"I ask for nothing more." Gregory bowed, and even that simple gesture made her notice the play of muscle beneath his coat. Insufferable man. "Enjoy the remainder of the party, Miss Croft. I shall call on you tomorrow for our meeting as planned. And congratulations on our victory."
He walked away, and Anthea found her eyes following him despite her best intentions. The way he moved, all controlled power and deliberate purpose.
She turned sharply away, her jaw set with determination.
This was about her sisters. About securing their futures. About a practical arrangement that would benefit all parties involved.
If she also happened to find the Duke physically attractive, well, that was simply an inconvenient fact, nothing more. It certainly did not mean she was in any danger of developing actual feelings for the man.
She had learned her lesson with Maxwell. Attraction was merely a physical response, easily ignored when one had more important matters to attend to.
Even if her waist still seemed to remember exactly where his hands had been. Even if some foolish part of her had not wanted him to let go.
That signified nothing. Nothing at all.
Chapter Ten
Gregory settled into the carriage seat, watching London's streets roll past the window with unseeing eyes. His mind was elsewhere—on a lawn, on a game, on the feel of a woman's waist beneath his hands.
Ridiculous. He was a duke with an estate to restore, tenants depending on him, and a reputation to establish. He had no business dwelling on the way Miss Anthea Croft had felt when he lifted her into the air. Light as a feather despite her layers of skirts and stays. Warm and solid and real in a way that had made something in his chest tighten uncomfortably.
The way she had looked at him in that moment, her hands gripping his shoulders, her face so close he could count the flecks of gold in her blue eyes?—
"Your Grace, we are approaching the residence."
Gregory blinked, pulled from his thoughts by his driver's voice. "Thank you, Peters."
He straightened in his seat, adjusting his cravat with deliberate precision. This was a business call. A practical matter to be addressed with the same efficiency he had once used to plan military campaigns.
Miss Croft required a husband who could provide for her sisters. He required a wife who understood Society. The arrangement benefited both parties.
That she also happened to be the most infuriating, sharp-tongued, delightfully competitive woman he had ever met was irrelevant.
As was the fact that her rare smile had nearly undone him yesterday.
The carriage stopped, and Gregory descended to the pavement. The Croft residence looked the same as it had when he had called before—respectable but not grand, well-maintained but clearly not wealthy.
His first visit had been illuminating in more ways than one. Miss Croft's refusal to accept his proposal immediately had surprised him. Her willingness to expose her stepmother's schemes had impressed him. And Mrs. Croft's constant interruptions and thinly veiled criticisms of her stepdaughter had made him want to throttle the woman.
Today, however, he came prepared. He had rehearsed his arguments, considered her likely objections, and planned his responses with military precision. Miss Croft was practical above all else. He simply needed to present the arrangement in terms that made sense to that practical mind.
And perhaps, if he were fortunate, she might look at him again the way she had yesterday when they won the game. Like he was something more than a brutish soldier playing at being a duke.
Gregory climbed the steps and knocked. The same elderly butler answered, his expression carefully neutral.
"Your Grace. How may I assist you?"
"I have come to call upon Miss Anthea Croft," Gregory said, handing over his card. "I believe she is expecting me."
The butler's expression flickered—so briefly Gregory might have imagined it. "I shall inquire, Your Grace. Please wait here."
Gregory stepped into the entrance hall, clasping his hands behind his back. Something felt off. The butler had hesitated. And Miss Croft knew he intended to call today—he had mentioned it yesterday before they parted.
Unless she had decided to avoid him entirely.
The thought made his jaw tighten. No. She would not do that. Miss Croft was many things—stubborn, argumentative, far tooclever for her own good—but she was not a coward. If she wished to refuse him, she would do so to his face.
"Your Grace."
