The Gold Coin (Colby's Coin 1)

"No, he hasn't." Breanna's lips curved slightly. "Then again, neither have you. You're still as forthright as ever. Only your accent has changed."

"My accent?"

"Um-hum. You no longer speak proper English. Now you sound like … like…"

"Like I've lived ten years in America?" Anastasia teased.

"Well … yes." Breanna's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Tell me about Philadelphia. Your letters made it sound so different from here."

"Not entirely different. But less restrictive." Anastasia leaned back on her elbows. "Protocol isn't valued as highly as it is in England. Chaperons aren't mandatory, there isn't as wide a chasm between servants and those who employ them. America is less set in its ways than England is. Which makes sense, given that it's a new country."

Breanna lowered herself to a chair. "It sounds a lot like you—unorthodox, set on forging its own path. Will you miss living there?"

"Some aspects of it, yes. Others, no. It's true I fit in, but I never really belonged. We were always glaringly English. It was especially obvious during the war. If Papa hadn't had such a good rapport with the American farmers and manufacturers, we probably would have had to leave, to go to Canada or come home. But they trusted him. He had integrity—and connections in nearly every neutral country. I guess that when it comes right down to it, profits are profits. And Colby and Sons ensured a healthy revenue for all, war or no war. Father was his usual inventive self, devising creative routes to deliver goods without violating either England or America's war policies." She broke off, shot her cousin a questioning look. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

"How do you know so much about your father's business?" Breanna demanded.

"It's not just Father's business. It's our entire family's business, yours and mine included." Seeing Breanna's incredulous expression, Anastasia felt her lips twitch. "Now that I consider it, I suppose my interest in Colby and Sons must seem rather extreme to you. A proper Englishwoman involved in matters of business and money-making? Shocking."

"Not shocking, just … unusual." Breanna sighed. "We do have a lot of catching up to do."

"Let's start with you." Anastasia leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand. "Your letters left far more to the imagination than mine did. For example, I know Uncle George brought you out two Seasons ago. Yet you never went into any detail about the balls you attended, the gentlemen you met. And when I pressed you for details, you avoided the subject altogether. Why is that?"

Breanna lowered her lashes, contemplated the folds of her gown. "The truth? Or what everyone believes to be the truth?"

"I think you know the answer to that."

A nod. "I've never told this to a soul. Then again, I'm not in the habit of discussing my private life with anyone—other than you." Breanna inhaled sharply. "Father is very specific about his plans for my future. Yes, he brought me out, but it was all a formality. My first Season was scarcely under way when a business emergency—an alleged business emergency," she amended, "necessitated our returning here, where we stayed for the duration of the Season. Last year we didn't go to London at all—supposedly because I was recovering from a severe bout of influenza. A bout of influenza, which, to be blunt, I never had."

Anastasia sat straight up, her gaze fixed on her cousin's veiled expression. "I don't understand. You're saying Uncle George is intentionally keeping you from meeting eligible noblemen? That makes no sense. Knowing him, I should think he'd be eager to marry you to the Prince Regent himself."

Breanna's lashes lifted, but she didn't smile. "If that were feasible, I'm sure Father would try to arrange it."

"Breanna, what aren't you telling me?" Anastasia felt the old surge of protectiveness swell inside her. "You know you can trust me," she added, when her cousin remained silent.

"Of course I do. It isn't that. Frankly, it's just that this whole situation is horribly embarrassing." Breanna laced her fingers together, stared down at them. "I feel like a prize horse."

"A prize horse." Anastasia's mind was racing, fitting pieces together. "Then you're being groomed for something." A pause. "Or someone."

"A very specific someone," Breanna acknowledged. "Father's plans are to wed me to the wealthiest and most successful nobleman he's acquainted with, and then share in his wealth and position."

"And who would that be?"

"The Marquess of Sheldrake."

"Oh." Anastasia's mouth snapped shut.

She needn't ask who the Marquess of Sheldrake was. He was the one and only Damen Lockewood.

She'd heard his name all her life; first, from her grandfather, who had begun his company at the same time that Damen's father had opened his first bank, and later from her father, who had developed his most powerful contacts in America thanks to Damen and the long-standing relationship between the Colbys and the Lockewoods.

According to Anastasia's father, it was Damen who'd always been the true genius of the family, even though in official terms he'd become head of the House of Lockewood only nine years ago, upon his father's death. Since that time, however, he'd made the House of Lockewood the most influential merchant bankers in England, if not perhaps the world. His advice and counsel were sought by nearly all the nations of Europe, and his business acumen and powerful connections with statesmen and financiers alike garnered his family its reputation.

So, yes, Anastasia knew who the Marquess of Sheldrake was.

She also knew her Uncle George. And, given that Lord Sheldrake was rich, titled, and acclaimed throughout Europe—not to mention serving on the Board of Directors at Colby and Sons—it stood to reason he'd be Uncle George's choice for a husband for Breanna.

Money. Wealth. Status. And enhancing his business. Those were the only things that mattered to Uncle George.