Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
The third day of the house party dawned with unseasonably warm weather—perfect for the afternoon walk Anthea had planned around the estate grounds.
The guests dispersed in small groups after luncheon, some heading toward the gardens, others to the lake. Anthea found herself walking with Gregory, slightly apart from the others, following a path that wound through a grove of ancient oaks.
They had not been alone—truly alone—since the night he had demanded she stop diminishing herself.
The house party had kept them busy, surrounded by guests, always performing their roles.
But now, in the dappled shade with only birdsong for company, the careful distance they had maintained seemed to dissolve.
"You have been avoiding me," Gregory said abruptly.
Anthea's steps faltered. "I have not—"
"You have," Gregory interrupted, though his tone was not accusatory. Simply observant. "Ever since I came to your chambers. You smile at me during meals, work beside me during games, play the perfect duchess. But you have not been alone with me since."
Because being alone with him was dangerous. Because every time he looked at her with that particular warmth, every time he touched her even casually, she felt her carefully constructed walls crumbling a bit more.
"I have been busy," Anthea said instead. "Managing the house party requires—"
"Anthea." Gregory caught her hand, stopping her mid-step. "Please. No more pretending. Not with me."
She turned to face him, her heart suddenly racing. They stood in a small clearing, sunlight filtering through the leaves above, completely hidden from the other guests.
"I do not know what you want me to say," she admitted quietly.
"The truth," Gregory said simply. "Whatever it is. I can handle the truth, Anthea. It is the polite deflections that drive me mad."
She looked at him—really looked at him. At the way he watched her with patient intensity. At the slight tension in his shoulders that suggested he was not as calm as he appeared. At the vulnerability in his eyes that he was allowing her to see.
"I have been avoiding you," she said finally. "Because being near you is... difficult."
"Difficult how?"
"Because you make me want things I swore I would never want again.
" The confession emerged before she could stop it.
"Because you look at me like I matter, and I do not know what to do with that.
Because every time you touch me, every time you call me brilliant or extraordinary, I want to believe you. And that terrifies me."
Gregory's expression softened. "Why does it terrify you?"
"Because I believed someone once before," Anthea said, the words tasting bitter. "Believed his pretty words and his promises. And I was wrong. So wrong that it nearly destroyed me."
"Maxwell Tinkett," Gregory said quietly.
Anthea's breath caught. "How do you know that name?"
"Your sisters mentioned him. Carefully. Protectively.
They did not tell me details, only that someone had hurt you badly enough that you vowed never to trust a man again.
" Gregory's hand tightened on hers. "I need you to understand something, Anthea.
I am not him. Whatever he did, whatever he promised and failed to deliver—I am not that man. "
"I know you are not," Anthea whispered. "That is what makes this so frightening.
Because if you were like him, I could dismiss you.
Could keep my walls up and feel justified in doing so.
But you are nothing like him. You are honest and direct and you keep your promises. Which means when you hurt me—"
"If I hurt you," Gregory corrected gently.
"When," Anthea insisted. "Everyone hurts everyone eventually. That is simply how the world works. And when you hurt me, it will destroy me in a way Maxwell never could. Because this time, I will have chosen it. Chosen to be vulnerable. Chosen to hope."
Gregory was quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand.
"Do you remember," he said finally, "when you fell into the lake at the menagerie?"
The abrupt change in subject threw her. "Yes, of course. You saved me."
"I told you I would have done it for anyone," Gregory continued.
"And that was true. I would have jumped in regardless of who was drowning.
But—" He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully.
"What I did not tell you was that with every step I took running toward that lake, I was praying.
Praying it was not you. Praying that when I got there, I would find it was someone else—anyone else—who needed saving. "
Anthea's breath caught. "Why?"
"Because even then, when we barely knew each other, the thought of losing you was unbearable.
" Gregory's eyes held hers, intense and unwavering.
"I did not understand it at the time. We had only met a handful of times.
Had argued more than we had agreed. But the fear I felt in those moments—running toward that lake, not knowing—it was unlike anything I had experienced.
Even in battle, even facing death myself, I had never felt that particular terror. "
"You are just saying that," Anthea said, but her voice shook. "To make me give in. To make me—"
"I am saying it because it is true," Gregory interrupted. "And because I am done pretending. Done being afraid of what is growing between us."
He cupped her face with both hands, forcing her to meet his eyes.
"I am falling in love with you, Anthea. Perhaps I have been since that first night in the music room when you refused to be intimidated by me.
And I understand that terrifies you. I understand you have been hurt before, that you have every reason to guard your heart.
But I need you to know—I see you. All of you.
The brilliant, stubborn, occasionally infuriating woman who makes me want to be better than I am.
And I want you. Not some diminished version designed to make me comfortable. You. Exactly as you are."
"Gregory—" Anthea's voice broke.
"You do not have to say anything," Gregory said softly.
"You do not have to return my feelings. But I needed you to know.
Needed you to understand that this is real.
That I am not playing games or making empty promises.
That when I tell you that you are extraordinary, I mean it with every fiber of my being. "
Anthea stared at him, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might break through her ribs.
He loved her.
Gregory loved her.
Not the careful, convenient partnership they had agreed to. Not the practical arrangement designed to benefit them both. But actual, messy, terrifying love.
And she—
God help her, she loved him too.
Had been fighting it for weeks, had tried to convince herself it was merely attraction or gratitude or the natural result of working so closely together. But standing here with his hands cradling her face, with his eyes looking at her like she was something precious—
She could not lie to herself anymore.
"I am terrified," she whispered.
"I know," Gregory said.
"I do not know how to do this. How to be vulnerable. How to trust that you will not—"
"I know," he said again.
"But I want to try." The words emerged in a rush.
"I want to be brave enough to try. Because you are right—I am falling in love with you too.
And that terrifies me more than anything I have ever felt.
But the thought of pushing you away, of living the rest of my life wondering what might have been if I had been brave enough—that terrifies me more. "
Gregory's eyes widened. "Anthea—"
She kissed him.
Not tentatively this time. Not uncertain. But with all the emotion she had been trying so desperately to contain—fear and hope and desire and love all tangled together into something overwhelming and wonderful and completely terrifying.
Gregory made a sound low in his throat and kissed her back with a fervor that stole her breath. His arms came around her, pulling her close, and Anthea went willingly. Let herself melt into him, let herself feel without thinking, without analyzing, without protecting herself.
The kiss deepened. Shifted. Became something urgent and desperate and utterly consuming.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Gregory rested his forehead against hers.
"I am sure you have kissed many women before," Anthea said breathlessly.
"I have," Gregory admitted, his voice rough. "But none as beautiful as you." He kissed her again, softer this time but no less intense. "And none that was mine."
The possessive note in his voice should have alarmed her. Should have triggered every warning bell she had carefully constructed. Instead, it sent heat flooding through her veins.
"Yours," she repeated, testing the word.
"Mine," Gregory confirmed. "If you will have me. If you can be brave enough to take this risk with me."
"I do not feel very brave," Anthea admitted.
"You are the bravest person I know," Gregory said. "You just survived a house party full of the ton's most judgmental members. You defended your sisters against a cruel stepmother. You married a grumpy soldier with no social skills and somehow managed to make him seem almost civilized."
Despite everything, Anthea laughed. "Almost civilized?"
"I have my limits," Gregory said solemnly. Then, more seriously, "I love you, Anthea. And I will spend the rest of our lives proving that you can trust me with your heart."
"That is a very large promise," Anthea said.
"I am aware," Gregory replied. "I have never been particularly good at doing things halfway."
He kissed her again, and Anthea let herself sink into it. Let herself believe, just for this moment, that perhaps happy endings were possible after all.
They returned to the house separately—Anthea first, Gregory following a quarter hour later. It would not do for the guests to see them emerging from the woods together, flushed and disheveled and obviously having been doing more than simply walking.
The final evening of the house party was a relaxed affair. No formal entertainment, just pleasant conversation and good food. The guests were tired but satisfied, already making plans to depart the following morning.
Anthea was helping organize after-dinner drinks when Veronica appeared at her elbow, practically vibrating with suppressed excitement.
"Anthea," she whispered urgently. "Might I speak with you? Privately?"
They slipped into the small sitting room off the main hall—the same room where Anthea had confronted Beatrice about sponsoring her sisters.
"What is it?" Anthea asked, though she suspected she already knew from the way Veronica's eyes were shining.
"Mr. Hartley proposed," Veronica said in a rush. "This afternoon, during our walk. He asked Gregory's blessing first—actually sought him out this morning before breakfast—and Gregory approved, and then he asked me, and I said yes!"
Joy flooded through Anthea so powerfully it made her dizzy. "Oh, Veronica!"
She pulled her sister into a fierce embrace, tears pricking her eyes.
"Are you certain?" she asked, pulling back to study Veronica's face. "You are not feeling pressured, or—"
"I am certain," Veronica said firmly. "Anthea, he is kind. He listens when I speak. He wants to hear my opinions about art and literature and everything. He does not expect me to be quiet or demure or anything other than myself. And he makes me laugh." Her smile was radiant. "I love him. Truly."
"Then I am so happy for you," Anthea said, wiping at her eyes. "So incredibly happy."
They returned to the drawing room together, and Veronica made her announcement to the assembled guests. The response was warm—genuine congratulations, toasts to the happy couple, Mr. Hartley looking slightly overwhelmed but pleased.
Gregory caught Anthea's eye across the room and smiled. This—all of this—had worked exactly as they had planned. Better, even.
Her sisters were happy. His investments were secured. And somehow, impossibly, they had found each other in the process.
Later, after the guests had retired and the house had grown quiet, Gregory found her in the library.
"A successful house party," he said, settling into the chair beside hers.
"Very successful," Anthea agreed.
"Your sister seems genuinely happy."
"She is." Anthea smiled. "Mr. Hartley is a good man. He will treat her well."
"He will," Gregory confirmed. "I made certain of that before giving my blessing. He understands that if he hurts her, he will have to answer to both of us."
"Did you threaten him?" Anthea asked, amused.
"I merely made clear the consequences of making my sister-in-law unhappy," Gregory said innocently. "It was very polite. Barely threatening at all."
Anthea laughed. "You are impossible."
"Yes," Gregory agreed. "But I am your impossible now. You said so yourself."
"I said no such thing," Anthea protested.
"You said I was yours," Gregory countered. "Which, by the laws of logic, means you are mine as well."
"That is not how logic works."
"Is it not?" Gregory reached out and caught her hand, pulling her from her chair into his lap. "Then perhaps you should explain it to me. I am but a simple soldier, after all. These complex matters confuse me."
"You are many things," Anthea said, settling against his chest. "But simple is not one of them."
And when Anthea finally returned to her own chambers, she lay in bed with a smile on her face and hope blooming warm in her chest.
Whatever came next, they would face it together.