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"Stop shielding her, Breanna. Just send her to my study. Immediately." George's eyes narrowed into glittering jade chips. "And remember what I said. I expect to be announcing your betrothal to Lord Sheldrake in a matter of weeks."
* * *
Anastasia sensed something was wrong the minute she saw Wells's drawn expression.
Glancing about, she noted the empty hall, felt the tension permeating it.
"Wells?" she murmured, inclining her head. "What is it?"
The butler didn't mince words. "Your uncle arrived home an hour ago. He was unusually distressed."
"Distressed," Anastasia repeated. "You mean angry. Especially when he learned I wasn't here—and probably where I was." Another swift glance down the hall. "Is he with Breanna now?"
"Not anymore. He was with your cousin in the library for about twenty minutes. Then, he emerged rather briskly, and disappeared into his study."
Anastasia's uneasiness intensified. "What about Breanna? Is she still in the library?"
"Yes, Miss Stacie. She's come out twice asking if you were home yet. I promised to send you down the moment you arrived."
"I'm on my way." Anastasia hurried down the hall, tiptoeing past her uncle's study, and made her way to the library.
She pushed open the door and stepped inside. Breanna was pacing in front of the windows.
"Stacie. Thank goodness." She motioned for her to enter and shut the door behind her.
Anastasia complied, frowning as she studied her cousin. Breanna was noticeably upset, just as she always was after dealing with her father. But this time she was more; this time she was totally distraught.
"What happened?" Anastasia didn't mince words. She crossed over, seized Breanna's hands.
And went utterly cold inside when she saw the bruise on her cousin's chin—a bruise that could have been caused by nothing but the punishing grip of a thumb and forefinger.
"Oh, no." She reached out, touched the mark ever so gently.
"It doesn't hurt." Breanna waved away her cousin's concern. "Honestly, Stacie. I don't even think Father knew he was doing it. He was desperate to make his point, to push me into doing his bidding. And when I balked … well, I truly think he lost his reason."
"You're defending him?" Anastasia asked incredulously.
"No, of course not. All I'm saying is, he didn't beat me. He didn't even shout. It's as if he's desperate—desperate enough to be even more callous than usual."
"But it's me he's angry at, not you."
"Actually, it's both of us." Breanna smoothed a shaky hand over her upswept hair. "You, for going to Lord Sheldrake's bank; me, for not yet wearing his wedding ring." She dismissed Anastasia's onslaught of questions with a firm shake of her head. "Listen to me, Stacie. You and I can discuss this in detail tonight after Father's gone to bed and we're alone. Right now, he's awaiting your arrival like a hungry lion awaits its dinner. He's angry, he's unnerved, and he's determined to have his say. All that's important is for you to know what you're in for. Father feels threatened by your relationship with Lord Sheldrake—both personally and financially. He has his own plans for the marquess's fortune—and his future. Father wants me to marry Lord Sheldrake. You and I both know that. We also know it's never going to happen, and why. How we get Father to accept it is another matter entirely. I tried, and failed. It's your turn. But tread carefully. This is not going to be a pleasant meeting."
Anastasia listened closely, appreciating Breanna's worry, at the same time captured by her cousin's adamant statement: We also know it's never going to happen, and why.
The way Breanna said that—with the certainty of one who knew rather than surmised—clearly, she was referring to something more concrete than the fact that she and Damen were mere acquaintances. And, given how finely attuned she and Anastasia were, given that they'd always been able to read each other's thoughts, it didn't take a genius to figure out that Breanna had sensed the attraction between her cousin and Damen.
A dozen questions hovered on Anastasia's tongue, and were silenced as she stared at the bruise on Breanna's chin.
At the moment, none of her questions mattered; not those concerning Breanna's underlying meaning, nor those pertaining to how much of the truth she'd guessed. What mattered was Uncle George—Uncle George and his violent determination to shape the future his way.
Anastasia clenched the folds of her gown, her resolve strengthening twofold. She knew how she must handle this impending confrontation, and it included keeping her bloody tongue in check. Otherwise, it wouldn't be she who would suffer. It would be Breanna.
"Don't worry," she said lightly, squeezing her cousin's arm. "You've prepared me. I can handle Uncle George. Who knows? Maybe I can even mollify him a bit."
Breanna gave her a small smile. "I wouldn't count on it. He's incensed. And he'll be more incensed once you've spoken your piece."
The girls' eyes met.
