Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
The physician arrived within the half hour—a competent-looking man with kind eyes who examined Anthea thoroughly and pronounced her fortunate. No lasting damage. Rest and warmth would see her recovered.
"Though I must say," he added as he packed his bag, "falling into a lake in all those layers—you are very fortunate His Grace was there to pull you out. Another minute or two and..."
He did not finish the sentence. Did not need to.
When he left, a maid helped Anthea into a dry nightgown and wrapper, settling her beneath warm blankets. She should sleep. Should rest as the physician ordered.
But she could hear voices downstairs. Gregory's deep rumble, Beatrice's sharp tones. She could not make out words, but the tension was palpable even from here.
She had just closed her eyes when her door opened again.
"Miss Croft should be resting," she heard a maid protest from the hallway.
"This will only take a moment," Gregory's voice replied, brooking no argument.
Anthea sat up as he entered, closing the door behind him. Beatrice appeared a second later, looking scandalized.
"Your Grace, you cannot be alone with her in her bedroom! The impropriety—"
"Is irrelevant given that we are betrothed," Gregory said calmly.
The room went utterly silent.
"B-Betrothed?" Anthea's voice emerged as barely a whisper.
Gregory looked at her, his expression unreadable. "Yes. Do you have any objections to the matter?"
Her mind was spinning. Betrothed. He was announcing their betrothal as though it were already decided, as though she had agreed, as though—
"I—no," she heard herself say. "No objections."
"Good." He moved closer to the bed, his gaze never leaving hers. "The wedding will be in one week. I will have the special license ready by then. Be ready."
"One week?" Beatrice's voice rose with outrage. "That is completely—"
"One week," Gregory repeated, finally turning to face her. "And you will ensure that Miss Croft and her sisters have everything they require for the ceremony. I will cover all expenses, naturally."
"But—"
"No buts." His voice dropped to something that might have been dangerous. "You will cooperate, Mrs. Croft. Am I understood?"
Beatrice's face drained of color. She opened her mouth, closed it, then turned and swept from the room without another word.
Gregory looked back at Anthea. She was staring at him with wide eyes, her mind still trying to grasp what had just happened.
"One week," she repeated numbly.
"Yes." He moved closer, and something in his expression softened fractionally.
"You need time to recover. To prepare. But not too much time, or the scandal will overtake us both.
A hasty wedding will give Society something to gossip about, but it will also force them to accept the marriage as legitimate. "
"You have this all planned out."
"I spent the carriage ride considering various options. This is the most practical solution." His hand reached out, hesitated, then brushed a strand of damp hair from her face. "You should rest now. We can discuss details tomorrow."
"Your Grace—"
"Rest, Anthea." His voice had gone gentle. "That is an order."
She rolled her eyes. "You cannot order me to rest."
"I just did." But his mouth curved slightly. "One week. Be ready."
He turned and left before she could formulate a response, the door clicking shut behind him with quiet finality.
Anthea lay back against her pillows, her heart racing.
She was getting married.
In one week.
To a man who had saved her life, carried her through London without caring about scandal, and then announced their betrothal as though it were as inevitable as sunrise.
A man who would have done it for anyone.
She pressed her hands to her face and tried very hard not to think about how much she wanted that last part not to be true.
Downstairs, Gregory accepted his coat from a footman and stepped out into the late afternoon air. His clothes were still damp, clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He should go home. Change. Attempt to salvage what remained of the day.
Instead, he stood on the pavement and tried to slow his racing heart.
One week.
In one week, Anthea Croft would become his wife. His duchess. His responsibility in every way that mattered.
This was practical. Necessary. The scandal from today's rescue made marriage inevitable, and he was simply ensuring it happened on his terms rather than Society's.
It had nothing to do with the way his heart had stopped when she went under the water. Nothing to do with the terror that had gripped him when he could not immediately find her. Nothing to do with the overwhelming relief when she had finally opened her eyes and looked at him.
Nothing to do with the fact that carrying her, feeling her heart beat against his chest, had felt more right than anything in his entire life.
No.
This was convenience. Practicality. A solution to a problem.
She would help him navigate Society. He would ensure her sisters were well provided for. They would maintain separate lives, separate interests, and most importantly, separate emotions.
He could not afford to lose focus. Could not allow himself to be distracted by inconvenient feelings or the way she looked at him or the fact that when he held her, something in his chest had cracked open.
This would remain a marriage of convenience.
It had to.
Even if the lie was becoming harder to believe with each passing moment.