Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The wedding breakfast was held at Gregory's—their—townhouse, and the mood was jubilant despite Beatrice's attempted disruption.
Anthea moved through the receiving line in a daze, accepting congratulations and deflecting questions about the objection with practiced grace. But her mind kept returning to Gregory's words in the church.
Love is not about perfect circumstances or unblemished reputations. It is about choosing someone despite their flaws and their past.
Had he meant it? Or had it simply been a strategic speech designed to salvage the ceremony?
She needed to know.
"Your Grace?"
Anthea turned to find one of the footmen hovering at her elbow.
"Yes?"
"Forgive the interruption, but I thought you should know—Miss Poppy was at the ceremony after all. I saw her myself, standing at the very back of the church with the biggest smile on her face. She must have slipped in late and not wanted to cause a disruption by moving to the family pews."
Relief flooded through Anthea so powerfully it made her dizzy. Of course. That explained everything. Poppy had simply been running late—probably fussing over her appearance, as she tended to do—and had arrived just in time to slip into the back of the church unnoticed.
"Thank you for telling me," Anthea said. "I had been worried."
The footman bowed and disappeared back into the crowd.
Anthea felt the knot of anxiety that had been building in her chest finally loosen. Poppy was fine. She had witnessed her sister's wedding. Everything was as it should be.
She returned her attention to the celebration, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing servant and allowing herself to simply enjoy the moment.
Veronica looked radiant, Mr. Hartley could not stop smiling, and the guests seemed to have collectively decided that Beatrice's objection was nothing more than the spiteful tantrum of a bitter woman.
Everything had turned out perfectly.
Well. Almost perfectly.
Because she still needed to find Gregory. Needed to hear him explain what he had meant by that speech. Needed to know if he truly believed love was worth protecting and cherishing, or if he had simply been performing for the crowd.
She spotted him across the room, deep in conversation with several gentlemen who were probably discussing investments or politics or some other suitably masculine topic. He looked handsome in his formal attire, his cravat perfectly tied, his expression animated as he spoke.
Her husband.
The man she loved.
The man who might—possibly—love her back.
As though sensing her attention, Gregory glanced up. Their eyes met across the crowded room, and something electric passed between them. He excused himself from the conversation and began making his way toward her, moving through the crowd with purposeful determination.
"Dance with me," he said when he reached her side, not bothering with preamble.
"Now?" Anthea asked. "The first dance should be for Veronica and Mr. Hartley—"
"They have already danced," Gregory interrupted. "Which means we are free to join them. Unless you would prefer to continue making small talk with Lady Pemberton about the weather?"
Anthea glanced over her shoulder to where Lady Pemberton was indeed bearing down on them with the determined expression of someone preparing to extract gossip.
"Dancing sounds wonderful," Anthea said quickly.
Gregory grinned and offered his arm. They moved to the makeshift dance floor in the main drawing room, where several other couples were already waltzing to the musicians' elegant playing.
Gregory pulled her into the proper position, one hand at her waist, the other clasping hers. They began to move, and Anthea was reminded—as she always was when they danced—that despite his general disdain for Society's rules, Gregory was an excellent dancer.
"You are staring at me," Gregory observed after a moment.
"I am thinking," Anthea corrected.
"About?"
"Your speech," Anthea said. "In the church. About love being rare and precious."
Gregory's expression turned serious. "What about it?"
"Did you mean it?" The question emerged before she could stop it. "Or were you simply saying what needed to be said to salvage the ceremony?"
Gregory was quiet for a long moment, guiding them through a turn with easy competence.
"What do you think?" he asked finally.
"I think—" Anthea stopped, choosing her words carefully. "I think you are capable of saying things for strategic purposes. Of performing when necessary. And I think that speech was very effective in legitimizing the marriage and making everyone forget Beatrice's objection."
"That is all true," Gregory agreed. "But it does not answer my question. What do you think I meant?"
Anthea looked up at him, at the way he was watching her with patient intensity, and felt her heart begin to race.
"I think you meant it," she whispered. "I think you believe love should be protected and cherished. I think—" She swallowed hard. "I think you were not just talking about Veronica and Mr. Hartley."
Gregory's hand tightened slightly at her waist. "And if you are right? What then?"
"Then I need to tell you something," Anthea said, her voice barely audible over the music. "Privately."
Gregory's eyes darkened with something that looked like hope mixed with heat. "Now?"
"Yes," Anthea said. "Now. Before I lose my courage."
Without a word, Gregory guided them to the edge of the dance floor, then out through the terrace doors into the garden. The late afternoon sun cast everything in golden light, and the sounds of the celebration faded to a distant murmur.
They walked in silence until they reached a secluded corner of the garden, hidden from the house by a hedge of roses.
"Here," Gregory said, stopping. He turned to face her fully. "We are alone. What did you want to tell me?"
Now that the moment had arrived, Anthea found the words catching in her throat. She had spent so many years guarding her heart, protecting herself from vulnerability. Opening herself up—truly opening herself up—felt like stepping off a cliff with no certainty of what waited below.
But Gregory was watching her with such patience, such obvious care, that some of her fear began to dissolve.
"Your speech," she began. "About love being a choice. About committing to build something together even when the path is not easy."
"Yes," Gregory said softly. "I remember what I said."
"Did you—" Anthea stopped, started again. "When you said love should be protected and cherished, were you thinking about us? About our marriage?"
"Yes," Gregory said simply. No hesitation. No deflection. Just honesty.
The word settled in the space between them like a gift.
"I have been thinking," Anthea said, her voice shaking slightly, "about what I want. What I truly want, not what I convinced myself I should want."
"And what do you want?" Gregory asked.
"You," Anthea said. "I want you. Not the arrangement we agreed to. Not the marriage of convenience. I want—" She took a breath. "I want a real marriage. With you. All of it. The messy, complicated, terrifying parts. The vulnerability and the risk and the possibility of being hurt."
Gregory's expression softened. "Anthea—"
"I am not finished," she interrupted. "I need to say this. All of it. Before I lose my nerve."
He nodded, falling silent.
"I spent three years telling myself I would never love anyone again," Anthea continued.
"That Maxwell had broken something in me that could not be repaired.
That the only way to be safe was to never be vulnerable.
And then I married you, and you—" Her voice cracked.
"You refused to let me hide. You saw me.
All of me. The sharp edges and the scared parts and everything I have spent so long trying to conceal.
And you did not run. Did not try to change me or make me smaller or more acceptable. You just—you stayed."
"Of course I stayed," Gregory said, his voice rough with emotion. "Anthea—"
"And I realized," she pushed on, needing to finish before she lost her courage entirely, "that I do not want safety anymore.
I do not want walls. I want you. I want mornings where you bring me breakfast because you are worried I will forget to eat.
I want evenings where we argue about estate management and politics and everything else we disagree about.
I want—" She looked up at him, tears beginning to slip down her cheeks.
"I want to be brave enough to love you. Completely.
Without holding back. Even though it terrifies me. Especially because it terrifies me."
Gregory made a sound low in his throat—something between a laugh and a sob—and pulled her into his arms.
"You are brave," he said fiercely, his face buried in her hair. "You are the bravest person I have ever met. And I love you. God, Anthea, I love you so much it feels like I cannot breathe sometimes."
"You do?" Anthea pulled back just enough to see his face. "Truly?"
"Truly," Gregory said. He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away her tears.
"I have loved you since that first night when you refused to be intimidated by me.
Since you stood in the music room and told me exactly what you thought without apology or pretense.
And I have spent every day since falling deeper. "
"I love you too," Anthea whispered. "I have been trying not to. Trying to protect myself. But I cannot anymore. I do not want to anymore."
Gregory's smile was radiant. "Then do not. Love me. Let me love you. Let us figure out this marriage together, messiness and all."
"No more holding back?" Anthea asked.
"No more holding back," Gregory confirmed. "We give this everything we have. We choose each other, every day, even when it is difficult. Especially when it is difficult."
"That is a very large commitment," Anthea said, echoing words she had once spoken to him.