Chapter 18 #2
This felt eerily familiar. Standing in a shop, being fitted for a wedding dress, a handsome man complimenting her. She had done this before, had she not? The memory hovered just out of reach, leaving only an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu.
She pushed the feeling aside. This was different. It had to be.
Her gaze shifted to Veronica, who sat very still near the window, her hands folded in her lap, her expression distant.
"Veronica," Anthea said, pulling herself from her thoughts. "What do you think? Should I choose the Belgian lace or the Chantilly?"
Her sister blinked, as though pulled from somewhere far away. "Hmm? Oh. Either would be lovely."
The listless response sent alarm through Anthea. Veronica loved fashion, loved beautiful things. She should be offering opinions on every detail.
Anthea met Gregory's eyes in the mirror, and saw understanding flicker there. He gave a small nod.
"Madame Laurent," Gregory said smoothly, "might we have a moment? I wish to discuss payment arrangements with you privately."
"But of course, Your Grace!" The modiste immediately set down her pins and bustled toward her office, clearly delighted by the prospect of negotiating with a duke.
Gregory followed, but not before catching Anthea's hand and giving it a quick squeeze.
The moment they were alone, Anthea stepped down from the platform and moved to sit beside Veronica.
"Tell me," she said quietly.
Veronica's composure crumbled. "Mama forbade him from calling."
"Who?"
"The gentleman from the menagerie. Mr. Hartley." Fresh tears spilled down Veronica's cheeks. "He came to call two days ago, and Mama turned him away. Told him I was not accepting visitors. I did not even know until yesterday, when I overheard her laughing about it with Lady Pemberton."
Fury—white-hot and consuming—flooded through Anthea.
"She had no right—"
"She had every right," Veronica whispered miserably. "She is my mother. And he—he was just a gentleman. Not titled, not wealthy, only kind and gentle and interested in my drawings. Of course she would never approve."
"I do not care what she approves," Anthea said fiercely. She took Veronica's hands in hers. "Listen to me. In six days, I will be a duchess. And the moment I am, you and Poppy will come live with Gregory and me. Beatrice will have no authority over you anymore."
"But what if he does not care?" Veronica's voice broke. "What if he thinks I rejected him?"
"Then we will find him and explain what happened," Anthea said firmly. "And if he is worthy of you—if he truly cares—he will understand."
Poppy had moved closer during the conversation, and now she wrapped her arms around both of them. "We are going to be all right. All of us. Together."
For a long moment, the three of them simply held each other.
When they finally pulled apart, Veronica managed a watery smile. "Thank you."
"Always," Anthea said.
The door to the office opened, and Gregory emerged with Madame Laurent, who was practically glowing with satisfaction.
"Everything is arranged," he announced. "The gown will be ready in six days, and Madame Laurent has agreed to provide dresses for your sisters as well. My gift," he added, looking at Veronica and Poppy. "Every duchess needs a proper entourage for her wedding."
Poppy's eyes went wide. "Truly?"
"Truly." Gregory's expression softened. "You are family now. And I take care of my family."
The carriage ride home was quieter than the journey there. Veronica stared out the window, lost in thought. Poppy dozed against her shoulder.
And Anthea sat beside Gregory, thinking about everything that had happened, everything he had said and done.
He could have left after we were discovered. Could have denied everything.
But he had not. He had chosen this. Chosen her.
The realization settled in her chest, warm and uncomfortable and altogether too dangerous.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For the dresses. For understanding about Veronica."
"You do not need to thank me," Gregory replied. "This is what marriage means, does it not? Supporting each other. Protecting the people we love."
The people we love.
Did he count her sisters in that? Or—
No. She would not let herself think about it. Would not let hope take root when it would only lead to pain.
"Still," she said. "It was kind of you."
"I am not kind," Gregory said. "I am practical. Happy sisters-in-law mean a happy wife. And a happy wife means—" He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. "Well. I suppose we will discover what it means soon enough."
Anthea refused to look at him. "You are incorrigible."
"You say that as though it were an insult."
"It is an insult."
"Strange. It sounded rather like affection."
She turned to glare at him. "It was not affection. It was exasperation."
"If you say so," Gregory said, but he was smiling.
She forced herself to focus on practicalities. On anything other than the warmth in his eyes.
"There is something else," she said. "Something that might benefit us both."
"Oh?" His tone suggested he was thoroughly enjoying this conversation. "Do tell."
"You need to establish yourself among the ton's gentlemen," she said. "The best way to do that is through a gentleman's club. White's, Brooks's, Boodle's—any of them would give you access to the men who hold real power in London."
Gregory's amusement faded, replaced by genuine interest. "Go on."
"The investors you need for your estates," Anthea continued.
"The political connections that could help with Parliament.
They are all members of these clubs. And more than that—" She glanced at Veronica's sleeping form.
"You could meet men who might be suitable for my sisters.
Men of good character who would not be easily swayed by my stepmother's manipulations. "
He studied her for a long moment. "You truly have thought of everything, have you not?"
"I try to be thorough."
"Thorough," he repeated. "Is that what we are calling it? Here I thought you were simply desperate to keep me occupied so I would stop tormenting you."
"You do not torment me," she said, proud of how steady her voice remained.
"No?" He shifted closer, until his thigh pressed firmly against hers. "Then why do you keep looking away whenever I compliment you?"
"Because your compliments are absurd and I refuse to encourage them."
"Absurd," Gregory mused. "You think it absurd that I find my future wife beautiful? That I enjoy her company? That I look forward to every moment we spend together?"
"You are attempting to fluster me," Anthea said coolly. "And I am not so easily flustered."
"I don't need to attempt anything." He chuckled, catching a loose strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. The touch was gentle, deliberate, maddeningly intimate. "Your racing pulse does all the work for me."
Damn him for noticing.
"My pulse is perfectly steady," she lied.
"Liar." But he said it fondly, without judgment. "You can lie to yourself, Anthea, but you cannot lie to me. I see you. All of you. Even the parts you try to hide."
Despite every effort to remain composed, heat flooded her cheeks.
She hated that he could do this—strip away her defenses with nothing more than words and that infuriating gentle smile.
"You are impossible," she muttered.
"You say that a great deal," Gregory observed. "Almost as often as you blush when I compliment you."
"I do not—" She stopped, furious with herself for rising to the bait. "Your idea about the gentleman's club. Will you consider it or not?"
"Of course I will consider it," he said. "Your idea is excellent. In fact, I shall apply to White's tomorrow." He paused, his expression turning wicked. "Though I confess, I find myself far more interested in the benefits of a happy wife than in business connections."
"Gregory—"
"Yes, my almost-wife?" He was openly grinning now, clearly delighting in her reaction.
She refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much he affected her. "I should have let you flounder in Society without my help."
"Perhaps," he agreed. "But then you would not have the pleasure of my company. And I think you would miss it."
"I would not miss it at all," she said, but the words lacked conviction.
He leaned close enough that his breath ghosted across her ear. "Six days, Anthea. And then we shall see exactly how much you enjoy my company."
Despite herself—despite every wall she had built—her breath hitched.
Gregory pulled back, satisfaction written across his features.
The carriage rolled to a stop outside their townhouse. Poppy stirred, blinking sleepily. Veronica straightened, wiping quickly at her eyes.
Gregory climbed out first, then turned to help each of them down. But when Anthea placed her hand in his, he held on just a moment longer than necessary, his thumb brushing across her knuckles.
"Six days," he murmured, too low for her sisters to hear. "And then, my dear future wife, we shall see who is more impossible—you or me."
He released her hand and offered his arm to escort her inside, the perfect gentleman.
Anthea's heart was racing, her skin tingling where he had touched her, and she was furious with herself for letting him get to her.
But beneath the fury was something else. Something warm and terrifying and altogether too close to hope.
Because Gregory was dangerous in a way Maxwell had never been.
Maxwell had lied.
Gregory told the truth.
And when he looked at her with heat and promise and something that looked dangerously close to affection—when he said he wanted her, that he had chosen her, that he saw all of her—
He meant every word.
Which terrified her more than any lie ever could.