Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Anthea woke to sunlight streaming through her curtains and the disorienting sensation that something fundamental had shifted in the world overnight.
For a moment, she could not place what felt different. Then memory returned in a rush: the lake, the rescue, Gregory standing in her bedroom announcing their betrothal as though it were as inevitable as the tide.
The wedding will be in one week. Be ready.
She pressed her hands to her face and tried to breathe normally.
She was getting married.
In one week.
To a duke.
The same woman who had sworn off marriage entirely, who had built her entire life around the premise of remaining independent, was now preparing to become a duchess.
How had this happened?
A knock at her door interrupted her spiraling thoughts.
"Come in," she called, sitting up and pushing her hair back from her face.
Veronica and Poppy entered together, their expressions somewhere between excited and concerned. Poppy carried a breakfast tray, which she set on the bedside table with unusual care.
"We heard," Veronica said quietly. "About the betrothal. Mama told us this morning."
"She seemed quite pleased," Poppy added, though her tone suggested she found this suspicious. "Which is never a good sign."
Anthea managed a weak laugh. "No, it rarely is."
"Are you all right?" Veronica perched on the edge of the bed, her eyes searching Anthea's face. "You nearly drowned yesterday, and now you are betrothed, and—are you certain about this?"
"I—" Anthea stopped, realizing she had no idea how to answer that question. "Yes?"
"You do not sound certain," Poppy observed, crossing her arms. "You sound terrified."
"I am not terrified. I am simply..." Anthea trailed off. What was she? Confused? Overwhelmed? Strangely calm despite the chaos? "Adjusting."
"To becoming a Duchess in one week?" Poppy's eyebrows rose. "That seems rather fast for adjustment."
"It is what needs to happen," Anthea said, hearing the defensiveness in her own voice. "Given the circumstances. The scandal from yesterday would ruin all of us if we did not—if he did not—"
"So you are marrying him to avoid scandal?" Veronica's voice was small, worried.
"No. Yes. Partially." Anthea pressed her fingers to her temples. "I do not know. He proposed—or rather, announced—and I agreed, and now it is happening, and I cannot seem to form a coherent thought about any of it."
The sisters exchanged glances.
"Do you love him?" Poppy asked bluntly.
"I—that is not—we barely know each other!"
"That is not an answer."
"It is the only answer I have." Anthea reached for the tea Poppy had brought, needing something to do with her hands. "This is an arrangement. He needs help with Society. I need—we need—security for both of you. It makes sense."
"Practical arrangements do not usually involve dramatic lake rescues," Poppy pointed out.
"Or carrying you through London while soaking wet," Veronica added.
"Or announcing betrothals in your bedroom," Poppy finished.
Anthea took a long sip of tea and wished desperately that her sisters were less observant.
"The Duke seems... intense," Veronica said carefully. "When he carried you in yesterday, he looked—Anthea, he looked terrified. And then when Mama tried to argue with him, he was so forceful. So protective."
"That does not mean anything.” Her mouth twisted. “He would have done the same for anyone."
"Would he?" Poppy tilted her head. "Because it did not look that way to me."
Before Anthea could respond, another knock sounded.
"Miss Anthea?" A maid's voice called through the door. "The Duchess of Vestiaire and Miss Burrow have called. They are waiting in the drawing room."
Anthea closed her eyes. Of course. Sybil and Cassandra would have heard by now. The entire ton had probably heard by now.
"Tell them I will be down shortly," she called back.
Twenty minutes later, dressed and armored with as much composure as she could muster, Anthea descended to find her friends occupying the drawing room with the air of women prepared for interrogation.
"You are getting married," Cassandra announced the moment Anthea entered. "In one week. To the Duke of Everleigh. The same Duke you swore you had no interest in marrying."
"Good morning to you as well, Cassandra."
"Do not 'good morning' me. Sit down. Explain." Cassandra pointed imperiously at a chair.
Anthea sat, feeling rather like a student called before a particularly stern governess.
Sybil, at least, offered a sympathetic smile. "We heard about the accident yesterday. Are you recovered?"
"Physically, yes. Emotionally..." Anthea gestured vaguely. "That remains to be seen."
"Start from the beginning," Sybil suggested gently. "What happened after you walked away at the menagerie?"
Anthea explained—the distraction, the fall, the terror of drowning, Gregory's rescue. Her friends listened with widening eyes, occasionally interjecting with gasps of shock or concern.
"And then he simply announced you were betrothed?" Cassandra demanded when Anthea finished. "Just declared it as fact?"
"More or less."
"And you agreed?"
"I was still half-frozen and in shock. He asked if I had objections, and I said no, and then he said the wedding would be in a week." Anthea twisted her hands together. "It all happened so quickly."
"Do you want to marry him?" Sybil asked quietly.
"I—" Anthea stopped. Did she? "I do not know. I never wanted to marry anyone. But when he asked if I had objections, I found I did not. And I still do not, which is perhaps the strangest part of all this."
"You do not regret agreeing?" Sybil pressed.
"No." The admission surprised Anthea with its certainty. "I do not regret it. I simply do not understand it."
Cassandra leaned forward, her expression intent. "What do you feel when you are with him?"
"Confused. Frustrated. Challenged." Anthea paused. "Alive."
"Alive," Cassandra repeated, a slow smile spreading across her face. "That is not nothing."
"It is not love either," Anthea countered quickly. "This is a practical arrangement. He has been very clear about that."
"Has he?" Sybil's tone suggested doubt. "Because jumping into a lake and carrying you through London while ignoring every rule of propriety does not sound particularly practical."
"He said he would have done it for anyone."
"Oh, darling." Cassandra's expression turned pitying. "Men say all sorts of foolish things when they are trying to protect themselves from their own feelings."
"He does not have feelings for me. This is convenience. Mutual benefit. He needs a wife who understands Society, and I need—"
"What do you need?" Sybil interrupted gently.
Anthea opened her mouth, then closed it. What did she need? Security for her sisters, certainly. Escape from Beatrice's household. But was that all?
"I need to know what I am agreeing to," she said finally. "I need boundaries. Expectations. I need to know that this arrangement will not—that he will not—"
"That he will not hurt you the way Maxwell did?" Sybil finished.
The name landed like a stone in still water. Anthea flinched.
"Maxwell was a liar and a manipulator," Cassandra said fiercely. "The Duke is neither of those things. Blunt to the point of rudeness, perhaps, but not dishonest."
"I know that. Rationally, I know that." Anthea pressed her hands together. "But I still feel... unsettled. As though I am walking into something without fully understanding the terms."
"So establish terms," Sybil said simply.
Anthea looked at her friend. "What?"
"As I said before, establish terms. Discuss boundaries. Set expectations." Sybil leaned forward, her expression earnest.
"The Duke does not seem like the type of man who discusses things," Anthea said doubtfully. "He commands. He decides. He announces betrothals in bedrooms."
"Then make him discuss," Sybil replied. "You are not some timid debutante afraid of her own voice. You are Anthea Croft, and you have never been afraid to demand what you need. Do not start now simply because he has a title and looks at you in ways that make you forget your own name."
"He does not look at me in any particular way," Anthea protested weakly.
Both her friends stared at her with identical expressions of disbelief.
"Fine," Anthea conceded. "Perhaps he looks at me in certain ways. But that does not mean—"
"It means you need to have a conversation," Cassandra interrupted. "Before the wedding. Before you tie yourself legally to a man whose expectations you do not fully understand."
"What would I even say?" Anthea asked. "Excuse me, Your Grace, but before we marry, I would like to discuss the terms of our arrangement? That sounds absurd."
"It sounds practical," Sybil corrected. "Which is what you both claim to value. Write to him. Request a meeting. Tell him you wish to discuss the marriage before the ceremony."
"And if he refuses?"
"He will not refuse." Cassandra's voice held certainty. "That man jumped into a lake for you. He will agree to a conversation."
Anthea wanted to argue. Wanted to insist that Gregory would find such a request presumptuous or unnecessary.
But remembering the way he had looked at her yesterday—the fear in his eyes when she would not open them, the relief when she finally did—she found she could not quite convince herself he would refuse.
"What would I even ask him?" she said quietly.
"Everything," Sybil replied. "What he expects from this marriage. What he needs from you. What you can expect from him. Whether this will remain strictly practical or if there is possibility for more." She paused. "And most importantly—what boundaries you both need in place to feel safe."
Safe. The word resonated in a way Anthea had not expected. She had not felt safe in years. Not since her father died. Not since Maxwell.
But yesterday, wrapped in Gregory's arms as he carried her through London, she had felt something close to it.
"I will talk to him," she said, the decision solidifying even as she spoke. "I will request a meeting. And I will—I will demand we discuss terms before this wedding happens."
"Good." Cassandra sat back, looking satisfied. "And if he proves to be unreasonable?"
"Then I will marry him anyway," Anthea admitted. "Because despite everything—despite the confusion and the uncertainty and the fact that this is happening far too quickly—I do not regret saying yes. I only wish to understand what I have agreed to."
Sybil reached across and squeezed her hand. "That is all any of us can ask for. Understanding. Honesty. A foundation to build upon."
"And if the foundation crumbles?"
"Then you rebuild." Sybil's smile was gentle. "But I do not think it will. The Duke strikes me as a man who, once committed to something, does not waver. He may be gruff and commanding and entirely too accustomed to having his own way, but he is not fickle."
"No," Anthea agreed softly. "He is decidedly not fickle."
After her friends left, Anthea sat at her writing desk and stared at a blank page for a long moment.
She should write to him. Should request a meeting to discuss these terms before the wedding happened. It was the practical thing to do. The sensible thing.
She picked up her pen, dipped it in ink.
Your Grace,
I find I have questions about our impending marriage—
She stopped. Set down the pen. Stared at the half-formed words.
What if he thought her presumptuous? What if he saw this as her trying to control the arrangement, to make demands before she had any right to do so? He had saved her life, offered marriage to protect her reputation, and now she wanted to dictate terms?
No. She could not send this.
She would wait. Perhaps an opportunity would arise naturally to discuss these matters. Perhaps—
A knock at the door interrupted her spiraling thoughts.
"Miss Anthea?" A footman entered, carrying a silver salver. "A letter has arrived for you. From the Duke of Everleigh."
Anthea's heart performed an acrobatic leap. She took the letter with hands that were steadier than she felt and dismissed the footman with a nod.
The seal was impressive—the Everleigh crest pressed into deep blue wax. She broke it open and unfolded the heavy paper.
Miss Croft,
As we are to be married in one week, there are practical matters requiring your attention. I have arranged for the wedding breakfast menu to be finalized and would appreciate your opinion on the selections.
I will send my carriage for you tomorrow at two o'clock. We will sample the proposed dishes and discuss any adjustments you deem necessary.
Everleigh
Anthea read the letter twice, then a third time.
He wanted her to come to his home. Alone. To sample wedding breakfast foods.
It was perfectly practical. Entirely reasonable. The bride should have input on her own wedding breakfast.
And yet.
She thought of Sybil's words. Establish terms. Discuss boundaries. Set expectations.
Perhaps this was her opportunity. Not a letter requesting an audience like some supplicant, but a meeting he had already arranged. She could raise these questions naturally, in the context of discussing their wedding.
She could ask him what he expected from this marriage. What boundaries they both needed. What this arrangement would truly entail.
If she was brave enough.
Anthea folded the letter carefully and pressed it against her chest.
One week until her wedding.
And, she would go to his home. Would sample foods and discuss menus and somehow—somehow—find the courage to ask for what she needed.
Understanding. Honesty. A foundation that might—possibly, perhaps, against all odds—support something more than mere convenience.
If she was brave enough to demand it.