"That man was going to drive your sister to hysterics within the hour." Sybil glanced back at where Veronica and Mr. Hartley had resumed sketching, their heads bent close together. "Besides, Mr. Hartley is infinitely more suitable. Kind, respectful, shares her interests..."
"Everything Mr. Thornbury is not," Anthea finished.
"Precisely." Sybil paused. "Speaking of gentlemen and suitability—the Duke is approaching."
Anthea's heart leapt into her throat. "What? No. I cannot?—"
"Anthea—"
"I need some air." The words tumbled out in a rush. "Will you stay with Veronica? I shall just—I shall walk for a moment."
Before Sybil could protest, Anthea turned and hurried away, weaving through the crowd with her head down. She could not face him. Not now. Not when Lady Millicent's laugh still echoed in her ears, not when her own emotions were tangled into knots she could not begin to unravel.
She did not look back to see if he had noticed her departure. She did not want to know if he would follow or if he would simply return to the Earl's daughter with her perfect bloodline and easy smiles.
The menagerie suddenly felt too crowded, too warm, too full of watching eyes and whispered speculation.
She needed space. Distance. A moment to breathe without feeling his gaze on her back or imagining what he might be thinking.
Chapter Thirteen
Anthea walked without direction, letting her feet carry her away from the crowd, away from Gregory's intense gaze, away from the image of Lady Millicent's hand resting so familiarly on his arm.
Ridiculous. She was being utterly ridiculous.
He had proposed a practical arrangement. She had not yet agreed. He was perfectly entitled to explore other options, to walk with other women, to?—
Her foot caught on something—a root, perhaps, or an uneven paving stone—and suddenly the ground disappeared beneath her.
A scream tore out of her throat only to be abruptly stopped.
Cold.
The water hit her hard, stealing the breath from her lungs. She gasped reflexively and water rushed into her mouth, down her throat. Panic seized her as she thrashed, trying to find purchase, trying to remember which way was up.
Her skirts. Oh God, her skirts.
They wrapped around her legs like iron chains, the fabric heavy with water, pulling her down. She kicked desperately but the layers of muslin and petticoats tangled tighter with every movement. Her lungs burned. She could not breathe. Could not?—
She was going to die.
The thought arrived with perfect clarity even as darkness crept into the edges of her vision. She was going to drown in a lake at the Royal Menagerie because she had been too distracted by jealousy to watch where she was walking.
What a stupid way to die.
Something grabbed her. Strong hands closed around her waist, and then she was being pulled upward with irresistible force. Her head broke the surface and she tried to breathe but only managed to cough up water, her body convulsing with the effort.
"I have you." The voice was rough, commanding. "Stop fighting me, Anthea. I have you."
She went limp, too exhausted to do anything else. The hands—hishands, she realized dimly—tightened their grip, and then they were moving through the water. Solid ground materialized beneath her, and she was being lifted clear of the lake entirely, cradled against a chest that was as soaked as she was.
"Anthea." The voice was urgent now, edged with something that might have been fear. "Anthea, open your eyes."
She tried. Managed to lift her eyelids partway, though everything remained blurry.
"That is it. Look at me. Anthea, look at me."
Gregory's face swam into focus above her. Water dripped from his hair onto her cheek. His eyes were wild, desperate in a way she had never seen before.
