The heavy door of the drawing room slamd shut behind Anne, but she didn’t flinch. She continued her slow, deliberate march down the grand staircase, the half-empty bottle of wine clutched in her hand like a weapon. Each step was a defiance against her mother, against her fate.
"Anne!"
She heard George’s voice call her na from the entrance hall where he must have been lingering, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t even turn around. He was the cause of all this, a weak, useless man whose indecision had cost her everything. She walked right past him, pushed open the French doors, and stepped out into the cool, dark garden.
He followed her, his footsteps hesitant on the stone path. She led him to a small, white pavilion nestled amongst the rose bushes, a delicate, latticework structure where her mother often held tea parties with other noblewon. In the moonlight, it looked like a beautiful, ghostly cage.
Anne dropped the bottle and the single wine glass onto the small iron table with a thud that echoed in the quiet night. The sound was angry and final. She pulled out one of the ornate chairs with a screech of tal on stone and sat down, imdiately pouring herself a glass of the deep red wine.
George sat opposite her, his expression a mixture of worry and confusion. "Anne, this is about Eric Carson, right?" he asked, his voice soft.
She didn’t answer him. She just took a long gulp of the wine, the bitter liquid doing little to numb the pain in her heart.
"I’ll talk to Delia about it," he offered, his words sounding foolish and naive even to his own ears. "I’m sure she’s not thinking clearly. She must have thought about it too, by now, how she’s mistreating her own sister."
A short, tired, humorless laugh escaped Anne’s lips. His stupidity was almost impressive. She shook her head, still not gracing him with a response, and just poured herself another glass, her hand slightly unsteady.
George reached across the table and gently took the heavy bottle from her hand. "Stop, Anne," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "You’ve had enough." He took off his own formal coat, stood up, and draped it over her thin shoulders. The warmth of the wool was a small comfort.
"Why are you wearing so little when you were coming out? You’ll catch a chill."
His gaze fell to her feet. She was barefoot, having abandoned her slippers sowhere in the house. He knelt before her without a second thought. He took her cold, dusty feet into his hands. With his own handkerchief, he carefully cleaned the dirt from her soles and began to rub them, his thumbs working in slow, steady circles to bring so warmth back into them.
"You’ll get sick," he murmured, his head bowed in this strange act of devotion. He then did sothing even more surprising. He took off his own expensive leather shoes and gently placed her small, bare feet inside them. "To provide warmth," he said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He went back to his seat, leaving her feet resting inside his large, warm shoes.
The unexpected, tender gesture broke her silence. "Do you even know what Delia was doing today, George?" she asked, her voice flat and empty.
He looked at her, his face full of concern, waiting for an answer.
"They had a family introduction today," she said, her voice dripping with a cold, hard bitterness. "The formal eting between the families. The sa kind of family introduction that secured her engagent with you. The one that made her so happy she couldn’t stop smiling for a week."
The words began to sink into George’s head, slow and thick like honey. "Family... introduction..."
He was aware, on so level, of what that ant. A eting between the heads of the families was the final, formal step before a wedding announcent. It ant this wasn’t just a rumor anymore. This was real. This was happening.
The realization hit him like a slap to the face. He stood up abruptly, his movents clumsy with shock. As he did, he banged his head hard on a hanging flower pot filled with trailing ivy that was suspended from the pavilion’s roof.
"Ouch!" he cried out, stumbling back a step, one hand flying to his throbbing head. "A family introduction?" he shouted, the pain in his head mingling with the panic in his heart.
"Yes," Anne said, looking at him with a cold, dead-eyed expression. "While you are just standing around, doing nothing, her marriage preparations are going smoothly."
George rubbed his throbbing head, trying to clear his thoughts. "That’s ridiculous. It can’t be. Where is Delia now?"
"I don’t know," Anne replied with a careless shrug, taking another sip of wine. "She might be at so fancy inn. Or more likely, back in the Duke’s private residence."
The image of Delia alone with the Duke in his house sent a fresh wave of despair through George. He slumped back down in his seat, his energy completely gone. He put his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands, a low groan escaping his lips. "A family introduction..."
Anne reached across the table and collected the wine bottle back from him. She poured herself another glass, her third, or maybe her fourth. "So, George," she said, her voice now sharp and calculating. "Do you want to get her back?"
George didn’t move, his face still hidden in his hands. His mind raced. He thought of how things would be if Delia, the second beloved daughter of the Baron, decided to be by his side instead. His status would skyrocket. His family would be saved from their mountain of debt. They would share in the wealth and connections of the Ellingtons. And Anne... Anne would be happy again.
Seeing her so broken, so utterly devastated, clawed at his heart, even if her pain was for another man. Her happiness was sothing he craved, sothing he felt responsible for.
He raised his head, his eyes full of a new, desperate resolve. "Of course I do," he said, his voice hoarse. "But I don’t know how. It seems hopeless."
Anne took a long, deep gulp of her wine, then slamd the glass down on the table. "Then help ," she said, her eyes glinting with a dangerous, drunken fire.
George looked at her, shocked. "What?"
"I’m going to take matters into my own hands," she declared, her words slurring slightly. She poured herself yet another drink and gulped it down in one go, as if for courage. She looked at George trying to smoothen his disheveled hair and his pathetic, hopeless expression.
"So stupid," she muttered underneath her breath, a look of pure disgust on her face. He was a tool, and she was going to use him.
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