Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
The church smelled of roses and beeswax candles.
Anthea stood at the altar in her ivory silk gown, the Belgian lace at her shoulders catching the morning light that streamed through the stained glass windows. Her hands trembled slightly, clutching the small bouquet Veronica had pressed into her fingers that morning.
She was getting married.
Actually, truly getting married.
Six days ago, this had seemed like a practical solution to an impossible problem. A way to protect her sisters. A marriage of convenience that would give them both what they needed without the messy complications of emotion.
But now, standing here with half of London Society watching, she found herself searching Gregory's face for some sign—any sign—that this meant something more to him than simple obligation.
He stood beside her in his formal attire, looking every inch the Duke. Tall, imposing, his expression as unreadable as carved stone. His jaw was set, his posture military-straight, his hands steady as he took the ring from his groomsman.
She tried to catch his eye, but he was looking past her, focused on the priest.
"The stained glass is rather beautiful," she whispered, desperate to break through his cold distance. "Don't you think?"
"Mmm," Gregory responded, not looking at her.
Cold. Distant. Impassive.
As though this were merely another duty to discharge, no different from reviewing his estate accounts or attending Parliament.
The priest's voice echoed through the chapel: "Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud..."
Anthea felt something twist painfully in her chest. Love. The priest spoke of love as though it were something that could be summoned by ceremony, bound by vows, created through ritual.
"Marriage," the priest continued, "is a sacred bond between man and woman, ordained by God, built upon devotion and mutual respect—"
But there was no devotion here. No love. Only duty and practicality and a business arrangement dressed up in white silk and empty promises.
This was what she had wanted, was it not? A marriage without sentiment. An arrangement that protected both of them from vulnerability.
So why did Gregory's indifference suddenly feel like rejection?
"Do you, Gregory Nathaniel Blackwood, Duke of Everleigh, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
"I do." His voice was steady, emotionless. The same tone he probably used to accept delivery of a horse or approve a menu.
The priest turned to her. "And do you, Anthea Caroline Croft, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
Her throat felt tight. "I do."
Gregory slid the ring onto her finger—a simple gold band that felt heavier than it should. His fingers were warm against hers, but the touch was perfunctory. Efficient. Over in seconds.
"I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride."
Gregory turned to face her fully for the first time since the ceremony began.
She looked up at him, searching his expression for warmth, affection, anything that suggested this was more than duty.
Nothing.
His eyes were shuttered, his face a mask of polite civility.
He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers—a brief, chaste kiss that ended almost before it began. The kind of kiss one might give a maiden aunt at a family gathering.
Not the kiss of a man who wanted his wife.
The congregation applauded politely.
Anthea forced herself to smile as Gregory offered his arm and led her back down the aisle. Through the crowd of guests. Out into the bright morning sunshine where a carriage waited to take them to the wedding breakfast.
She was married.
She was a Duchess.
And her husband looked at her as though she were a stranger whose name he could not quite recall.
The banquet was held at Gregory's—their—townhouse in Mayfair. An enormous affair with too many courses and too many guests, all eager to congratulate the Duke on his marriage and assess his new Duchess.
Anthea smiled until her face ached. She made conversation with dowagers who asked intrusive questions about when she planned to provide an heir. Accepted congratulations from people who had never spoken to her before and likely never would again.
And through it all, Gregory remained distant.
Oh, he was perfectly proper. Attentive enough for appearances. He ensured her wine glass stayed full, introduced her to important guests, played the role of devoted husband with the precision of a military exercise.
But there was no warmth in it. No genuine connection.
He was performing. Following the script. Doing what was expected.
And Anthea felt the distance between them like a physical thing—a chasm that seemed to widen with every passing moment.
Had she imagined the heat between them? The flirtation, the teasing, the moments when he had looked at her as though she were something precious?
Or had that simply been part of the courtship game, now abandoned since the goal had been achieved?
She pushed the thoughts aside. She had more important matters to attend to.
Like ensuring her sisters' futures.
She spotted Beatrice across the room, holding court with a group of matrons. Her stepmother looked resplendent in dark blue silk, her expression smug as she accepted congratulations on her stepdaughter's advantageous match.
Anthea's hands clenched in her lap.
Time to remind Beatrice exactly who held the power now.
She rose from her seat at the head table, smoothing her skirts. Gregory glanced at her, one brow rising in silent question.
"I need to speak with my stepmother," she said quietly.
Something moved in his expression—concern, perhaps, or understanding—but it was gone before she could identify it. He simply nodded.
"I will be here if you need me," he said.
The words should have been comforting. Instead, they felt like another polite formality.
Anthea made her way through the crowd, her new title clearing a path more effectively than any announcement. People moved aside, bowing and curtseying, their expressions ranging from genuine warmth to calculating interest.
She had power now. Real power.
Time to use it.
"Mrs. Croft," she said, stopping beside Beatrice. "Might I have a word? In private?"
Beatrice's smile tightened. "Of course, Your Grace. How could I refuse?"
The title—spoken with just enough emphasis to make it sting—made several nearby guests turn to look.
Anthea led her stepmother to a small sitting room off the main hall. She closed the door firmly behind them and turned to face Beatrice.
For a long moment, they simply looked at each other.
"Well?" Beatrice said finally. "What is it you wish to discuss that could not wait until after your wedding breakfast?"
"My sisters," Anthea said. "I want them to come live with me. Under my protection and sponsorship."
Beatrice's expression turned cold. "Absolutely not."
"I was not asking your permission," Anthea said calmly. "I was informing you of my decision."
"You have no right—"
"I have every right." Anthea kept her voice steady, even as her heart raced. "I am a Duchess now. I have the social standing and financial resources to sponsor them properly. To give them the opportunities you cannot—or will not—provide."
Beatrice's face flushed with fury. "How dare you suggest I have not provided for my own daughters—"
"You have provided them with dresses and dowries," Anthea interrupted, her voice sharp. "But you turned away a gentleman caller from Veronica simply because he lacked a title. You would have forced Poppy into a marriage she did not want. You care more about your own pride than their happiness."
"And you think you can do better?" Beatrice's voice dripped with venom. "You, who are not even related to them? You are nothing to them, Anthea. Nothing but their father's bastard daughter from his first marriage."
The words landed like a physical blow.
Anthea had known—had always known—that Beatrice did not consider her family. But hearing it stated so baldly, with such contempt, still hurt.
She forced herself to remain calm. To not let Beatrice see how much the words stung.
"Perhaps I am not completely related to them," Anthea said quietly. "But I love them. And I will do whatever is necessary to protect them. Even if that means taking them away from you."
"You cannot—"
"I can." Anthea took a step closer. "And I will. My husband has already agreed. He has offered to provide them with proper dowries—substantially larger than anything you could afford. With his support and my sponsorship, they will have opportunities you could never give them."
Beatrice's expression twisted with rage and something that looked almost like fear.
"They are my daughters—"
"And they will still be your daughters," Anthea said. "I am not trying to replace you. I am simply offering them a better chance at happiness. At finding husbands who will cherish them rather than simply tolerate them."
"By implying I am incompetent? By suggesting I cannot care for my own children?"
"By acknowledging reality," Anthea said bluntly. "You do not have the resources. I do. It is that simple."
Beatrice stared at her for a long moment, clearly torn between pride and practicality.
"And what do you want in exchange?" she asked finally. "What is the price for this... generous offer?"
Anthea had anticipated this. Had prepared her answer carefully.
"I want you to agree to let them go," she said. "To allow them to live with Gregory and me, to accept my sponsorship without interference. No more turning away callers you deem unsuitable. No more manipulating them into matches that serve your interests rather than theirs."
"And in exchange?"
"In exchange," Anthea said, savoring the words, "I will purchase your house. The one you currently lease. It will be yours, free and clear. No more annual fees. No more worrying about whether you can afford to maintain it."
She paused, letting the offer sink in.