No, this unfeeling, cold-hearted man had rid the house of every single remnant of his sister when she’d run away with the Italian lace merchant who later broke her heart and left her with child. To this day, Uncle Cedric refused to speak Mama’s name, referring to her as “your mother” or “my sister.”
“It’s enough that I decree it, Niece,” he snapped.
His features shifted, and something akin to chagrin flitted across his stern visage, but the impression was so fleeting that Beatrice thought she must have imagined it.
He stepped outside and in his usual unapologetic and arrogant air said, “I’ve decided it’s past time you marry, Beatrice. I mean to travel to London with the miniature to assure potential suitors that you are not entirely unbecoming. Once a match has been arranged, you shall exchange vows in London as well.”
“M-m-marry?”
Please, God.
He cannot be serious.
Would Beatrice’s husband take possession of her money?
She’d never seen the will or trust documents. Neither did she know if her inheritance remained under her control after marriage.
If they did not…
Beatrice would be in exactly the same position as now.
No, far, far worse.
Marriage was for a lifetime. She’d have no hope of escape.
“With your grandmother’s inheritance as enticement, even your stutter and lack of social graces might be overlooked, and an acceptable match is not beyond hope.” He flicked a piece of lint off his expensively tailored jacket.
He might’ve requested the butler refold his news sheets, so disinterested did he sound.
Beatrice clasped her hands together until her fingertips grew numb. “Am I t-to have n-no choice in t-the m-matter?”
God, how she hated her stutter, especially when she needed to speak her mind.
“Of course, you have a choice.” His flinty, gray, emotionless gaze pierced her as he slid his mouth upward an inch into a predatory smile. “You are free to refuse my decree. However, if you do so, I shall put you from my house at once. I’ve more than met my obligation to your mother.”
Am I to exchange one prison for another?