wish you hadn't either. I'd hoped…" His glance flickered across the table, first to Anastasia, then to Breanna. "Never mind." Abruptly, he pushed back his chair. "Let's take our brandy in the library."
Anne rose gracefully. "I'll get the girls ready for bed."
"We won't be staying," George said, cutting her off, his jaw clenching even tighter as he faced his brother's wife. "So you needn't bother.
She winced at the harshness of his tone and the bitterness that glittered in his eyes. But she answered him quietly, and without averting her gaze. "It's late, George. Surely your trip can wait until morning."
"It could. I choose for it not to."
Anastasia and Breanna exchanged glances. They both hated this part most of all—the icy antagonism Breanna's father displayed when forced to address his brother's wife.
The antagonism and its guaranteed outcome.
They'd be split up again soon. And Lord knew when they'd see each other next.
Quickly, Breanna rose. "Breanna and I will wait in the blue salon, Uncle George," she said, still playing the part of her cousin. "We'll stay there until you're ready to leave."
George was too caught up in his thoughts to spare her more than a cursory nod.
It was all the girls needed.
Without giving him an instant to change his mind, they scampered out of the room. Pausing only to heave sighs of relief, they bolted down the hall and dashed into the blue salon.
"We were wonderful!" Anastasia squealed, plopping onto the sofa. "Even I wasn't sure who was who after a while."
Breanna laughed softly. "Nor I," she agreed, squirming onto the cushion alongside her cousin.
