George shifted in his chair, noticeably flustered by the marquess's reference to his source of capital. "As soon as possible. In a week, perhaps. I'll send out the invitations this very day."
"A week?" Anastasia echoed. "Isn't that a little ambitious? From what I recall, Mama and Papa used to receive invitations to parties of this size at least a fortnight in advance. That was the only way to ensure none of the balls would conflict."
"During the Season, that's true," her uncle returned. "But the Season is long past. So we don't run the risk of such conflicts."
"Yes," Damen agreed. "Which brings up a different problem. Much of the ton is either in Brighton, Bath, or traveling abroad. Why not wait for the fall when everyone is back?"
"Because by then, Anastasia will have endured two months of loneliness and grief," George replied with a generosity of spirit that nearly made Anastasia gag. "This way, she'll remember her first summer here as a joyous one, filled with laughter and festivities." He gave a careless shrug. "The majority of those I know have remained in England for the summer. As for Brighton and Bath—neither are too far from here to travel."
"I suppose not." Lord Sheldrake brought his wineglass to his lips, savoring the final drops. "Fine. A house party it is."
"Excellent." George sank back in his chair. "I'd appreciate your advice with regard to the guest list. I want the most influential members of society here."
"Influential—does that include businessmen?" Anastasia came abruptly to life.
"Yes." Her uncle shot her an odd look. "Of course. Businessmen, nobles, landed gentry. Everyone worth meeting."
"It sounds wonderful," she declared, interlacing her fingers in her lap to curb her excitement. "Thank you, Uncle George."
Lord Sheldrake coughed—a cough that sounded suspiciously like smothered laughter. "Of course, Medford. I'd be glad to advise you on your guest list. We'll include prominent noblemen, respected gentry … oh, and affluent businessmen, of course." He tossed Anastasia a quick, wry grin—one she pretended not to notice.
"Good." Uncle George was oblivious to the exchange. Instead, he was scrutinizing his knife and fork, visibly preoccupied by another detail yet to be addressed.
Anastasia soon found out what that other detail was.
"Ah, Sheldrake." George abandoned his silverware, casually refolding his napkin. "You will do me the honor of escorting Breanna to the ball."
"Father." Hot color rushed to Breanna's cheeks, and she lowered her eyes, torn between embarrassment and fear of defying her father. "I don't think…"
"It would be my pleasure to escort Breanna to this grand ball of yours," Lord Sheldrake interrupted, giving Breanna a warm smile. "Together, she and I will see to it that Lady Anastasia enjoys her first taste of English society." He slanted a look at Anastasia, a decided twinkle in his eye. "In fact, I personally vow that between her own efforts and ours, your niece won't be bored for a moment."
* * *
"What did Lord Sheldrake mean by that last comment of his?" Breanna demanded as she and Anastasia enjoyed a late afternoon stroll through the gardens.
"H-m-m-m?" Anastasia shaded her eyes from the sun, drinking in the vibrant colors and intoxicating scents of Medford's flowers. The goldenrod, the honeysuckle, the wild roses—she'd missed this most of all. England's glorious countryside, unhurried and unrivaled. The beauty of nature, the freedom to walk for hours and never reach a destination, the sense of peace and adventure all rolled into one.
Lord, it was good to be home.
"Stacie?" Breanna prompted.
Smiling, Anastasia paused at a massive oak, whose profusion of branches overhung the lawns and headed up a grove of now-blossoming trees that lined the estate's south gardens.
"Remember this tree?" she asked Breanna, caressing the trunk. "It's the one I climbed when we were four. I wanted to be taller than anything else, so that nothing could impede my view of the grounds."
"I remember," Breanna returned dryly, folding her arms across her chest. "You fell out, caught your gown on one of the branches, and slashed the top of your thigh. You bled for half an hour—it took three of Grandfather's handkerchiefs to stop the bleeding."
Anastasia chuckled. "I still have the scar." Her smile faded. "I remember how frightened you were, and how much the gash hurt. I even cried—no, I sobbed—and you know how seldom I do that. But I also remember how incredible it felt, for one fleeting instant, to stand on top of the world. And do you know what? It was worth it. Tears, pain, scar and all. It was worth it."
"Stacie, are you going to tell me what Lord Sheldrake was alluding to or aren't you?" Breanna interrupted her cousin's reminiscing. "For that matter, are you going to fill me in on what happened at your meeting this morning? Whatever it was, it couldn't have been too dire. You and the marquess seemed to be getting along reasonably well at lunch; certainly better than you were yesterday."
Anastasia wasn't sure why, but she had the sudden urge to sidestep her cousin's question—at least that part which dealt with her attitude toward Lord Sheldrake.
"That's probably because I was too taken aback by Uncle G
eorge's surprising announcement about his ball in my honor," she replied instead. "A costly frivolity like a party? Hardly typical of your father."
"I agree," Breanna said. "It stunned me, as well. And then to insist that Lord Sheldrake escort me…" She flushed. "I'm sure that was part of Father's plan. I assume he wants to make a grand display of some kind, to show the ton that the Colbys are still every bit as influential as they ever were—despite Grandfather's death, and now Uncle Henry's."