Chapter 3 #2
"I might ask you the same question," Anthea replied, lifting her chin. "This is a private room."
"Which you are occupying alone," he pointed out, his eyes narrowing. "How convenient."
The implication in his tone was unmistakable, and Anthea felt her temper flare. "I beg your pardon?"
"You are the third young lady to attempt this particular scheme this week," he said coldly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Did you draw lots to determine who would try next? Or did your mother simply send you in after the others failed?"
Third young lady? Anthea's mind raced. So others had attempted to trap him in scandal. Which meant he was already on guard, already suspicious of any woman found alone in his vicinity.
Which also meant he would never believe this was simply a misunderstanding.
"I am not attempting any scheme," she said, keeping her voice level despite the fury building in her chest. "I was merely—"
"Hiding behind the pianoforte?" he interrupted. "Yes, I noticed. Very subtle."
"I was not hiding, I was—" Anthea stopped herself before she could mention Poppy. "I was seeking a moment of privacy. The ballroom was overwarm."
"How unfortunate that I also sought privacy in this same room," he said dryly. "What are the odds?"
Insufferable man. Anthea took a step forward, her hands clenched at her sides. "Your Grace, I understand you may have reason to be suspicious, but I assure you—"
"You assure me nothing," he cut her off again. "I have been in London less than a fortnight, madam, and I have already learned that assurances mean very little among the Quality."
"Then perhaps you should learn to judge character rather than simply assuming the worst of everyone you encounter," Anthea snapped, her careful composure cracking.
Something moved in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or possibly respect. "And what makes you think I have judged incorrectly?"
"Because I have no interest whatsoever in trapping you into marriage," Anthea said bluntly. "In fact, I have no interest in marriage at all, to anyone, under any circumstances. So you may set aside your suspicions and simply accept that this is exactly what I claimed, a misunderstanding."
He studied her for a long moment, his gaze intense and assessing. Anthea forced herself to meet his eyes steadily, refusing to look away even as something uncomfortable twisted in her stomach.
He has very green eyes, some traitorous part of her mind observed. Dark green, like forest shadows.
"You speak very directly for a lady," he said finally.
"And you make assumptions very readily for a gentleman," she countered.
His lips twitched. It was not quite a smile, but it was close enough to make Anthea's breath catch inexplicably.
"You are correct," he said, surprising her. "I have been... overly cautious this evening. The constant scrutiny has made me perhaps more suspicious than is warranted."
It was an apology, she realized. Awkwardly delivered and somewhat grudging, but an apology nonetheless.
"I accept your apology, Your Grace," Anthea said, feeling her own anger drain away slightly. "Though I would suggest that not every woman you encounter is attempting to entrap you. Some of us have far better things to do with our time."
"Such as hiding behind pianofortes?" he asked, and this time there was definite amusement in his voice.
"Such as protecting foolish stepsisters from their manipulative mothers," Anthea retorted before she could stop herself.
His expression sharpened immediately. "Stepsisters?"
Wonderful. Well done, Anthea. Why not simply announce Poppy's presence outright?
"It is a long story," she said quickly, "and not one I care to share with a stranger."
"We have been introduced," he pointed out. "Or rather, we have insulted one another quite thoroughly. I believe that constitutes an introduction of sorts."
Despite herself, Anthea felt her lips curve. "I suppose it does. Though I do not believe I caught your name, Your Grace."
"Because I did not give it," he said. "Gregory Briarson, Duke of Everleigh. And you are?"
"Miss Anthea Croft."
"Miss Croft." He inclined his head, the gesture oddly formal after their heated exchange. "I regret my initial rudeness."
"And I regret mine," Anthea admitted. "Though in my defense, you did accuse me of scheming."
"In my defense, this wasn’t my first time."
"Perhaps you should not allow yourself to be in situations where scheming is possible," Anthea said pointedly.
They were standing closer now, she realized with a start. Somehow during their argument, the distance between them had closed. She could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight shadow of evening stubble along his jaw, the way his cravat was tied with military precision.
Respect spread across his face. "How refreshing. A woman who speaks plainly."
"I always speak plainly," Anthea said. "I find it far more efficient than the alternative."
"As do I." He took a step closer, and Anthea realized with a jolt that their argument had somehow brought them into very close proximity indeed. "Though I notice you still have not explained why you were truly hiding in this room."
He closed his eyes briefly, as though steadying himself, and when he opened them again, they had widened with sudden realization and accusation.
"That scent," he said abruptly, his voice turning cold. "You are wearing that particular perfume deliberately, are you not?"
Anthea blinked, thoroughly confused. "I beg your pardon?"
"Do not play coy with me, Miss Croft. I passed a woman in the corridor earlier wearing that exact combination, jasmine and vanilla.
It was you, was it not? You positioned yourself where I would notice, then lured me here with this elaborate charade about stepsisters and misunderstandings.
" His jaw tightened. "You are more clever than the others, I will grant you that. But the scheme is the same."
For a moment, Anthea could only stare at him in complete bewilderment. Then fury, pure, incandescent fury, flooded through her veins.
"You think I—" She took a step forward, her voice shaking with rage. "You absolute lunatic. You believe I orchestrated some elaborate seduction scheme involving perfume? Are you mad? Have the pressures of the ton finally cracked your mind entirely?"
"I am not—"
"You are delusional," she cut him off sharply. "Yes, I wear jasmine and vanilla. Half the women in London wear jasmine and vanilla. It is hardly an exotic combination. And if you happened to pass me in a corridor, that was mere coincidence, not some grand conspiracy!"
"Then why are you truly here?" he demanded.
"Because my stepmother sent my sister Poppy to this room to be caught alone with you!
" Anthea said, her voice shaking with fury.
"She arranged the entire thing—the timing, the witnesses, everything.
She intended to trap you into marriage. I discovered her scheme and managed to warn Poppy before she could enter, but then you arrived and I—" She stopped, realizing she had said too much.
There was complete silence between them.
Anthea's chest rose and fell as she breathed hard, staring at the strange man before her.
"Your stepmother," he said slowly, his voice dropping, "orchestrated a trap. And you prevented it."
"Yes," Anthea said firmly. "So you see, Your Grace, not every woman in London is attempting to ensnare you. Some of us are trying to protect our families from such schemes."
His expression shifted—something between respect and confusion. "Then you have my apology. And my gratitude."
"I require neither," Anthea said, though her voice had lost some of its sharpness. "I simply require you to believe that I had no part in my stepmother's machinations."
He studied her for a long moment, his green eyes searching hers with uncomfortable intensity. The music room had grown quieter. Outside, she could hear the distant strains of the orchestra, muffled by walls and distance.
She became aware of how isolated they were. How far from the ballroom and its crowds. The impropriety of it struck her anew, but she refused to step back. Refused to show weakness.
They were practically nose to nose now, both bristling with hostility, both refusing to back down. Anthea could see the sharp intelligence in his green eyes, could feel the heat radiating from his large frame, could smell sandalwood and something indefinably male.
This is ridiculous, she thought furiously. Why am I not stepping away?
"So for the last time," she said through gritted teeth, "I was not deceiving you. I was protecting my stepsister from being forced into a compromising situation with a man she does not know. A man who, I might add, has proven himself to be deeply suspicious and insultingly accusatory."
"And I was protecting myself from fortune hunters and scandal-mongers," he countered, his voice equally sharp. "A task made infinitely more difficult by women who hide in music rooms and then claim innocence."
"I am innocent!"
"Are you?" He gestured sharply at the space between them, or rather, the lack thereof. "Because from where I stand, Miss Croft, we are currently alone together in a private room, standing far closer than propriety allows. If anyone were to walk in right now—"
"Then it would be a disaster," Anthea interrupted, sudden cold realization washing over her. "For both of us."
"Indeed." But neither of them moved.
His eyes dropped briefly to where her necklace glinted against her collarbone, then snapped back to her face. "You should not allow yourself to be in situations where you could be caught in scandal."
"Neither should you," she retorted, even as her heart hammered traitorously at his proximity.
"I came here to be alone."
"So did I."
"Then we are at an impasse."
"So it would seem."
The tension between them was palpable, hostile and sharp, yet somehow charged with something else entirely. Something that made Anthea's skin feel too warm and her breath come too quickly.
I despise this man, she told herself firmly. Arrogant, suspicious, insufferable—
"You should step back, Your Grace," she said, her voice not quite as steady as she would have liked.
"You should step back, Miss Croft," he replied, his tone equally affected.
Neither of them moved.
"I—" she started, her voice embarrassingly breathless.
The doors burst open.
Anthea froze, her eyes widening in horror as Beatrice swept into the room, followed by a veritable parade of London's most notorious gossips. Lady Thornbury. Mrs. Pemberton. Lady Ashford. Half a dozen others, all of them staring with expressions ranging from shock to barely concealed glee.
"Well," Beatrice began, her voice dripping with false concern as she swept into the room.
Then her gaze landed on Anthea instead of Poppy, and her composure fractured visibly.
"What the bloody—" She caught herself, the coarse phrase dying as she remembered her audience.
When she continued, her cultured accent had returned, but the shock beneath it was raw and genuine. "What have we here?"
Anthea might have found it amusing under other circumstances—that flash of her stepmother's true origins, the East End vowels she worked so hard to bury. It was the most honest reaction she had seen from Beatrice in years.
Caught. Thoroughly and completely caught.