Chapter 23 #2
"I do not give a damn what Society expects," Gregory interrupted. "You are my wife. My partner. And I need you to be yourself—sharp and brilliant and utterly uncompromising. Not some pale imitation designed to flatter men who should know better."
"You are not being reasonable," Anthea said, but her voice had lost its certainty. "These investments matter to you. Your tenants depend on—"
"My tenants will be fine," Gregory said. "I will find other investors if necessary. But I will not—cannot—watch you make yourself less to achieve my goals. Do you understand? It matters less to me that I secure funding than that you remain who you are."
The words settled in the quiet room like stones in still water.
"Why?" Anthea whispered. "Why does it matter so much?"
Gregory's expression softened slightly. "Because I married you for who you are. Not for who you could pretend to be. And watching you diminish yourself—even for good reasons—it feels like losing something precious."
Anthea's throat felt tight. "I thought I was helping."
"You were helping," Gregory said. "But not in the way that matters most." He reached out, cupping her face gently.
"I do not need you to make me palatable to people like Lord Pemberton.
I need you to be exactly who you are—brilliant and challenging and utterly unafraid to speak your mind.
That is the woman I want beside me. Not some docile creature who agrees with everything I say. "
"Even if it costs you investments?"
"Even then." Gregory's thumb brushed across her cheekbone. "I would rather fail on my own terms with you as my true partner than succeed by asking you to be less than you are."
Her breath caught—a soft, involuntary sound. Something in Anthea's chest cracked open, and her vision blurred.
She had spent so many years learning to make herself smaller. To be less opinionated, less challenging, less threatening to fragile male egos. Had convinced herself it was necessary, strategic, the only way to survive in a world that did not value women who spoke their minds.
And here was Gregory—proud, stubborn Gregory—telling her to stop. Telling her he valued her intelligence more than social success. That he would rather have her authentic and challenging than diminished and compliant.
"I do not know how to be that person anymore," she admitted quietly. "I have spent so long pretending that I am not certain I remember who I actually am beneath all the performance."
"Then we will figure it out together," Gregory said. "But please, Anthea—promise me you will stop making yourself less. For me, for anyone. You are extraordinary exactly as you are."
"You are being absurd," Anthea said, but there was no heat in it. Only wonder.
"Perhaps," Gregory agreed. "But I am also being honest. And I think—I hope—you are beginning to realize that I mean what I say."
He was so close. Close enough that she could feel his warmth, could see the sincerity in his eyes, could almost believe that he actually saw her—all of her—and wanted exactly that.
"I will try," she whispered. "To be more myself. To stop pretending."
"That is all I ask," Gregory said softly.
They stood like that for a long moment, his hand still cradling her face, her heart racing in her chest.
"I should let you rest," Gregory said finally, though he made no move to leave. "Tomorrow will be another long day."
"Yes," Anthea agreed. But neither of them moved.
The air between them felt charged. Dangerous. Full of possibilities that terrified and thrilled her in equal measure.
Finally—reluctantly—Gregory stepped back.
"Good night, Anthea," he said.
"Good night," she whispered.
He left through the connecting door, and Anthea stood alone in her chambers, her hand rising to touch her cheek where his fingers had been.
Something had shifted tonight. Something fundamental.
She was falling in love with her husband.
No—if she was being honest with herself, she had already fallen. Had been falling since the moment he refused to let her hide, since he demanded she be exactly who she was without apology.
The question was what she would do about it.
The next morning dawned bright and clear—perfect weather for the hunt Gregory had planned.
Anthea did not participate in the actual hunting.
That was men's territory, and she had other responsibilities.
But she organized a lovely breakfast for the gentlemen before they departed, ensured all the hunting equipment was properly prepared, and made certain the other ladies had entertaining activities planned for the morning.
Veronica and Mr. Hartley had already disappeared to the garden with their sketchbooks. Anthea had watched them go with satisfaction. The connection between them was obvious—quiet and gentle, but genuine.
Poppy had been invited to watch the hunt from a distance with some of the other ladies. Henry had asked specifically if she would be there, his expression hopeful.
"He is nice," Poppy said as they prepared to depart. "Mr. Ashford, I mean. Kind. Funny. Not at all like the other gentlemen Mama used to push at me."
"No," Anthea agreed. "He is nothing like those men."
"Do you think—" Poppy stopped, then started again. "Do you think he might actually be interested? Or is he simply being polite because we are the Duke's sisters?"
"I think," Anthea said carefully, "that Henry Ashford does not do anything simply to be polite. If he is spending time with you, it is because he genuinely wants to."
Poppy's face lit up in a way Anthea had not seen in months.
The hunt itself was apparently a great success. The gentlemen returned hours later, muddy and exhausted and thoroughly pleased with themselves. Gregory had a pheasant over his shoulder and looked more relaxed than Anthea had seen him since the wedding.
"It went well?" she asked as the men dispersed to clean up before dinner.
"Very well," Gregory said. "Sir Richard has agreed to invest. Lord Pemberton is considering it. And Henry proved to be an excellent shot, which impressed everyone."
"And did you enjoy yourself?" Anthea asked. "Beyond the business aspects?"
Gregory smiled—a real smile that reached his eyes. "I did. It felt good to be doing something I actually understand rather than trying to navigate drawing room politics."
"You did well at the drawing room politics too," Anthea pointed out.
"Only because you were there," Gregory said. Then, more softly, "You were yourself today. During breakfast. I noticed."
Anthea had been. Had not pretended to be less knowledgeable when Lord Pemberton made another questionable agricultural claim. Had politely but firmly corrected him, then softened it with genuine curiosity about his experiences.
And Lord Pemberton had accepted the correction with only minor grumbling. Had even seemed impressed by her knowledge.
"It was easier than I expected," Anthea admitted. "Though still terrifying."
"You were magnificent," Gregory said. "As always."
That evening's dinner was celebratory. The mood was lighter, the conversation flowing easily.
Anthea watched as Henry and Poppy found excuses to sit near each other, as Veronica and Mr. Hartley exchanged shy smiles across the table, as Gregory discussed plans with Sir Richard with genuine enthusiasm.
Everything was working. All of it.
After dinner, during the inevitable musical entertainment, Henry approached Anthea.
"Your Grace," he said quietly. "Might I ask your permission to call on your sister? Miss Poppy, that is. When we return to London."
Anthea felt her heart swell. "You may. Though I should warn you—she has very definite opinions about nearly everything."
"Good," Henry said firmly. "I cannot abide vapid conversation. Your sister is delightful precisely because she has thoughts in her head and is not afraid to share them."
"Then you have my blessing," Anthea said. "And my gratitude for seeing her as she truly is."
Across the room, Gregory caught her eye. Smiled. Raised his glass slightly in acknowledgment.
Later, as the evening wound down and guests began retiring, Gregory fell into step beside her in the hallway.
"It went well today," he said quietly.
"Very well," Anthea agreed. "Sir Richard seemed genuinely enthusiastic about your proposals."
"He was." Gregory paused at the base of the stairs. "Though I suspect his enthusiasm had as much to do with your breakfast conversation as my hunting skills."
"I merely asked intelligent questions," Anthea said.
"You were brilliant," Gregory corrected. "As always." He moved closer, his voice dropping. "And you were yourself. Thank you for that."
Heat crept into Anthea's cheeks. "You are being absurd again."
"Am I?" Gregory reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture achingly familiar. "Or am I simply appreciating my extraordinarily clever wife?"
"Gregory—" Anthea stopped, not quite sure what she meant to say. Her heart was racing, her skin tingling where he had touched her.
"Yes?" His eyes held hers, warm and intent.
For once, she did not chastise him. Did not remind him of their arrangement or tell him to stop being ridiculous. She simply stood there, feeling shy and uncertain and far too aware of how close he was standing.
"I should retire," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "Tomorrow we have the archery competition, and then the evening musicale."
"Ah yes," Gregory said, his mouth quirking. "I had almost forgotten about your elaborate schedule. You have planned every hour of the next three days, have you not?"
"Someone had to," Anthea said, attempting to regain her composure. "Left to your own devices, you would have made it nothing but hunting and drinking."
"Guilty," Gregory admitted, unrepentant. "Though I confess, I am looking forward to watching you demolish everyone at archery tomorrow. You do realize the gentlemen will underestimate you?"
"I am counting on it," Anthea said.
Gregory's grin widened. "Bloodthirsty. I approve." He stepped back, giving her space. "Sleep well, Anthea. Tomorrow should prove... entertaining."
"Good night, Gregory," she said.
She climbed the stairs to her chambers, acutely aware of his gaze following her. When she glanced back from the landing, he was still watching, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
Anthea closed her door and leaned against it, her hand rising to touch her cheek where his fingers had been.
The house party was barely halfway through. Three more days stretched ahead—archery tomorrow, then the evening musicale, followed by more games, more dinners, more carefully orchestrated opportunities for her sisters and Gregory's business prospects.
Three more days of working beside Gregory. Three more days of his increasingly bold flirtations. Three more days of trying to maintain her composure when he looked at her like she was something precious.
She moved to her window, looking out over the darkened grounds. Somewhere below, the guests were settling into their rooms. Poppy was probably still giddy about Henry's attention. Veronica was likely sketching by candlelight, thinking of Mr. Hartley.
And Gregory... Gregory was somewhere in this house, perhaps thinking of her the way she was thinking of him.
Anthea pressed her fingers to her lips, remembering the warmth of his touch.
Whatever was growing between them—this thing that felt increasingly impossible to ignore—would have to wait. She had responsibilities. A house party to manage. Sisters to protect.
But in three days, when the guests departed and life returned to normal...
What then?
Anthea climbed into bed, but sleep felt impossibly far away. Her mind spun with plans for tomorrow's activities, worries about whether everything would continue going so smoothly, and beneath it all, the steady drumbeat of awareness.
Gregory. Gregory. Gregory.
Three more days.
She would think about what came after when the time came.
For now, she needed to focus on ensuring the house party remained a success.
Even if her traitorous heart was beginning to want something else entirely.