Anne Hatley sat by the side of the heavily carved, four-poster bed, holding her father’s hand. It felt so thin and frail, as if she would crack his bones if she squeezed too hard. It was not the strong, gentle hand that she remembered hoisting her onto her shoulders when she was a little girl. Those shoulders were still broad, but looked sickly and bony, and eighth Viscount of Roxborough appeared more a scarecrow draped in clothes than a man. His eyes still gleamed with intelligence and purpose, however.

“Ladybug,” he murmured, using his pet name for his only child, “the doctors think I will be done by winter. You must find a husband by then, else you will be passed over in the inheritance.” A wet cough shook him, cutting off whatever else he was going to say. 

Anne grimaced as she watched her father work through the short coughing spell. And also at his words. In truth, she had little need for him to continue speaking on the subject. They had had this discussion daily since he had fallen ill some months prior. The cancer had worked remarkably quickly, spreading out from his lungs, so the doctors said. There was little to be done but to make him comfortable, which mainly meant increasingly large doses of opium.

For several months, her father had refused to take the stuff, noting the addictive properties of opium, and not wishing to spend his final months on God’s Earth alternating between sleep and stupor. But now he took it daily, though not so much as he might have, for he always ensured his mornings left his wits unaddled as he attempted to tie up his affairs. 

Of course, Anne had been running the day-to-day operations of the estates for quite some time as her father had eased her into the responsibility. He would wax on and on about the ruin that many ancient families had come to by not ensuring their heirs could generate income as well as spend it.

But that was the crux of the problem. Anne was not legally her father’s heir. At least, not for the Viscountship and the Hatley family estates. No, those by law and custom must be inherited by the oldest son, or barring that, the husband of the oldest daughter. Having no siblings, that meant Anne had a duty to marry, else the lands and titles her family had earned and enjoyed for generations would devolve to some distant cousin, of whom she barely knew anything. She would be left with a modest sum to eke out a modest middle-class life unless she managed to marry a man of appropriate social standing before her father’s death.

Given Anne’s widely acknowledged beauty and intelligence, coupled with the well-run estates and titles of the Hatleys, she should not have lacked for suitors. 

Anne was utterly opposed, however, to a husband who would assume control of the estates she operated outright, to say nothing of a creeping dread that she would be relegated to frippery and balls and overseeing nothing more than the household staff. 

As if reading her thoughts, her father struggled to sit up in the bed. “Ladybug, I know you are not eager to marry quickly, and it breaks my heart for you not to have the time to find the man who would treat you as you should be treated.” He swallowed with visible difficulty. “But the time for choosiness has passed, and God has not seen fit to deliver the man you imagine you want. It is time to make the best of the possible choices. Otherwise, you will end up a spinster in a modest cottage, when you should be Viscountess of Roxborough.”

Anne could not help frowning at her father. “I would rather be free and bereft of titles than to become imprisoned by marriage to a man who thinks a woman’s place is knitting socks by the fireplace,” she sniffed. At twenty years of age, she was old enough to think herself wise, and still young enough to be bold. It made for a tempestuous combination.

Smiling as if he knew that very thing, the viscount squeezed her hand in return. Maybe today would turn out to be a good day and he could at least be taken out to the garden for some sun. “I blame myself. I spoiled you with attention and raising you as I would have a son. But I so wanted you to have the strength of your mother. She was made with a spine of steel, that woman. The most remarkable I’d ever met.” He chuckled lightly to himself. “I am just glad that no other man saw that quality for the asset it was, so that I could scoop her up.”

Anne simply smiled at the old man. She could barely remember her mother. Her father spoke of her as if she were an angel – fierce and proud and loving – but as she’d grown older she’d learned that not everyone shared her father’s opinion of the viscountess. It had nearly shattered her world as a girl to find that other girls were taught to be obedient and provide entertaining conversation rather than how to increase the yields on their tenant farms or to inspect the books her family accountants kept. But it had made her even closer to her father, who insisted she learn the same skills that a brother would have.

His sharp sapphire eyes met her own pale emerald ones. “Your happiness comes first. But I also care that you are not shut off from what is rightfully yours. Please at least spend effort tomorrow at the Earl of Carteret’s dinner party. Maybe Providence will see to delivering a man who is worthy of you.” Sighing, her father closed his eyes. “Now, let me rest, Ladybug. I feel as though this will not be a good day after all.”

Kissing her father’s wasted hand tenderly, Anne ignored the twin tears working their way down her cheeks. Leaving him to sleep despite the midmorning hour, she quietly padded across the thick scarlet rug to the door.