Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
"Istill do not understand why you insisted on accompanying us."
Anthea sat stiffly in the carriage beside Gregory, acutely aware of how close he was sitting. His thigh pressed against hers through layers of fabric, and every bump in the road sent her shoulder brushing against his arm.
"A gentleman should accompany his future wife to important appointments," Gregory said, his tone perfectly reasonable. "Besides, I wished to see you in your wedding dress."
"You are not supposed to see it before the wedding," Veronica said from the opposite seat, though her voice lacked its usual warmth. "It is bad luck."
"I am not superstitious," Gregory replied, then turned to Anthea with a smile that she refused to acknowledge as charming. "And I confess I am curious to see what sort of gown my beautiful bride has chosen."
Anthea kept her expression neutral. "I have not chosen anything yet. That is the entire point of today's appointment. And you are wasting your flattery—I am not some simpering debutante who swoons at empty compliments."
"Good," Gregory said, utterly unrepentant. "I have never been fond of simpering. And my compliments are not empty—you are beautiful. Surely you own a mirror?"
"I own a mirror and a functioning brain," Anthea said coolly. "Both tell me you are being absurd."
"Then perhaps you should trust my judgment instead," he suggested. "I have excellent taste."
"In military strategy, perhaps. Not in women's fashion."
"On the contrary." He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "I have impeccable taste in women. I chose you, did I not?"
Anthea turned to face him fully, one brow raised. "You did not choose me. We were caught in a compromising position by my stepmother and her gossips."
You had little choice in the matter, she thought, but kept the words locked behind her teeth. Her sisters did not need to hear the sordid details repeated.
Gregory's expression did not change. "I could have left after we were discovered. Could have denied everything. Could have claimed the gossips were mistaken. I am a duke—Society would have believed whatever story I chose to tell."
She had not considered that. It had seemed so obvious—a duke caught in a compromising position would have no choice but to offer marriage. His honor would demand it.
"Then why did you not?" The question emerged before she could stop it.
"Because I wanted you from the moment you refused to be intimidated by me in that music room." His gaze held hers, steady and sure. "Everything since has merely been an exercise in patience."
Poppy made a strangled sound that might have been a suppressed laugh.
Anthea tore her gaze away from Gregory's, forcing down the flutter in her chest. He was being ridiculous. Theatrical. This was a practical arrangement, nothing more, and she would not let him muddle her thinking with pretty words.
"How romantic," she said, her voice dry. "Do you rehearse these speeches, or do they simply flow naturally from an overabundance of arrogance?"
Gregory's grin widened. "Natural talent, I assure you. Though I appreciate you noticing."
"I was not complimenting you."
"Were you not?" He settled back against the seat, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "You should try it sometime. I promise not to let it go to my head."
"Your head could not possibly accommodate anything more," Anthea muttered.
The carriage rolled to a stop outside Madame Laurent's shop, mercifully ending the conversation before Gregory could respond.
The modiste's establishment smelled of lavender and expensive silk. Madame Laurent herself—a tiny woman with silver-streaked dark hair and sharp eyes—took one look at Gregory and immediately began speaking in rapid French.
"Your Grace, what an honor! And with your lovely bride-to-be, how wonderful! Please, come, sit, we shall make her the most beautiful duchess in all of England!"
Gregory responded in flawless French, and Anthea watched as he charmed the modiste with the same ease he probably used to command soldiers.
"You speak French," she observed when they finally switched back to English.
"I spent two years in France during the war," Gregory replied. "One picks up the language when one's life depends on it."
"How practical," Anthea said. "Perhaps it will prove useful when you wish to flirt with continental debutantes after we are married."
"Why would I flirt with continental debutantes when I have you?" Gregory asked, his tone suggesting genuine confusion at the very idea.
"Because our marriage is a practical arrangement," Anthea said firmly, though she kept her voice low enough that Madame Laurent would not overhear. "Not a love match. You will have your freedom, and I will have mine."
Something flickered in Gregory's expression—something that looked almost like challenge. "Is that what you believe?"
"That is what I know."
"Hmm." He did not argue further, but the small smile playing at his lips suggested he disagreed entirely.
Madame Laurent clapped her hands together. "Come, come! Let us see what we have for the future Duchess of Everleigh!"
The next hour passed in a blur of fabric samples and measurements. Anthea stood on a raised platform while Madame Laurent draped various silks and satins over her frame, all while maintaining a running commentary in a mixture of English and French.
Gregory sat in a velvet chair near the window, watching with unnerving focus.
"The ivory silk," he said when Madame Laurent held up two nearly identical swatches. "With the Belgian lace."
"You have a good eye, Your Grace," Madame Laurent approved. "And for the bodice? Perhaps something fitted, to show off Miss Croft's lovely figure?"
"Definitely fitted," Gregory agreed, his gaze traveling over Anthea in a way that should have been inappropriate but somehow managed to remain just barely acceptable.
Anthea met his eyes directly. "I am standing right here. Perhaps I should have some say in my own wedding dress?"
"Of course," Gregory said, his expression perfectly innocent. "What would you prefer?"
"Something simple. Elegant. Nothing too elaborate."
"Boring," Gregory pronounced without hesitation.
"Practical," Anthea corrected.
"Cowardly," he countered, and there was challenge in his voice now. "You are about to become a duchess, Anthea. Why are you so determined to hide?"
The question struck too close to home, and she felt her spine stiffen.
"I am not hiding. I simply do not require excessive ornamentation to prove my worth."
"No," Gregory agreed, rising from his chair and moving closer.
He stopped at the edge of the platform, looking up at her.
"You do not require anything to prove your worth.
Which is precisely why you should wear whatever you wish, rather than choosing the plainest option simply because it feels safer. "
He was too perceptive by half.
"Perhaps I genuinely prefer simplicity," she said coolly.
"Perhaps," he allowed. "Or perhaps you spent years being told you were not good enough, and now you default to making yourself invisible rather than risk being criticized again."
Anthea's breath caught. How did he—
"The ivory silk with Belgian lace," Gregory said, turning to Madame Laurent without breaking eye contact with Anthea.
"Fitted bodice, full skirt, perhaps a slight train.
And—" He reached out, not quite touching but close enough that she could feel the warmth of his hand near hers.
"Delicate embroidery here, at the cuffs.
Small pearls. Nothing ostentatious, but beautiful. Like her."
Despite her best efforts, heat crept into her cheeks.
Damn him.
"You are being ridiculous again," she said, but her voice lacked its earlier sharpness.
"I am being observant," Gregory corrected. "There is a difference."
Madame Laurent beamed. "Magnifique! Your Grace has excellent taste. Now, for the veil—"
"No veil," Anthea said quickly.
Gregory's brow rose. "No?"
"I prefer my face visible." She kept her voice steady, revealing nothing of the memory that flashed through her mind—standing in a chapel, face hidden behind lace, believing lies whispered in her ear.
Gregory studied her for a long moment, and she saw understanding dawn in his expression. He did not ask. Did not press. Simply nodded.
"No veil," he agreed quietly. "I want to see your face when you become my wife."
Something in the way he said it—something soft and certain—made her chest tighten.
She looked away, focusing on Madame Laurent. "Shall we continue with the measurements?"
The next several minutes passed in a professional blur of measuring tape and pins. Gregory returned to his chair, but Anthea could feel his gaze on her the entire time.
"You are staring," she said finally, when Madame Laurent stepped away to make notes.
"Yes," Gregory agreed without shame. "You are beautiful. I enjoy looking at you."
"You sound like a lovesick fool."
"Perhaps." His smile widened. "But only for you."
Despite herself—despite every effort to remain unmoved—heat flooded her cheeks again.
She was going to murder him.
"Turn, please, Miss Croft," Madame Laurent instructed, returning with more pins.
Anthea turned, and suddenly found herself facing the mirror.
The woman staring back at her looked like a stranger. The ivory silk draped over her frame transformed her from plain Anthea Croft into something almost... elegant. The fitted bodice emphasized curves she usually hid beneath practical day dresses. The lace at the shoulders softened her sharp edges.
She looked like someone who might actually deserve to be a duchess.
Behind her reflection, she saw Gregory rise from his chair and move closer. He did not touch her—Madame Laurent was still working—but he stood just behind her left shoulder, meeting her eyes in the mirror.
"Stunning," he murmured.
"It is only fabric," she said, fighting to keep her voice steady.
"It is you," he corrected. "The fabric is merely framing what was already there."