Chapter 20 #2
"You will have financial security," Anthea continued. "A home of your own. Freedom from the constant struggle to maintain appearances on an inadequate income. All I ask is that you let my sisters go."
Beatrice's expression cycled through several emotions—rage, humiliation, calculation, and finally, reluctant acceptance.
"You think you can do so much better than me?" she said, her voice sharp with bitterness. "Fine. They are your burden now. But do not come crying to me when you inevitably fail."
The words should have felt like victory.
Instead, they felt like a curse.
"I will not fail," Anthea said, with more confidence than she felt.
"We shall see." Beatrice moved toward the door, then paused. "You know, I almost pity you. You have always been so certain you knew better than everyone else. So convinced you could save them from me. But you are about to discover that responsibility is far heavier than judgment."
She left without waiting for a response.
Anthea stood alone in the sitting room, her hands trembling slightly.
She had won. Veronica and Poppy would be safe. They would have opportunities, proper dowries, the chance to marry for love rather than obligation.
This was what she had wanted. What she had fought for.
So why did she feel so terrified?
But don't come crying to me when you inevitably fail.
The words echoed in her mind, mixing with older memories. Maxwell's false promises. Her father's disappointment. Years of being told she was not good enough, would never be good enough, was fundamentally incapable of being what others needed.
What if Beatrice was right?
What if she could not do this? Could not be the guardian her sisters needed, could not navigate the complexities of Society well enough to secure their futures?
What if she failed them the way she had almost failed before?
She took a deep breath, forcing the fear down.
She would not fail. She could not afford to fail.
Too much depended on her now.
She returned to the banquet to find Gregory speaking with a group of gentlemen—discussing politics, from the sound of it. He glanced up as she approached, his expression polite but distant.
"Is everything well?" he asked.
"Yes," Anthea said. "Everything is... arranged."
He studied her for a moment, and she thought she saw concern flicker in his eyes. But then one of the gentlemen asked him a question about his military service, and his attention shifted away.
The rest of the banquet passed in a blur. More congratulations. More polite conversation. More performing the role of happy newlyweds while the distance between them seemed to grow with every passing hour.
Finally—mercifully—the guests began to depart.
Anthea stood beside Gregory at the door, thanking people for coming, accepting final congratulations, playing her part until the last carriage rolled away.
Then they were alone.
Gregory closed the door and turned to face her.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
"You must be tired," he said finally. "It has been a long day."
"Yes," Anthea agreed, though she felt too wound-up for sleep. Too anxious about everything that had happened, everything that now lay ahead.
"The servants have prepared the Duchess's chambers for you," Gregory continued, his tone still that same polite distance that had characterized the entire day. "Adjacent to mine, with a connecting door. But—" He paused. "I will not disturb you tonight. You should rest."
Something in Anthea's chest twisted painfully.
He did not want her.
The realization should have been a relief. This was what she had asked for, after all—a marriage of convenience. Separate lives. No expectations of intimacy or affection.
But after the flirtation of the past weeks, after the way he had looked at her, touched her, promised her that she would not be able to resist him—
His sudden indifference felt like rejection.
"Of course," she said, keeping her voice steady. "That is... sensible."
"Tomorrow we can discuss the arrangements for your sisters," Gregory said. "I will have my solicitor draw up the necessary documents for their dowries. And we should begin planning social events—the house party we discussed, perhaps. Opportunities for them to meet suitable gentlemen."
He was all business. Practical. Focused on their arrangement.
As though nothing had changed. As though they were still merely two people with a mutually beneficial agreement.
As though the past weeks of growing closeness, of flirtation and teasing and those moments when she had almost believed—
Had she imagined all of it?
"That sounds reasonable," Anthea said.
Another silence.
"Well then," Gregory said. "Good night, Your Grace."
The title—the formal distance of it—hurt more than it should.
"Good night," Anthea whispered.
She climbed the stairs to her new chambers, her silk gown suddenly feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds.
The Duchess's rooms were beautiful. Elegant furniture, soft carpets, a massive bed with curtains she could draw for privacy. Everything she could possibly need.
Everything except the one thing she had not realized she wanted until it was denied.
Her husband's affection.
She sat on the edge of the bed, still in her wedding dress, and stared at the connecting door that led to Gregory's chambers.
He was on the other side of that door. So close. But he might as well have been a thousand miles away.
She thought about Beatrice's words. But don't come crying to me when you inevitably fail.
She thought about Gregory's coldness. The way he had looked through her rather than at her. The way he had pulled away the moment they were married, as though he had completed a mission and could now move on to more important matters.
She thought about the responsibility she had just taken on. Two sisters depending on her to secure their futures. A duchy to manage. A role to play that she had no idea how to fulfil.
And she thought about the nights ahead. Years of nights, perhaps, with Gregory on the other side of that door, so close but forever distant.
Was this what her life would be?
A marriage of convenience that left her feeling more alone than she had ever been before?
She had been so certain she could do this. Could maintain her emotional distance. Could have a marriage without vulnerability.
But lying here in her wedding dress, in rooms that felt too large and too empty, she realized she had been lying to herself.
She did not want distance anymore.
She wanted her husband.
Wanted him to look at her the way he had before the wedding. Wanted him to tease her, challenge her, make her blush and stutter despite her best efforts to remain composed.
Wanted him to keep the promises he had made—that she would not be able to resist him, that he would spend their lives proving himself trustworthy, that he saw all of her and wanted her anyway.
But he had been cold today. Impassive. As though none of it had mattered.
As though she did not matter.
Anthea lay back against the pillows, still fully dressed, and stared at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, she would need to be strong. Would need to start planning for her sisters, fulfilling her new duties, proving that she could do everything she had promised.
Tomorrow, she would be the perfect Duchess.
But tonight, in the privacy of her chambers, she allowed herself to acknowledge the truth she had been avoiding.
She wanted him.
Wanted his attention, his warmth, his affection.
But she had no idea if he felt anything for her at all.