Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Anthea walked without direction, letting her feet carry her away from the crowd, away from Gregory's intense gaze, away from the image of Lady Millicent's hand resting so familiarly on his arm.
Ridiculous. She was being utterly ridiculous.
He had proposed a practical arrangement. She had not yet agreed. He was perfectly entitled to explore other options, to walk with other women, to—
Her foot caught on something—a root, perhaps, or an uneven paving stone—and suddenly the ground disappeared beneath her.
A scream tore out of her throat only to be abruptly stopped.
Cold.
The water hit her hard, stealing the breath from her lungs. She gasped reflexively and water rushed into her mouth, down her throat. Panic seized her as she thrashed, trying to find purchase, trying to remember which way was up.
Her skirts. Oh God, her skirts.
They wrapped around her legs like iron chains, the fabric heavy with water, pulling her down. She kicked desperately but the layers of muslin and petticoats tangled tighter with every movement. Her lungs burned. She could not breathe. Could not—
She was going to die.
The thought arrived with perfect clarity even as darkness crept into the edges of her vision. She was going to drown in a lake at the Royal Menagerie because she had been too distracted by jealousy to watch where she was walking.
What a stupid way to die.
Something grabbed her. Strong hands closed around her waist, and then she was being pulled upward with irresistible force. Her head broke the surface and she tried to breathe but only managed to cough up water, her body convulsing with the effort.
"I have you." The voice was rough, commanding. "Stop fighting me, Anthea. I have you."
She went limp, too exhausted to do anything else.
The hands—his hands, she realized dimly—tightened their grip, and then they were moving through the water.
Solid ground materialized beneath her, and she was being lifted clear of the lake entirely, cradled against a chest that was as soaked as she was.
"Anthea." The voice was urgent now, edged with something that might have been fear. "Anthea, open your eyes."
She tried. Managed to lift her eyelids partway, though everything remained blurry.
"That is it. Look at me. Anthea, look at me."
Gregory's face swam into focus above her. Water dripped from his hair onto her cheek. His eyes were wild, desperate in a way she had never seen before.
"There you are," he breathed, and his relief was so palpable she could feel it. "Thank God. I thought—"
He did not finish the sentence. Just held her tighter, his hand coming up to cradle the back of her head as though she were something precious. Fragile.
She should say something. Should thank him or reassure him or at the very least stop staring at him like he had personally hung the moon.
But she could not seem to form words. Could only look at him—at the stark fear slowly fading from his features, at the water droplets clinging to his eyelashes, at the way his jaw was clenched so tight she could see the muscle jumping.
He had jumped in after her. Had not hesitated. Had pulled her from certain death without a thought for his own safety or dignity or what Society would say about a duke diving into a lake.
"Can you breathe?" His voice had gone rough. "Does anything hurt?"
"I—" Her voice emerged as barely a rasp. She coughed again, and his arm tightened around her shoulders, supporting her through it.
"That is all right. Just breathe. Nice and slow."
A crowd had gathered. Anthea became aware of it slowly—the exclamations of shock, the whispers, the gasps of amazement.
"He dove straight in!"
"Without even removing his coat!"
"Your Grace, that was extraordinary," someone said—a gentleman Anthea did not recognize. "You may have saved her life!"
"I would have done it for anyone," Gregory said, his tone dismissive, almost curt. "Anyone would have done the same."
Of course. Of course he would have. It meant nothing. She meant nothing special. He was simply a good man doing what good men did, and she was a fool for thinking—for hoping—
She closed her eyes against the sudden sting.
"Anthea?" His voice dropped, concerned. "Are you in pain?"
"No," she managed. "Just tired."
Sybil's voice cut through the chaos with sharp authority. "Move aside! Give them space! Someone fetch a blanket immediately!"
"I should—" Anthea tried to push herself upright. "You can put me down now. I can—"
"No."
The word was flat, absolute. Gregory shifted her weight in his arms as though she weighed nothing, rising to his feet with her still cradled against his chest.
"Your Grace, I am perfectly capable of—"
"You nearly drowned." His voice could have cut glass. "You are soaked through, likely in shock, and I am not setting you down until we reach a carriage. Do not argue with me."
"I am not arguing. I am simply pointing out that I can walk—"
"Can you?" He looked down at her, one brow raised in challenge. "Because from where I stand, you can barely keep your eyes open."
She scoffed softly. If only that was true.
She had been very alert, her many layers of dress wrapped around her legs, clinging to her, drawing her down. The weight of the water too felt immobilizing, even as he held her, let alone if she were to try and walk.
"I am fine," she insisted, even as she shivered violently.
"You are freezing and waterlogged." His arms tightened fractionally. "And I am not discussing this further."
Someone, a footman, judging by the livery, appeared with a blanket. Gregory took it one-handed, somehow managing to wrap it around her without loosening his hold. The wool was rough but warm, and Anthea found herself burrowing into it despite her determination to remain dignified.
"Your Grace." Sybil materialized beside them, her face pale with worry. "My carriage is just there. We can—"
"I am taking her home myself," Gregory said. "Send word to her household that a physician should be summoned immediately."
"Your Grace, you cannot simply—" Sybil stopped herself, seeming to recognize the futility of argument. "Very well. I shall see to Veronica and follow shortly."
"Thank you."
He strode toward the carriages with long, purposeful steps. Anthea wanted to protest but her head had somehow found its way to his shoulder, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear was oddly soothing.
"This will cause a scandal," she managed to say. "Everyone saw you jump in. Saw you—"
"I do not care."
"You should care. You need Society's approval for your investments, for—"
"I said I do not care." He looked down at her, and something in his expression made her breath catch. "Let them gossip. Let them whisper and speculate and draw whatever conclusions they please. You nearly died, Anthea. Nothing else matters."
She should correct him. Should insist he call her Miss Croft, should point out that such informality would only fuel the scandal. But her name in his voice, rough with such foreign emotion and stripped of all pretense, made something warm unfurl in her chest.
They reached his carriage. The driver had already opened the door, his eyes wide with shock at the sight of his employer dripping wet and carrying a half-drowned woman.
Gregory climbed in without setting her down, settling onto the bench with her still in his lap. The blanket had slipped, and he adjusted it with careful hands, tucking it more securely around her shoulders.
"Your Grace, you should—I can sit on the other bench—"
"No."
"This is highly improper—"
"I jumped into a lake fully clothed and pulled you out in front of half the ton," Gregory said dryly. "I believe we are well past propriety at this point."
The carriage lurched into motion. Anthea tried once more to shift to the opposite seat, but his arm remained firm around her waist.
"You do not understand," she said, her voice gaining strength despite her exhaustion.
"This will be a scandal. Everyone saw you dive in after me.
Saw you carry me. And combined with the rumors from before—when we were found in the music room—they will say we have been conducting some sort of clandestine affair.
You cannot simply dismiss this! Your reputation—"
"My reputation will survive."
"But mine might not," Anthea said sharply. "And more importantly, my sisters' reputations. Veronica and Poppy will be tainted by association. Any gentleman considering them will think twice about—"
"Then I will make certain no one dares speak ill of any of you." His voice had gone flat, commanding. "The solution is quite simple."
"There is no simple solution to scandal—"
"There is." He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. "But we will discuss it when you are not half-frozen and in shock."
Anthea wanted to argue. Wanted to demand he explain himself. But exhaustion was pulling at her, making her thoughts slow and heavy.
He did not care. Of course he did not care.
Men like him—titled, powerful—never truly suffered the consequences of scandal.
That burden always fell on the women involved.
He could walk away from this with nothing more than a reputation for being heroic and impulsive.
Meanwhile, she would be ruined. Her sisters would be ruined.
Even good men, it seemed, only cared for themselves in the end.
"I am getting you wet," she pointed out.
"I am already wet."
"Your carriage—"
"Can be cleaned." He looked at her with something approaching exasperation. "Anthea, stop trying to protect me from the consequences of my own choices. I knew exactly what I was doing when I dove in after you."
"Did you?" The question emerged before she could stop it. "Because it seems rather... impulsive."
"It was instinct." His jaw tightened. "I saw you fall. Saw you go under. And I—" He stopped, seemed to struggle with the words. "I did not think. I simply moved."
"You could have drowned as well."
"I am a strong swimmer." His hand, still resting at her waist, pressed slightly. "And I was not going to stand there and watch you die. Not when I could do something about it."
"Anyone would have done the same," Anthea said quietly, though her chest felt too tight.
"Perhaps." His voice had gone carefully neutral. "But I am the one who did."
Her eyes snapped up to meet his in shock. She had not known what to expect when she threw his words back at him, she’d just been hurt and had just said those words, but eating him speaks softened and eased some of the hurt inside her.
They fell into silence. Anthea became acutely aware of her position—curled against his chest, his arm supporting her, the heat of him seeping through layers of wet fabric.
"Thank you," she said. "For saving me. I—I do not know how to properly express—"
"Do not." The words were quiet but firm. "Do not thank me for that. Not when it was my—" He stopped abruptly.
"Your what?"
"Nothing." But his expression had shuttered, gone distant in a way that made her want to demand answers.
The carriage rolled through London's streets, carrying them toward her home and whatever consequences awaited. Anthea knew she should be worried about the scandal, about what Beatrice would say, about how this would affect her sisters.
But wrapped in Gregory's arms, still shaking from cold and shock and the devastating certainty that she had nearly died, she could not quite bring herself to care.
"I am taking you inside," Gregory said as they approached her street. "And I am not leaving until a physician has examined you and confirmed you are well."
"That is not necessary—"
"It is necessary to me." His voice brooked no argument. "You will submit to a physician's care. You will change into dry clothes. You will rest. And I will remain until I am satisfied that you are in no danger."
"You are being autocratic."
"I am being practical." But there was a hint of something else in his voice. Something that sounded almost like fear. "Humor me, Anthea. For once, simply humor me."
The carriage stopped. Gregory moved to the door, still holding her, and descended to the pavement. A footman rushed forward, eyes wide with shock at the sight of them both soaked through.
"Fetch Mrs. Croft," Gregory commanded the footman. "And tell the maids to bring warm clothes and blankets to Miss Croft's room immediately. Have them tend to a fire as well."
"Your Grace, I—"
"Immediately."
The footman fled. Gregory strode up the steps and through the door without waiting for permission, carrying Anthea into her own home as though he owned it.
Beatrice appeared at the top of the stairs, her expression shifting from confusion to horror to something calculating in rapid succession.
"What on earth is going on here?"
"Miss Croft fell into the lake at the Royal Menagerie," Gregory said curtly, not breaking his stride. "She requires a physician. Now."
"I hardly think you can waltz into my home and issue commands—"
"Now." The word emerged low, dangerous. "Or I will fetch one myself and leave you to explain to Society why you hesitated to care for your own stepdaughter."
Beatrice's face flushed with anger, but she turned and snapped orders at a hovering maid.
"Which room is hers?" Gregory asked, already heading for the stairs.
Beatrice pointed wordlessly down the corridor, her jaw tight with fury.
Anthea finally found her voice. "You are carrying me to my bedroom. That is—that is beyond improper. That is scandalous. That is—"
"Necessary," Gregory finished. He shouldered open a door—her door, she realized—and finally, finally set her down.
On her bed.
She looked up at him, this man who had jumped into a lake without hesitation, who had refused to put her down despite every rule of propriety, who was now standing in her bedroom dripping water onto her carpet.
"I need to fetch your maid," he said, his voice rough. "You need dry clothes. I will wait downstairs until—"
"Your Grace." Beatrice appeared in the doorway, her expression tight. "The physician has been sent for. I must insist that you leave now."
"I will leave when I am satisfied that Miss Croft is being properly cared for," Gregory said without looking at her. "Not before."
"You cannot simply—"
"I can. I am. Do not test me on this, Mrs. Croft."
Beatrice's mouth snapped shut, though fury radiated from every line of her body. She turned and vanished down the corridor, her footsteps sharp with anger.
Gregory looked back at Anthea. "Your maid will be here shortly to help you change. I will wait downstairs."
"You do not need to—"
"I do." His jaw was set, implacable. "I will not leave until I know you are well."
He turned and strode from the room before she could argue further.