Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
The morning of Veronica's wedding dawned clear and bright—perfect weather for what should have been a perfect day.
Anthea woke early, her mind already spinning with the thousand details that required attention.
The flowers had been delivered to the church.
The wedding breakfast was prepared. Veronica's gown hung in her chambers, pristine and beautiful.
Everything was arranged with the precision that had become Anthea's signature.
She was reaching for her dressing gown when Gregory's voice drifted through the connecting door.
"Are you awake?"
"Unfortunately," Anthea called back. "I have been awake since dawn reviewing lists."
"May I come in?"
Anthea hesitated. They had been growing closer since the house party, but she was hardly dressed for visitors. Still, he was her husband. And the thought of seeing him made her chest feel warm in a way she was still getting accustomed to.
"Yes," she said.
The door opened, and Gregory entered carrying a tea tray. He was already dressed for the day in charcoal gray that made his eyes look almost green, his cravat tied with the slightly imperfect precision that suggested he had done it himself rather than waiting for his valet.
"I thought you might need this," he said, setting the tray on the small table by her window. "You have that look you get when you are planning to survive on willpower alone rather than actual sustenance."
"I do not have a look," Anthea protested, but she was already moving toward the tea with embarrassing eagerness.
"You absolutely have a look," Gregory said, pouring for her with careful attention. "Your jaw gets tight, your shoulders go up near your ears, and you start speaking in lists. 'First the flowers, then the ribbons, then we must ensure the musicians—'"
"I do not sound like that," Anthea interrupted, accepting the cup he offered.
"You sound exactly like that," Gregory said, utterly unrepentant. He poured his own tea and settled into the chair across from hers. "Which is why I am here to ensure you actually eat breakfast before you attempt to manage an entire wedding on nervous energy alone."
"I am perfectly capable of—" Anthea stopped as he revealed what else he had brought on the tray: toast with jam, sliced fruit, and—
"Are those chocolate biscuits?" she asked, momentarily derailed.
"They are," Gregory confirmed. "I may have bribed the cook. She seems to think you do not eat enough and was very enthusiastic about helping me ensure you had a proper breakfast."
Anthea felt something warm bloom in her chest. "You bribed the cook to make me chocolate biscuits?"
"I prefer to think of it as strategic resource allocation," Gregory said seriously. "The cook wanted to help. I wanted to ensure my wife did not collapse from exhaustion before the ceremony. We formed a mutually beneficial alliance."
"You are ridiculous," Anthea said, but she was already reaching for a biscuit.
"Perhaps," Gregory agreed. "But I am your ridiculous now. You said so yourself."
They ate in comfortable silence for several minutes. Anthea had not realized how hungry she was until the food was in front of her. She demolished two biscuits and half the toast before she even looked up.
"Better?" Gregory asked, watching her with obvious amusement.
"Much," Anthea admitted. Then, because honesty had become easier with him, "Thank you. For thinking of this. I would have forgotten to eat until halfway through the wedding breakfast."
"I know," Gregory said. "Which is why I have taken it upon myself to ensure you survive your own organizational competence."
"My organizational competence is what makes events like this possible," Anthea pointed out.
"True," Gregory allowed. "But it also makes you forget basic human needs like food and sleep. Someone has to look after you while you are busy looking after everyone else."
The matter-of-fact way he said it—as though caring for her was simply obvious, natural, an assumed part of his duties—made Anthea's throat feel tight.
"You are being sweet," she said, aiming for teasing but landing somewhere closer to genuine.
"I am being practical," Gregory corrected. "A wife who faints from hunger during her sister's wedding would be inconvenient for everyone."
"How romantic," Anthea said dryly.
Gregory's expression softened. "Would you prefer I say that watching you work yourself to exhaustion makes me worry? That I want to take care of you not because it is practical but because the thought of you suffering even minor discomfort makes me unreasonably agitated?"
Anthea set down her teacup very carefully. "That is... slightly more romantic."
"Only slightly?" Gregory rose from his chair and moved to kneel beside hers, taking her hand.
"Then perhaps I should add that you are beautiful in the morning, even when you are mentally reviewing flower arrangements.
Especially then, actually. You get this little wrinkle between your eyebrows that I find unreasonably adorable. "
"I do not have a wrinkle," Anthea said, but she was smiling.
"You are doing it right now," Gregory informed her. He reached up and smoothed his thumb across her forehead. "There. That is the wrinkle. The one that appears when you are thinking very hard about being irritated with me but cannot quite manage it."
"I am not irritated with you," Anthea said. "I am... flustered. There is a difference."
"Good," Gregory said, grinning. "Flustering you has become my favorite pastime."
"You are impossible," Anthea informed him.
"Yes," Gregory agreed. "But you love me anyway."
The words hung in the air between them—teasing but also serious, a question disguised as a statement.
"I do," Anthea said quietly. "Heaven help me, I do."
Gregory's smile turned soft. "Then I am the most fortunate man in England."
He leaned forward and kissed her—gentle and sweet and tasting of tea and chocolate. Anthea melted into it, her hand coming up to cup his face, feeling the slight rasp of morning stubble against her palm.
When they finally pulled apart, both slightly breathless, Gregory rested his forehead against hers.
"We should probably stop," he murmured. "You have a wedding to manage."
"Probably," Anthea agreed, but made no move to step away.
"In a moment," Gregory said, and kissed her again.
They stayed like that until the clock chimed the hour, reminding them both that the world existed beyond this room, beyond this moment.
Gregory stood reluctantly, helping Anthea to her feet. "I should go dress properly. And you should..." He gestured vaguely at her nightclothes. "Do whatever mysterious things women do to prepare for weddings."
"Very mysterious," Anthea said solemnly. "Absolutely arcane. You would not understand."
"Probably not," Gregory agreed. He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. "I will see you at the church."
"You will," Anthea said.
He left through the connecting door, and Anthea stood there for a long moment, her fingers pressed to her lips, a smile she could not quite suppress tugging at her mouth.
She was in love with her husband.
And he loved her back.
The realization still felt new enough to be miraculous.
The rest of the morning passed in a controlled chaos of preparations. Anthea dressed with her maid's help, then went to assist Veronica with her own gown—a beautiful creation of ivory silk and delicate lace that made her sister look like something from a fairy tale.
"You are stunning," Anthea said, adjusting the final pin in Veronica's hair. "Mr. Hartley will not be able to form coherent words when he sees you."
"I hope he can manage his vows," Veronica said, but she was smiling. "Otherwise this will be a very short ceremony."
"Where is Poppy?" Anthea asked, glancing around. "She should be here helping."
"I saw her earlier," Veronica said. "She said she needed to check on something. She will be back."
Anthea frowned slightly. Poppy had been oddly distracted lately—distant during meals, disappearing for long periods, always with vague excuses about errands or correspondence. But today was Veronica's wedding day. Surely she would not miss helping her sister prepare?
"I am certain she will return shortly," Anthea said, pushing down the small flutter of concern. "Now, let me make sure your gown is perfect."
They fussed over details until Veronica looked absolutely flawless. Then it was time to depart for the church.
The ceremony was to be held at St. George's, Hanover Square—fashionable, prestigious, and large enough to accommodate the substantial guest list. Gregory had already departed with Mr. Hartley and the other gentlemen.
Anthea would arrive with her sisters, playing the role of protective older sibling giving away the bride.
Except Poppy still had not returned.
"Where is she?" Anthea asked the maid. "Did she leave a message?"
"No, Your Grace. I have not seen Miss Poppy for over an hour."
Anxiety prickled at the base of Anthea's spine. This was not like Poppy. She could be impulsive, yes, but she adored Veronica. She would not miss her wedding.
"Perhaps she went ahead to the church?" Veronica suggested, though she looked uncertain.
"Perhaps," Anthea agreed, because they could not delay. Guests would be arriving. The ceremony would begin whether or not Poppy was in attendance.
They climbed into the carriage, Veronica's gown carefully arranged to avoid crushing. Anthea tried to focus on the day ahead, on ensuring everything went smoothly, but her mind kept returning to Poppy's absence.
Where was she?
St. George's was already filling with guests when they arrived. Anthea helped Veronica down from the carriage, then scanned the crowd for any sign of Poppy.
Nothing.
"She must be inside," Anthea said, more to convince herself than Veronica. "Come, we should go to the bride's room."