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Wells stiffened a bit. "For what, sir?"
"Nothing that concerns you." George strode down the hall, jerking open the library door and stepping inside.
"Father." Breanna started, as she looked up from the settee upon which she was curled, thumbing through a novel. She studied her father's expression, a certain wariness coming over her. Slowly, she shut the book. "Did you wish to see me?"
"Indeed I did." George shut the door firmly behind him. He crossed over to the sideboard, poured himself a drink. Tossing it down in three gulps, he slammed the goblet onto an end table and walked across the room until he loomed directly over his daughter. "You and I are going to talk. Or rather, I'm going to talk. You're going to listen. And then, you're going to do as I say."
Instinctively, Breanna scooted to the far corner of the settee. "What is it we're talking about?"
"You and Lord Sheldrake." George pressed his palms together, studying his hands as if that act could help him maintain his self-restraint. "It's time we took definite steps to ensure your future as Mrs. Damen Lockewood."
Color suffused Breanna's cheeks, and she lowered her lashes, contemplating the cover of her book. "I think any steps we take would be futile," she said at last. "In fact, I think we should both accept the fact that I don't have a future with Lord Sheldrake."
Her breath lodged in her throat, as George swooped down, gripping her shoulders and nearly lifting her off the settee. "I don't think you understand. So let me make it clear. Giving up is not an option. Not in this case." His eyes blazed with jade fire, his fingers bit into her flesh. "You will marry Lord Sheldrake. Soon. What I'm here to discuss is how best to speed up this courtship."
Breanna's eyes widened in fear, but she didn't retreat. "What courtship, Father? There is none."
"Then there will be one as of now." George lowered Breanna back to the settee, his forefinger jerking up her chin to meet his gaze. "Besides, you underestimate yourself. The marquess was very attentive at the ball. He danced with you for most of the evening. Afterward, he spoke highly of you. I think all he needs is a little encouragement—not from me, from you. And you're going to give him that encouragement."
"Why? Why is it so important to you that I marry Lord Sheldrake? Are you hoping he'll offer you money for my hand?"
A flicker of astonishment, after which George's lips thinned into an angry line. "Where is this newfound impertinence coming from—having Anastasia living with us?"
Breanna swallowed. "I apologize if I sounded rude. But it's only natural for me to have questions. After all, it is my life we're discussing. And I'd like to understand what you hope to gain by wedding me to Lord Sheldrake. I know how much wealth and position mean to you. We wouldn't
be having this conversation if the marquess were poor and unrenowned. Is it that you hope to gain access to his fortune? If so, I don't think that's an unspoken certainty—not unless Lord Sheldrake chooses it to be. And, to be honest, I don't think he's so enchanted with me that he'd pay handsomely just to give me his name."
George twisted Breanna's chin until she whimpered, then shoved her away. "My motives, daughter, are my own. Your job is to make them a reality. Now, I'm going to invite the marquess to breakfast tomorrow. Once the meal is over, I'll suggest that you two take a private stroll. During that time, I expect you to make it blatantly clear that you enjoy his attentions, and that you'd welcome his affections. Is that understood?"
Silence.
Renewed anger flared in George's eyes, and he leaned menacingly over her. "Is that understood?"
Breanna nodded, but didn't flinch. "Yes, Father. You've made your expectations perfectly clear."
"Good." George backed away, walked over to freshen his drink. "Where is Anastasia—in her room?"
Steeling herself for the inevitable explosion, Breanna shook her head. "No, she went out several hours ago. She should be back any minute."
Something about Breanna's tone must have aroused George's suspicions, or perhaps it was the fact that Anastasia rarely went out alone that made him leery.
He turned, goblet in hand. "Where did she go?"
"To the House of Lockewood." Breanna tried not to react to the fury that twisted her father's features. "She said something about a meeting."
"Dammit." George raised his arm over his head, and Breanna braced herself for the crash of the goblet striking the floor.
The crash never came.
Slowly, George lowered his arm, visibly trying to control his wrath.
"Send her to my study," he ground out between clenched teeth, "the minute she returns. It's time your cousin and I had a little talk, as well."
"She's only gone to finish settling Uncle Henry's affairs," Breanna defended at once, trying to ward off whatever confrontation her father had in mind. "I'm sure she would have told you about this meeting herself, but you'd already left the estate."
"I'm sure she is and I'm sure she would have." George's words were as caustic as his smile. "But the fact remains that I'm her guardian. And, as such, I can't have her gallivanting about without permission or, knowing Anastasia, without a proper chaperon. I'm concerned for her safety, and for her reputation. After all, this is England, not America."
"Still, I don't think…"
