Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Anthea woke to sunlight streaming through the windows and Gregory's arm draped across her waist.
For a moment—one perfect, blissful moment—she simply lay there, feeling his steady breathing against her back, the warmth of his body pressed against hers, the absolute rightness of being exactly where she was.
She was married. Truly married. To a man she loved, who loved her back.
Yesterday had been perfect. Veronica's wedding, Gregory's speech, their confession in the garden, and then—
Heat flooded her cheeks at the memory. She turned carefully in Gregory's embrace to find him already awake, watching her with an expression so tender it made her chest ache.
"Good morning, wife," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
"Good morning, husband," Anthea replied, still getting used to the way the word felt in her mouth. How it meant something different now than it had even yesterday.
"How are you feeling?" Gregory asked, and there was genuine concern beneath the question.
"Happy," Anthea said honestly. "Sore. But mostly happy."
Gregory's smile was soft and just slightly smug. "I can work with mostly happy."
"You are insufferable," Anthea informed him, but she was smiling.
"Yes," Gregory agreed easily. "But I am your insufferable now. You said so yourself."
He kissed her properly this time, slow and deep and thoroughly distracting. Anthea melted into it, her hands coming up to tangle in his hair, her body already responding to his touch with an eagerness that should probably embarrass her but did not.
They had just agreed—wordlessly but definitively—to spend the morning exactly where they were when Gregory's hand encountered something that definitely should not be in their bed.
Paper.
He pulled back, frowning. "What is—"
Anthea felt it too now. Something stiff and folded, tucked between the pillows where she had not noticed it in last night's... distraction.
A letter.
Gregory reached over and retrieved it, his frown deepening as he examined the sealed envelope.
"It is addressed to you," he said, handing it over.
Anthea recognized Poppy's handwriting immediately. Her stomach dropped.
Why would Poppy leave a letter on her bed? Why not simply speak to her directly?
Unless—
No. She was being paranoid. There was surely a reasonable explanation.
She broke the seal with fingers that trembled slightly and began to read.
My dearest Anthea,
I am writing this because I am a coward. Because I know if I tried to speak to you in person, you would talk me out of what I am about to do. Or worse, you would understand and support me, and then I would feel even more guilty for what I am putting you through.
By the time you read this, Henry and I will be on our way to Gretna Green.
The words swam before Anthea's eyes. She read them again, certain she had misunderstood. But the letters remained stubbornly unchanged.
Gretna Green.
Elopement.
No.
"Anthea?" Gregory's voice seemed to come from very far away. "What is it? What does it say?"
She could not answer. Could barely breathe. She continued reading, her hands shaking so badly the paper rustled.
I know what you must be thinking. That I have lost my mind. That I am throwing away everything you worked so hard to build for me. But please, please understand—this was the only way.
After Veronica's wedding, after watching Mother try to destroy her happiness even at the altar, I realized she would do the same to me. Worse, actually, because Henry's situation gives her ammunition.
So we are going to Gretna Green. By the time you read this, we will likely be married already. And yes, I know this will create a scandal. I know people will talk. But at least the scandal will be about us choosing each other, not about Mother's manipulations or Henry's father's mistakes.
I am so sorry for doing this at Veronica's wedding. For missing the ceremony—I was there, but I could not bear to say goodbye knowing what I was about to do. For putting you in this position. For failing to trust that you could protect us from Mother's scheming.
But I love him, Anthea. I love him the way you love Gregory, the way Veronica loves Mr. Hartley. And I will not let Mother destroy that.
Please do not follow us. Please do not try to stop this. It is already done.
I love you. I am so grateful for everything you have given me—safety, opportunity, the chance to choose my own future. I hope someday you will forgive me for choosing it this way.
Your loving sister, Poppy
The letter slipped from Anthea's nerveless fingers.
No.
This could not be happening.
"Anthea." Gregory's voice was sharp now, concerned. "Tell me what is wrong."
"Poppy," Anthea managed, her voice coming out strangled. "She ran away. With Henry. To Gretna Green."
Silence.
Then Gregory was moving, snatching up the letter and reading it himself, his expression growing darker with each line.
"When?" he demanded. "When did they leave?"
"I do not know," Anthea said, and her voice sounded hollow even to her own ears. "Yesterday. During the wedding. She said she was there but—" Realization crashed over her like a wave. "The footman. He said he saw her at the back of the church. She must have come to watch, to say goodbye, and then—"
She stopped. Could not finish the sentence.
While she had been dancing and celebrating and confessing her love to Gregory, her sister had been running away. Eloping. Destroying her reputation and future prospects because Anthea had failed to protect her.
"We have to go after them," Gregory said, already moving toward his own chambers. "Now. Before they reach Gretna Green."
"What is the point?" Anthea asked dully. "She said it is already done. They probably married hours ago."
"Then we bring them back and I get them a proper special license," Gregory said firmly. "We salvage this before the scandal spreads too far."
He disappeared through the connecting door, and Anthea heard him shouting for his valet, for the carriage to be prepared, for—
She could not focus on the words. Could barely think past the roaring in her ears.
This was her fault.
She had been so distracted by her own happiness, so caught up in Gregory and their newfound love, that she had completely failed to notice her sister was planning something desperate.
The signs had been there. Poppy's odd behavior. Her distraction. Her disappearances. Anthea had noticed—had even wondered about it—but she had pushed the concern aside. Had told herself everything was fine. Had been too busy falling in love to pay proper attention.
But don't come crying to me when you inevitably fail.
Beatrice's words echoed in her mind, vicious and vindicated.
She had failed.
Failed to protect Poppy. Failed to see what was happening right in front of her. Failed at the one responsibility she had taken on—keeping her sisters safe and helping them find happiness without scandal or shame.
Veronica's wedding had been perfect despite Beatrice's interference. Anthea had been so proud of how everything turned out, so confident in her ability to manage her sisters' futures.
And all the while, Poppy had been planning to run away.
"Anthea." Gregory had returned, now fully dressed. "You need to get dressed. We are leaving in ten minutes."
"I cannot," Anthea whispered.
"What do you mean you cannot?" Gregory moved closer, his expression shifting from urgency to concern. "Anthea, we need to—"
"I failed her," Anthea said, and her voice broke on the words. "I was supposed to protect her. To keep her safe. To be better than Beatrice. And I failed."
"You did not fail," Gregory said firmly. "Poppy made her own choice—"
"Because I was not paying attention!" Anthea's voice rose, shrill with panic and self-recrimination. "Because I was too distracted by you, by us, by my own happiness to notice my sister was planning something desperate. What kind of guardian does that? What kind of sister?"
"A human one," Gregory said quietly. "Anthea, you cannot watch them every moment. You cannot prevent them from making their own decisions—"
"I should have seen it," Anthea insisted. "The signs were there. Her behavior, her distraction, everything. And I ignored it. I told myself it was nothing. I was too busy—" She stopped, unable to finish.
Too busy falling in love. Too busy being happy. Too busy thinking about her own future to properly consider her sister's.
"This is exactly what Beatrice said would happen," Anthea continued, the words spilling out in a rush. "She said I would fail. That I would prove incompetent. That I could not handle the responsibility. And she was right."
"She was not right," Gregory said, his voice sharp enough to cut through her spiral. "Beatrice was cruel and vindictive and wrong about everything. This is not your failure."
"Then whose is it?" Anthea demanded. "Poppy is twenty years old. She should not have felt her only option was to run away. If I had been doing my job properly, if I had been paying attention, she would have come to me. Would have trusted me to help her."
"She trusted you enough to leave you a letter explaining her reasons," Gregory pointed out. "She loves you, Anthea. This was not about you failing her—"
"Then what was it about?" Anthea's voice cracked. "Because from where I stand, it looks like I was so caught up in my own romance that I completely neglected my responsibilities. And now Poppy's reputation is ruined, Henry's sisters may suffer, and—"
She stopped, a new and terrible thought occurring to her.
"What?" Gregory asked, clearly seeing something shift in her expression.
"If I could not even keep track of my sister—if I failed at this one basic responsibility—" Anthea wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the warm morning.
Her laugh was bitter. "I thought I could be someone.
Thought becoming a duchess meant I finally mattered.
But Beatrice was right all along—I am nothing.
I am still just... small. I cannot even do this one thing properly.
How can I possibly be a mother? How can I manage an entire household, an estate, future children, when I could not even—"
"Stop," Gregory interrupted, his voice firm. "Anthea, stop. You are spiraling."
"I am being realistic," Anthea said. "Beatrice was right. I am not competent enough for this. I am not—"
"Beatrice was wrong about everything," Gregory said fiercely.
He grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to look at him.
"Listen to me. Poppy did not run away because you failed her.
She ran away because she was trying to protect Henry and his sisters from your stepmother's manipulation.
That is actually noble, if incredibly foolish. "
"I should have prevented it," Anthea insisted.
"How?" Gregory demanded. "By watching her every moment? By interrogating her about her feelings and plans? She is not a child, Anthea. She is a grown woman who made her own decision."
"A decision she felt she had to make because I could not protect her from Beatrice," Anthea said. "Because even with all my new power and position, I still could not shield her from—"
"From a woman who has spent decades perfecting the art of manipulation?" Gregory interrupted. "Anthea, Beatrice is the villain here. Not you."
But Anthea could barely hear him past the roaring in her ears. Past the certainty that she had failed, that Beatrice had been right all along, that she was fundamentally inadequate for the responsibilities she had taken on.
She pulled away from Gregory's grip and began dressing with mechanical efficiency. Chemise, stays, petticoat, gown. Each layer of clothing felt like armor she was putting on to face a battle she had already lost.
"Anthea," Gregory said quietly. "Please talk to me."
"There is nothing to say," Anthea replied, her voice hollow. "We need to go after them. Try to salvage what we can. That is all that matters now."
"That is not all that matters," Gregory said. "Anthea, please—"
"The carriage should be ready," Anthea interrupted, not looking at him. She could not look at him. Could not bear to see the concern in his eyes, the love she no longer felt she deserved. "We should go."
She walked past him, down the stairs, out to where the carriage waited. Gregory followed, saying nothing, but she could feel his worry like a physical weight.
They climbed into the carriage in silence. As it pulled away from the townhouse, beginning the journey north toward Scotland, Anthea stared out the window at the passing streets.
Yesterday she had been so happy. So certain that everything was finally perfect. That she had built something good for her sisters, that she could protect them and guide them and help them find the futures they deserved.
But she had been deluding herself.
She was the same incompetent, inadequate person she had always been. Beatrice had seen it. Had known Anthea would fail. Had probably been waiting for exactly this moment to be proven right.
And now Poppy was ruined. Henry's reputation was damaged. His sisters might suffer. All because Anthea had been too distracted by her own happiness to do her job properly.
She felt Gregory's hand find hers, warm and solid. Felt him squeeze gently, offering comfort she did not deserve.
"I love you," he said quietly. "Whatever happens, whatever we find when we catch up to them—I love you. And we will face this together."
Anthea wanted to believe him. Wanted to accept the comfort he was offering. But all she could think about was Beatrice's triumphant expression when she learned what had happened.
I told you so, she would say. I told you that you would fail. And you did.
And the worst part was that Beatrice would be right.
Anthea closed her eyes and tried to breathe through the panic threatening to overwhelm her.
She had failed. Failed her sister, failed her responsibilities, failed everyone who had trusted her to be better than this.
And she had no idea how to fix it.
Or if it could be fixed at all.
The carriage rolled on through the morning, carrying them north. Toward Scotland. Toward the wreckage of her sister's reputation and her own shattered confidence.
Toward a reckoning Anthea was not certain she was ready to face.
But she would face it anyway.
Because what other choice did she have?