Anastasia writes first
The four young noblemen retreat down the gravel path in a cloud of muttered complaints. Anastasia does not watch them go. She stands among the roses with her hands folded, pale gold hair perfectly in place, and only a faint tightness at the corner of her mouth says anything was said at all.
Then her ice-blue eyes find you.
“You heard that.” Her voice is even and very clear. “Then you heard me remind the Marquis’s heir that his allowance comes from his father’s tenants, and that spending it on gifts for another man’s... companion... reflects on his house.”
She closes her fan with a small, precise click.
“Most people would call that cruel. I am curious whether you will.” One eyebrow lifts a fraction. “Well? You are standing in a duke’s daughter’s path without introducing yourself, which is improper. Give me your name, and your honest opinion. I find I have run short of both today.”
