And she was about to discover that he had not risen through the military ranks by accepting defeat easily.
If Miss Anthea Croft required rescuing from her poisonous stepmother, then by God, he would rescue her. Even if she had not asked for it. Even if she might be furious with him for interfering.
Because yesterday, when he had held her in his arms after their victory, when she had looked at him with those impossibly blue eyes, he had felt something he had not felt in years.
Hope.
And he would not surrender that easily.
Chapter Eleven
Anthea set down her embroidery with a frown. The stitches had gone crooked again—she had been too distracted to focus properly. Her mind kept wandering to the garden party, to strong hands lifting her into the air, to green eyes that had looked at her with something she dared not name.
Gregory had said he would call today. She had spent the entire morning in her room, alternating between reading the same page of her novel a dozen times and pacing before the window. Every carriage that passed made her heart leap. Every footstep in the hallway made her straighten.
But it was well past three o'clock now, and he had not come.
Perhaps he had reconsidered. Perhaps yesterday's victory at Pall Mall had been merely an enjoyable diversion, nothing more. Perhaps she had imagined the way he had looked at her when he set her down, the way his hands had lingered?—
A sharp knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts.
"Come in," she called.
Veronica slipped through the door, her face tight with worry. "Anthea, you should come downstairs."
"Why? What has happened?"
"Mama is in a state." Veronica twisted her hands together. "She keeps muttering about presumptuous Dukes and proper respect. I think—I think the Duke of Everleigh might have called while you were up here."
Anthea's stomach dropped. "What?"
"I only caught bits of what she was saying to Watkins, but she mentioned sending someone away, and then she said something about 'that man' thinking he could dictate terms to her, and—Anthea, I think she turned him away."
The embroidery hoop clattered to the floor as Anthea stood. "She did what?"
"I am not certain, but?—"
Anthea was already moving, her skirts swishing as she strode down the corridor. Fury built with each step, hot and righteous and entirely justified. If Beatrice had dared to interfere, if shehad prevented Gregory from calling, if she had lied about Anthea being unavailable…
She found her stepmother in the drawing room, calmly pouring tea as though she had not just committed an act of sabotage.
"You turned him away, didn’t you," Anthea said without preamble.
Beatrice looked up, her expression perfectly composed. "Good afternoon to you as well, Anthea. I trust you had a pleasant morning in your room?"
"Do not play games with me. The Duke called, did he not? And you told him I was not at home."
"I told him you were unavailable," Beatrice corrected, setting down the teapot with deliberate care. "Which was true enough. You were sequestered in your room and clearly not prepared to receive callers."
"You had no right?—"
"I had every right." Beatrice's voice turned sharp. "This is my household, and I will not have some upstart soldier waltzing in here as though he owns the place, demanding to see you specifically while completely ignoring my daughters."
"He is a duke," Anthea said through gritted teeth. "And he came to call on me. Me, Beatrice. Not Poppy. Not Veronica. That was his choice to make, not yours."
"Was it?" Beatrice rose, her tea forgotten. "Because it seems to me that you have been rather clever about this entire situation. Getting yourself caught with him not once but twice. Ensuring he feels obligated to offer for you. All while pretending you have no interest in marriage."
"I did not plan any of this!"
