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Her gaze returned to the exquisite figure in her hands, and she studied the tiny glazed sculpture. Two girls, sharing laughter and confidences, and an absolute trust that not even distance could sever.
A trust as precious as the gold and silver coins themselves—and all they represented.
"Breanna, we need to talk." On that thought, Anastasia acted, setting down the delicate statue and marching over to the bed. She perched at the edge, her expression determined.
Nodding, Breanna gathered up the folds of her night robe, tucking them around her as she lowered herself to the armchair alongside the bed. "Tell me what Father said," she urged, her green eyes searching Anastasia's face.
"He lectured me about approaching his guests on such a scandalous matter as business. He interrogated me about my partnership with Lord Sheldrake. And he warned me not to come between you and the marquess." Anastasia dispensed with the facts as quickly as possible, sensitive to Breanna's concern, yet focused on getting at the more significant matter of Damen, and how Breanna perceived—or didn't perceive—her future with him.
"I see," Breanna reflected aloud. "And did you set Father straight about Lord Sheldrake?"
There it was again. That feeling that Breanna was referring to something far deeper than that which they'd already discussed.
"That depends on what you mean by setting Uncle George straight," Anastasia replied, carefully gauging her cousin's reaction. "I apologized for upsetting his guests. With regard to Damen, I told him the truth about our partnership…"
"And about your feelings for each other? Did you tell him about those, as well?"
Anastasia caught her lower lip between her teeth, taken aback—not by Breanna's insight, but about the forthright way she gave voice to it. It was unlike her cousin to be so direct. Then again, it was better that she'd chosen this opportunity to be as such. This issue needed to be resolved—now.
"No," Anastasia responded, equally blunt. "I said nothing about my feelings. For many reasons." She scrutinized Breanna's expression, looking for some sign—any sign—that her cousin was upset. But all she saw there was curiosity; curiosity and a touch of confusion. "Breanna," she blurted, leaning forward and clutching the folds of her robe. "I'd rather die than hurt you. I wish you hadn't guessed my feelings, because I'm determined to know yours before I even allow myself to contemplate mine. If you love this man, if you could love this man, if you can even imagine—by some remote chance—that you might be happy with him…"
"Stop right there," Breanna interrupted, holding up a deterring palm. "Is that what's holding you back? My feelings?" Shaking her head, she reached over, took Anastasia's hand in hers. "I already told you there's nothing between the marquess and me. He's a charming, charismatic man. He's been very kind about diffusing Father's anger—pretending to be captivated by me, spending hours at my side. But, Stacie, I have no romantic interest in Lord Sheldrake." An impish grin. "You, on the other hand, do. And as for the marquess, he's so smitten, he can scarcely tear himself from your side."
"Did he actually tell you that?" Anastasia heard herself ask.
Breanna's eyes twinkled. "No. But he stepped on my feet four times when you were dancing with Lord Percy. Also, twice he mistakenly called me by your name—and not because he didn't know who he was dancing with."
Despite her best intentions, Anastasia couldn't deny the rush of pleasure that revelation brought. Still…
"I wouldn't lie to you, Stacie," Breanna assured her softly. "Not about something as important as this. I'd sooner challenge you for the marquess's affections—if I had feelings for him. Not because I'd place my needs above yours, but because I know you'd forever blame yourself if I forfeited a man I cared for just to ensure your happiness. But that's not the case. So put the notion out of your head." Her grip tightened, her cheeks glowing with excitement. "Instead, tell me what it feels like. Has he kissed you yet?"
Anastasia's lips curved as relief swept through her—relief more powerful than even she'd anticipated. "Yes. I thought my knees were going to buckle." She eased back, tugged her hand free to run it through her tumbled waves of hair. "It's all happening so fast—and I'm not even sure what it is."
A dubious glance. "Aren't you?"
"No. All I know is that I want to find out." Abruptly, Anastasia's smile faded. "But I can't. Not with Uncle George as vehement as he is."
"Don't be a fool, Stacie. You never let Father stop you before. You certainly can't start now, not when your whole future could be at stake."
"It's your future I'm worrying about—and what will happen to it if your father discovers the truth."
Breanna's jaw set in that rare but unyielding way of hers. "He'll get over it. He'll have to."
"I doubt it will be as simple as that. Not given all the instigating factors involved." Anastasia paused, knowing it was time to fill Breanna in on the pieces of the past she'd never been told, praying it wouldn't cause her cousin too much distress. "This adamancy of Uncle George's is prompted by more than just his plans for you, even more than his plans for himself. It's prompted by feelings of bitterness and resentment that began over two decades ago and have sprouted like ugly weeds ever since."
"You're talking about our fathers' hostility for each other," Breanna murmured. Her forehead creased with puzzlement. "You think Father wants to wed me to Lord Sheldrake just to outdo Uncle Henry?"
"Not to outdo him—to punish him. More specifically, to punish him through me."
"Now you've lost me. How would my marrying Lord Sheldrake punish Uncle Henry? It might satisfy some warped need on Father's part to attain a higher level of power and position than Uncle Henry ever did. But that's all."
"No, that's not all." Slowly, Anastasia rose to her feet, gripping the bedpost and turning to face her cousin. "Uncle George hated Papa for more than just their differing principles. He hated him for marrying Mama."
A baffled pucker formed between Breanna's brows. "It's no secret that Father disliked Aunt Anne. You and I both sensed that, even as children. But how does his dislike for her…" Abruptly, her eyes widened. "You know the reason for that animosity, don't you?"
"Yes," Anastasia confirmed. She paused, wet her lips with the tip of her tongue
, and provided the truth. "It was because Uncle George wanted—no, expected—that it would be he who wed Mama."
