Chapter 9 #2
"You won," Gregory said, and there was something in his voice she had never heard before—genuine pleasure, perhaps even pride. His face was tilted up toward hers, and the afternoon sun caught the green of his eyes, making them almost luminous. "That was an excellent shot."
Time seemed to slow. She could feel every point of contact between them—his hands spanning her waist, her own fingers pressed against the breadth of his shoulders, the scant inches separating them.
Goodness.
The proper thing would be to demand he set her down immediately.
Instead, Anthea found herself staring at his mouth, at the way the corner of it had lifted into something approaching an actual smile.
Found herself noticing the sharp line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble, the small scar near his left eyebrow that she had never been close enough to see before.
He was devastatingly handsome when he smiled. It was entirely unfair.
"Your Grace," she said, and her voice came out softer than she planned.
What looked like awareness flickered in his expression.
His grip on her waist tightened fractionally, and for one mad, impossible moment, Anthea thought he might draw her closer. Thought she might let him.
Then Veronica's voice cut through the spell like a knife.
"Anthea!"
Reality crashed back with the force of a cavalry charge. They were standing in the middle of Lady Pemberton's lawn. Half of Society was watching. And Gregory was still holding her suspended in the air like—like—
"You may set me down now," Anthea said sharply, face red.
“Oh!” Gregory blinked, as though waking from a dream, and immediately lowered her. But his hands lingered on her waist for just a moment—one breath, two—before he stepped back, putting proper distance between them.
Anthea's legs felt unsteady. Her heart was racing in a way that had nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the man now standing at a respectable distance, looking as composed as though he had not just made her forget where they were entirely.
She smoothed her skirts with hands that were not quite steady, refusing to acknowledge the heat climbing her cheeks. Physical attraction. Nothing more. Certainly nothing that signified anything beyond the purely corporeal.
Even if her waist still tingled where his hands had been.
"Anthea!"
Veronica called again and Anthea quickly put several respectable feet between them.
"Yes?" Anthea called, hoping her voice did not sound as unsteady as she felt.
Veronica hurried over, practically dragging a tall, severe-looking gentleman in her wake. "This is Mr. Thornbury. He has asked if we might visit the Royal Menagerie next week, and I said I would need to ask you first, and—oh, did you win? How wonderful!"
Mr. Thornbury bowed stiffly. "Miss Croft. Your Grace. I was just telling Miss Veronica that the lions have recently been fed and are quite active. I thought she might enjoy observing them."
"How...thoughtful," Anthea said, taking in the man's rigid posture and disapproving frown. He looked like he had never smiled in his life and considered such displays frivolous.
"Mr. Thornbury is very knowledgeable about natural history," Veronica added, though her enthusiasm seemed somewhat forced. "He was explaining about the different species of—"
"Classification systems are essential to proper understanding," Mr. Thornbury interrupted. "I was telling Miss Veronica that the common misconception regarding the dietary habits of—"
"Quite fascinating, I am sure," Gregory cut in, his tone suggesting he found it anything but. "Miss Veronica, I hope you enjoy your outing."
"Oh! Yes, thank you, Your Grace." Veronica bobbed a curtsy, then allowed Mr. Thornbury to lead her away, already resuming his lecture about animal classifications.
"He seems..." Anthea searched for a diplomatic word.
"Tedious?" Gregory supplied.
"I was going to say scholarly."
"Those are not mutually exclusive." He watched Mr. Thornbury's retreating form with obvious distaste. "Your sister can do better."
"He is the first gentleman to show interest in her all season," Anthea said, feeling suddenly defensive. "And she seemed pleased by the attention."
"She seemed relieved to have any attention at all." Gregory turned back to her.
Before Anthea could respond, a high-pitched giggle cut through the air. They both turned to see Poppy surrounded by no fewer than four gentlemen, all of whom appeared simultaneously enchanted and exhausted by her animated conversation.
"And that is why," Poppy was saying, gesturing wildly with her lemonade, "I believe society would be vastly improved if everyone simply said what they meant instead of dancing around their intentions with ridiculous euphemisms and—oh, Lord Baxley, I did not mean your poetry!
Your work is quite direct. Sometimes painfully so.
Though I did wonder about that verse comparing your beloved's eyes to dead fish—"
"Shall I rescue them?" Gregory asked dryly.
"Absolutely not." Anthea watched her stepsister with mingled horror and affection. "Poppy needs to learn subtlety."
"Does she?" Gregory's tone suggested he found Poppy's bluntness refreshing. "Or does Society need to learn honesty?"
Anthea glanced at him sharply. "That sounds suspiciously like agreement with my stepsister's philosophy."
"I spent fifteen years in the army, Miss Croft. Direct orders and clear communication kept men alive. Dancing around one's meaning is a luxury I never learned to value."
"And yet you have survived the ton's intricacies well enough."
"Only barely," he corrected. "Which is why I proposed marriage to you."
Anthea had been trying not to think about his proposal, about the letter he had sent detailing the practical advantages of their union. About the fact that she had not yet given him an answer.
"I have not—" she began.
"Forgotten?" Gregory's expression turned serious, though something still lingered in his eyes—that same awareness that had hummed between them moments ago.
"I had not imagined you had. But perhaps winning at Pall Mall has demonstrated that we work rather well together when we cease arguing long enough to try. "
"We argued throughout the entire game," Anthea pointed out.
"And yet we won." He took a step closer, and Anthea's traitorous body immediately noticed.
Noticed the breadth of his shoulders, the way he moved with predatory grace, the heat that seemed to emanate from him.
""Imagine what we might accomplish if we applied such partnership to actual endeavors.
" He paused, his gaze intent on hers. "Your sisters would have every advantage.
Proper dowries, introductions to suitable gentlemen, the protection of a duchess's influence.
My estate would benefit from your knowledge of Society—your ability to navigate these circles, to secure the cooperation I need to restore what my uncle destroyed. "
His voice dropped slightly. "And we would each have what we require without the messy complications of sentiment."
There it was. Laid out with the precision of a military campaign. She would help him gain acceptance among the ton. He would provide security and position for her family. Clean. Practical. Safe.
So why did it feel like she was losing something she had not known she wanted?
Messy complications of sentiment. Yes. That was precisely what she needed—what she had to maintain.
This attraction was purely physical, nothing more.
She had been burned by emotion once before, and she would not make that mistake again.
A practical arrangement where neither party risked anything beyond the physical was exactly what the situation required.
"I will consider it," she said finally.
"I ask for nothing more." Gregory bowed, and even that simple gesture made her notice the play of muscle beneath his coat. Insufferable man. "Enjoy the remainder of the party, Miss Croft. I shall call on you tomorrow for our meeting as planned. And congratulations on our victory."
He walked away, and Anthea found her eyes following him despite her best intentions. The way he moved, all controlled power and deliberate purpose.
She turned sharply away, her jaw set with determination.
This was about her sisters. About securing their futures. About a practical arrangement that would benefit all parties involved.
If she also happened to find the Duke physically attractive, well, that was simply an inconvenient fact, nothing more. It certainly did not mean she was in any danger of developing actual feelings for the man.
She had learned her lesson with Maxwell. Attraction was merely a physical response, easily ignored when one had more important matters to attend to.
Even if her waist still seemed to remember exactly where his hands had been. Even if some foolish part of her had not wanted him to let go.
That signified nothing. Nothing at all.