Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
They arrived back in London near midnight, exhausted and travel-worn.
Poppy and Henry were shown to guest chambers with explicit instructions to rest and not attempt any further dramatic gestures. Sybil and Hugo departed for their own home with promises to return in the morning to help with wedding preparations.
And then it was just Anthea and Gregory, standing in the entrance hall of their townhouse, the silence between them heavy as stone.
"You should get some rest," Gregory said quietly. "It has been a long day."
"Yes," Anthea agreed. But she made no move toward the stairs.
Gregory studied her face in the dim candlelight. "Anthea—"
"Good night," she said quickly, and fled up the stairs before he could say anything more.
In her chambers, she dismissed her maid with a mumbled excuse about being too tired for help. Undressed herself mechanically, each layer of clothing feeling like armor she was shedding without any protection underneath.
She climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling, waiting for exhaustion to claim her.
It did not come.
Instead, her mind replayed the day's events in an endless loop. Poppy's letter. The desperate chase. Gregory solving everything while she stood useless and frozen. The way her sister had looked at her with something uncomfortably close to pity.
She had failed. Spectacularly, publicly, undeniably failed.
And tomorrow she would have to wake up and pretend everything was fine. She would have to help plan Poppy's wedding while knowing she had driven her sister to nearly ruin herself. Would have to smile and act like a competent duchess when she had proven herself anything but.
A soft knock came at the connecting door.
Anthea closed her eyes. "I am trying to sleep."
"No, you are not," Gregory's voice came through the wood. "You are lying there torturing yourself. I can practically hear it from my room."
"Go away, Gregory."
"I will not."
The door opened. Gregory entered, still fully dressed, his expression determined.
"We need to talk," he said.
"There is nothing to discuss," Anthea replied, not looking at him. "Everything is resolved. Poppy is safe. We should both rest."
"Everything is not resolved," Gregory said. He moved to sit on the edge of her bed, close enough that she could feel the mattress dip under his weight. "Because my wife is pulling away from me and I do not know how to reach her."
"I am not pulling away," Anthea said automatically.
"You are." His voice was gentle but implacable.
"You have been pulling away since we found that letter.
Building walls, shutting me out, refusing comfort.
And I have been patient, thinking you needed time.
But we are home now. Everything is settled.
And you are still—" He stopped, seeming to search for words.
"You are still gone. And I need to know why. "
Anthea felt her throat tighten. "I told you why. I failed."
"No," Gregory said. "You told me you think you failed. But that is not the same thing. And I do not believe that is what this is really about."
"What else would it be about?" Anthea demanded, finally turning to look at him.
"I think," Gregory said carefully, "this is about you looking for reasons to punish yourself. To prove you do not deserve happiness. To fulfill Beatrice's prophecy about your inevitable failure."
The words struck too close to truth.
"That is absurd," Anthea said, but her voice shook.
"Is it?" Gregory leaned forward. "Anthea, you have been looking for evidence of your inadequacy since the moment you found that letter.
Cataloging every mistake, real or imagined.
Building a case against yourself. And now you have convinced yourself that you are unworthy—of your position, of your responsibilities, of—" He stopped. "Of me."
"I am unworthy," Anthea whispered. "Do you not see? I had one responsibility. One job. Protect my sisters and help them find good matches. And I failed so completely that Poppy felt her only option was to run away to Scotland."
"She did not run away because you failed," Gregory said. "She ran away because she was frightened of Beatrice and wanted to protect Henry's sisters. That has nothing to do with your competence."
"It has everything to do with it," Anthea insisted. "If I had created an environment where she felt safe coming to me—if I had been paying attention instead of being distracted by my own life—she would not have felt so desperate."
"Or she would have made the same choice anyway," Gregory countered. "Because she is her own person with her own fears and her own judgment. You cannot control everything, Anthea."
"I should not have to control everything," Anthea said, her voice rising. "I should simply be competent enough to notice when my sister is planning something dangerous. But I was too busy being in love with you to do even that basic duty."
There it was. The core of her self-recrimination laid bare.
Gregory was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was very soft.
"So this is my fault? Our marriage—our love—that is what caused this disaster?"
"No," Anthea said quickly. "That is not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?" Gregory asked. "Because it sounds like you are saying that loving me, being happy with me, was a mistake that led directly to your sister's near-ruin."
"I am saying I should have been more careful," Anthea said desperately. "I should have maintained better balance. Should not have let myself become so consumed—"
"By happiness?" Gregory interrupted. "By love? By finally allowing yourself to want something for yourself instead of sacrificing everything for others?"
"Yes," Anthea said. Then, hearing how that sounded, "No. I do not know. I just—" She pressed her hands to her face. "I just know that the moment I let myself be happy, everything fell apart. And I cannot—I will not—let that happen again."
"So what are you saying?" Gregory's voice had gone very quiet. "That we should go back to being distant? That you should sacrifice our marriage to avoid being distracted by your own emotions?"
"I am saying," Anthea said, lowering her hands, "that you should annul this marriage and find someone better."
The words dropped into the silence like stones into still water.
Gregory stared at her. "What?"
"You heard me," Anthea said, forcing the words out past the tightness in her throat. "You deserve someone competent. Someone who can manage a household and support your ambitions without being so distracted by her own feelings that she fails at basic responsibilities. Someone who—"
"Stop," Gregory interrupted, his voice sharp. "Stop right there."
He stood, and for a moment Anthea thought he was going to leave. Thought she had finally pushed him too far, proven herself too broken to fix.
But he did not leave. Instead, he paced to the window and back, his jaw working.
"Do you know what I think?" he said finally.
"I think you are scared. I think loving me, being happy with me, terrifies you because it means being vulnerable.
And you have convinced yourself that the only way to be safe is to be alone.
To sacrifice your own happiness to some imagined duty.
To prove Beatrice right so you can fulfill her prophecy and never have to risk being hurt. "
"That is not—"
"It is exactly that," Gregory interrupted.
He moved back to the bed, kneeling beside it so they were at eye level.
"You are looking for excuses to push me away before I can hurt you the way Maxwell did.
Before I can prove you right about men being untrustworthy and love being dangerous.
And Poppy's elopement gave you the perfect reason. "
"I am not—" Anthea stopped. Because he was right. God help her, he was right.
She was terrified. Terrified of being this happy, this vulnerable, this completely exposed to potential pain.
And she had seized on Poppy's elopement as evidence that happiness was dangerous. That love was a distraction. That she could not be trusted with both responsibilities and emotions.
"I do not know how to do this," she whispered. "How to be happy and competent at the same time. How to love you without losing myself."
"You do not lose yourself by loving me," Gregory said gently. "You become more yourself. Braver, stronger, more willing to be vulnerable. That is not weakness, Anthea. That is courage."
"It does not feel like courage," Anthea said, tears beginning to slip down her cheeks. "It feels like failure."
Gregory reached up and cupped her face, his thumbs brushing away her tears.
"Listen to me. You are the most competent person I know.
You managed an impossible house party that resulted in your sister finding a good match.
You navigated Society politics to secure connections I could never have made alone.
You stood up to your stepmother repeatedly, protecting your sisters from her manipulation. You have been extraordinary."
"But Poppy still ran away," Anthea said.
"Because she is young and frightened and made her own choice," Gregory said firmly. "Not because you failed her. She did not run away from you, Anthea. She ran away from Beatrice's cruelty. And we found her. We stopped her. We fixed it. Together."
"You fixed it," Anthea corrected. "I stood there frozen while you solved everything."
"You stood there supporting me," Gregory countered. "Do you think I could have done any of that without you? Without knowing you were beside me? Without drawing on the strength you have shown me again and again?"
"I did not do anything," Anthea protested weakly.
"You loved me," Gregory said simply. "You trusted me to handle the situation when you were too overwhelmed to do it yourself. That is not failure, Anthea. That is partnership. That is marriage."
He leaned his forehead against hers.
"I love you," he said quietly. "I love you when you are competent and managing everything perfectly.
I love you when you are overwhelmed and struggling.
I love you when you are happy and when you are scared.
And I will not let you convince yourself that you are inadequate when you are anything but. "
"What if I fail again?" Anthea whispered. "What if I prove Beatrice right?"
"Then I will be there to help you fix it," Gregory said. "Just as you will be there to help me when I fail. Because that is what we do. We support each other. We face things together. We do not push each other away when things get difficult."
"I am sorry," Anthea said, her voice breaking. "I am sorry for pulling away. For trying to push you away. For being so scared of being happy that I was willing to destroy what we have."
"I know," Gregory said. "And I forgive you. I will always forgive you. Because I love you more than I love being right. More than I love having everything run smoothly. More than anything."
"I love you too," Anthea whispered. "So much it terrifies me."
"Good," Gregory said. "Love should be a little terrifying. It means it matters."
He kissed her then—soft and gentle and full of forgiveness. Anthea kissed him back desperately, pouring everything she felt into it. Apology and love and gratitude and the promise to do better, to try harder, to not let fear destroy what they had built.
When they finally pulled apart, both breathing hard, Gregory smiled.
"No more talk of annulment," he said firmly. "No more pushing me away. No more convincing yourself you are inadequate when you are extraordinary."
"I will try," Anthea said. "I cannot promise I will not struggle with this. Cannot promise I will not sometimes retreat into old fears. But I will try."
"That is all I ask," Gregory said. He climbed onto the bed beside her, pulling her into his arms. "Now. Tell me what you need."
"This," Anthea said, burrowing into his embrace. "Just this. You holding me. Reminding me that I am not alone."
"You will never be alone again," Gregory promised. "I am here. Always."
They lay like that for a long time, tangled together, Anthea's tears soaking into Gregory's shirt while he held her and murmured reassurances.
Slowly, gradually, Anthea felt the knot of anxiety in her chest begin to loosen. Felt the walls she had built start to crumble. Felt herself begin to believe that perhaps—perhaps—she could be both happy and competent. Both in love and responsible. Both vulnerable and strong.
"Thank you," she whispered finally.
"For what?"
"For not letting me push you away. For fighting for us even when I was trying to sabotage everything."
"I will always fight for us," Gregory said. "Even when you are your own worst enemy. Especially then."
Anthea laughed—a watery, broken sound, but genuine. "I do not deserve you."
"Yes, you do," Gregory said firmly. "You deserve all the happiness in the world. And I intend to spend the rest of our lives proving that to you."
"That is a very large promise," Anthea said.
"I have never been good at doing things halfway," Gregory reminded her.
She smiled against his chest. "No. You certainly have not."
They stayed like that until Anthea's breathing evened out, until exhaustion finally claimed her. And even as sleep pulled her under, she felt safe. Protected. Loved.
Gregory held her through the night, keeping his promise.
Never letting her be alone again.