Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Gregory did not answer immediately.
He simply looked at her, his expression unreadable, and Anthea felt the weight of his gaze like a physical thing. She had asked for what she needed—distance, safety, clear boundaries. Surely he would agree. It made sense. It was practical.
It was exactly what he should want from this arrangement.
But as Gregory studied her face—the careful composure, the determination in her eyes, the way she held herself so rigidly as though bracing for rejection—an entirely different vision invaded his thoughts.
Anthea laughing at something he said over breakfast. Not the polite amusement she offered in company, but genuine laughter that made her eyes crinkle at the corners.
Anthea curled in the chair across from his desk while he worked through correspondence, her presence a comfortable constant rather than an obligation.
Anthea reaching for his hand without thinking, the gesture easy and natural because they had learned each other's rhythms.
The images came unbidden, surprisingly vivid.
Her turning to him first when problems arose, trusting him with more than just practical concerns.
The two of them discussing household matters not as duchess and duke but as partners who actually cared what the other thought.
Quiet evenings where conversation flowed freely because distance had given way to something warmer, something real.
And his estates—God, his estates. Lindenwood standing empty year after year, perfectly maintained but utterly lifeless.
What would it look like if Anthea lived there?
Not just occupied rooms between social obligations, but truly inhabited the space.
She would notice which rooms needed better light, which furniture should be arranged for comfort rather than formality.
Would know the servants' names, remember their families, transform cold grandeur into actual warmth.
She would care about his home. Would make it somewhere worth returning to instead of a monument to be managed from a distance.
He wanted that.
Wanted more than social advantage and household management. Wanted more than a wife who performed duties and retreated to her separate life, maintaining careful boundaries that kept anything real from developing.
Wanted Anthea—not the perfectly composed version she presented to Society, but the woman who loved her sisters fiercely, who had opinions about lemon sauce when given permission to voice them, who looked at him sometimes with cautious hope as though she wanted to trust but did not quite dare.
He wanted the possibility of more. Of something neither of them had planned but both of them might want if they were brave enough to reach for it.
And she was asking him to promise he would never try.
"No," he said finally.
Anthea blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"No." Gregory leaned back in his chair, his posture deceptively relaxed. "I will not agree to those terms."
"But—" She stopped, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. "You said this was a practical arrangement. That we both understood what we were entering into. How is maintaining separate lives not practical?"
"Because you are attempting to dictate terms of my marriage to me as though you have any authority to do so." His voice remained calm, almost casual, but there was steel beneath it. "I will not be managed, Anthea. Not by you, not by anyone."
Heat flooded her cheeks—part embarrassment, part anger. "I am not trying to manage you. I am simply requesting—"
"You are attempting to establish rules that suit your comfort without considering what I might want from this arrangement." He tilted his head slightly. "Did it occur to you to ask what I expected from our marriage before announcing what you would and would not provide?"
"You said you needed help with Society. I agreed to that."
"And you assume that is all I want? A wife who performs her social duties and then retreats to her separate life?" Something flickered in his expression. "That is rather insulting, actually."
Anthea's hands clenched in her lap. "Then what do you want?"
"I want—" He stopped, seemed to consider his words carefully. Then he rose, moving to the door. "Leave us. And do not return until I summon you."
The footman who had been standing discreetly near the sideboard bowed and disappeared. The door closed with a quiet click, leaving them utterly alone.
Gregory turned back to face her, and something in his expression had shifted. Become more focused. More intent.
"Stand up," he said.
"What?"
"Stand up, Anthea. If we are going to discuss the terms of our marriage, I prefer not to have this conversation across a table."
She should refuse. She should insist on maintaining the barrier the table provided. Instead, she found herself rising, her legs unsteady beneath her.
Gregory moved closer. Not touching her, but near enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.
"Let me be very clear about what I will and will not agree to," he said, his voice low. "I will not visit your bed uninvited. I will not demand you give me anything you are not ready to give. Your body, your affection, your trust—those are yours to offer or withhold as you see fit."
Relief flooded through her. "Then you agree—"
"I did not say I agreed." He took another step closer, and Anthea found herself backing up until her spine hit the wall. "I said I will not demand those things. But I cannot promise that you will not offer them freely."
"I will not." The words emerged with more confidence than she felt. "I have no intention of—of complicating our arrangement with—"
"With what?" He placed one hand on the wall beside her head, leaning in slightly. "Physical intimacy? Attraction? The natural progression of two people living in close proximity?"
"With emotional entanglement," Anthea corrected, proud that her voice remained steady. "I will fulfill my duties as your duchess. I will manage your household, attend events, help you navigate Society. But that is where my obligations end."
"Obligations." He said the word as though tasting it. "Tell me, Anthea, what duties do you believe a duchess has?"
"I just explained—"
"No. You explained what you are willing to give. I am asking what you think I expect." His free hand came up, and he caught a loose strand of her hair between his fingers, studying it as though it fascinated him. "Be specific."
Anthea's breath hitched. "I will—I will manage the household staff. Oversee menus and schedules. Host dinners when required."
"Go on." He was still playing with that strand of hair, his attention apparently focused on it rather than her face. But she could feel the intensity of his awareness, the way he tracked every breath she took.
"I will accompany you to balls. Introduce you to influential people. Provide guidance on social customs and expectations."
"And?" His fingers left her hair, trailing down to the simple gold necklace at her throat. He traced the chain with one finger, the touch feather-light.
"And—" Her voice had gone breathless. "And I will present a united front in public. Act as your partner. Your—your duchess."
"Very thorough." His finger hooked under the chain, lifting the small pendant slightly before letting it fall back against her skin. "But you have left something out."
"I do not—what have I left out?"
"You will be my wife, Anthea. Not just my duchess." His gaze lifted to hers, and the heat in his eyes made her stomach clench. "Do you understand the distinction?"
"We have already agreed—"
"We have agreed that I will not force anything.
That your person is your own to offer or withhold.
" His hand left her necklace, rising to cup her jaw.
His thumb brushed across her cheekbone. "But we have not agreed that I will pretend not to want more.
That I will ignore the way you react when I touch you.
That I will maintain some polite fiction of indifference when we both know attraction exists between us. "
"Attraction does not mean—"
"It means something," he interrupted quietly. "Perhaps not everything. Perhaps not what either of us expected. But something."
Anthea's heart was racing. She should push him away. Should insist he give her space. But his hand on her face was gentle despite the intensity in his eyes, and she found she could not quite bring herself to move.
"You are trying to manipulate me," she said, but the accusation lacked conviction.
"I am being honest with you." His thumb continued its slow stroke across her cheek.
"I am telling you that I will not pursue you, will not demand anything you are unwilling to give, but I also will not lie and claim I am satisfied with a marriage that exists only in name.
I want more from you than performance of duties, Anthea.
And I suspect—" His voice dropped lower.
"I suspect you want more as well, even if you are too afraid to admit it. "
"I am not afraid."
"No?" He smiled, and it was devastating. "Then why is your pulse racing? Why are you looking at me as though you cannot decide whether to slap me or—"
"Or what?" The challenge emerged before she could stop it.
His smile widened. "Why do you not tell me?"
This was dangerous. She was playing with fire, and she knew it. But something in her refused to back down, refused to let him see how much he affected her.
"You are arrogant," she said.
"I am confident, Anthea."
"You think you can simply decide what our marriage will be without my input."
"No. I think we will decide together what our marriage becomes." His hand slid from her face to her throat, his fingers resting lightly against her racing pulse. "But I will not allow you to hide behind walls of propriety and separate bedrooms and pretend that nothing exists between us."
"Nothing does exist—"
"Liar." The word was soft, almost affectionate. "You are many things, Anthea Croft, but you are not a good liar. Not to me."
She should argue. Should push him away and insist on her original terms. But his hand on her throat—not constraining, just resting there—made thinking difficult.
"What do you want from me?" she whispered.
"I want you to stop trying to control everything.
" His thumb stroked along her jawline. "I want you to allow for the possibility that this marriage might surprise us both.
I want—" He stopped, seemed to catch himself.
"I want my wife to be present in our marriage, not hiding behind obligations and duties and carefully maintained distance. "
"And if I cannot give you that?"
"Then you cannot." He said it simply. "But I will not agree to your terms simply to make you feel safe, Anthea. I will not lie to you or to myself about what I want. If that frightens you—if that makes you want to flee—then perhaps we should not marry at all."
The ultimatum hung in the air between them. Anthea stared at him, her mind racing.
He was right. She had been trying to control this, to establish boundaries that protected her from vulnerability. She had asked him to agree to distance because distance felt safe, felt manageable.
But he was refusing to be managed.
"You agreed not to pursue me," she said finally. "You said you would not demand anything."
"And I will not." His hand fell away from her throat, though he did not step back.
"But I also will not pretend indifference, Anthea.
I will not ignore attraction or possibility or the fact that we will be sharing a life together.
I will not force you into my bed, but I will not promise never to touch you.
Never to flirt with you. Never to remind you that you are a desirable woman married to a man who finds you fascinating. "
"Fascinating," she repeated weakly.
"Infuriating. Stubborn. Far too clever for your own good." His mouth curved. "Yes. Fascinating."
Anthea's mind was spinning. She had come here expecting to establish clear boundaries, to ensure this marriage remained safely separate from anything that might hurt her.
Instead, he had refused every limitation, turned her careful plans to chaos, and left her feeling as though she had lost some crucial battle without quite understanding how.
"So we have no agreement," she said.
"We have an agreement." He finally stepped back, giving her space to breathe.
"You will perform your duties as duchess.
I will provide for you and your sisters.
We will present a united front publicly.
And privately—" He paused. "Privately, we will see what develops naturally, without artificial constraints or predetermined boundaries. "
"That is not an agreement. That is... vague."
"That is honest," he corrected. "I will not promise to keep my distance, Anthea. I will only promise not to force closeness. Everything else will be up to you."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to demand clearer terms, safer terms. But looking at him—at the certainty in his expression, the challenge in his eyes—she realized he would not budge.
He had given her everything she truly needed: assurance that he would not force her, that the choice would always be hers.
Everything else was negotiable.
And somehow, that terrified her more than any demand could have.
"Fine," she said, lifting her chin. "But do not expect—"
"I expect nothing," he interrupted smoothly. "I simply hope. And Anthea—" He leaned in close enough that she could feel his breath against her ear. "I am very good at being patient when I want something."
Then he straightened, moved to the door, and called for the footman as though nothing had happened.
"Miss Croft will be leaving shortly," he said calmly. "Please ensure her carriage is ready."
Anthea stood against the wall, her heart still racing, her skin still tingling where he had touched her.
He had agreed not to pursue her.
So why did she feel as though she had just lost the most important battle of her life?