"There you are," he breathed, and his relief was so palpable she could feel it. "Thank God. I thought?—"
He did not finish the sentence. Just held her tighter, his hand coming up to cradle the back of her head as though she were something precious. Fragile.
She should say something. Should thank him or reassure him or at the very least stop staring at him like he had personally hung the moon.
But she could not seem to form words. Could only look at him—at the stark fear slowly fading from his features, at the water droplets clinging to his eyelashes, at the way his jaw was clenched so tight she could see the muscle jumping.
He had jumped in after her. Had not hesitated. Had pulled her from certain death without a thought for his own safety or dignity or what Society would say about a duke diving into a lake.
"Can you breathe?" His voice had gone rough. "Does anything hurt?"
"I—" Her voice emerged as barely a rasp. She coughed again, and his arm tightened around her shoulders, supporting her through it.
"That is all right. Just breathe. Nice and slow."
A crowd had gathered. Anthea became aware of it slowly—the exclamations of shock, the whispers, the gasps of amazement.
"He dove straight in!"
"Without even removing his coat!"
"Your Grace, that was extraordinary," someone said—a gentleman Anthea did not recognize. "You may have saved her life!"
"I would have done it for anyone," Gregory said, his tone dismissive, almost curt. "Anyone would have done the same."
Of course. Of course he would have. It meant nothing. She meant nothing special. He was simply a good man doing what good men did, and she was a fool for thinking—for hoping?—
She closed her eyes against the sudden sting.
"Anthea?" His voice dropped, concerned. "Are you in pain?"
"No," she managed. "Just tired."
Sybil's voice cut through the chaos with sharp authority. "Move aside! Give them space! Someone fetch a blanket immediately!"
"I should—" Anthea tried to push herself upright. "You can put me down now. I can?—"
"No."
The word was flat, absolute. Gregory shifted her weight in his arms as though she weighed nothing, rising to his feet with her still cradled against his chest.
"Your Grace, I am perfectly capable of?—"
"You nearly drowned." His voice could have cut glass. "You are soaked through, likely in shock, and I am not setting you down until we reach a carriage. Do not argue with me."
"I am not arguing. I am simply pointing out that I can walk?—"
"Can you?" He looked down at her, one brow raised in challenge. "Because from where I stand, you can barely keep your eyes open."
She scoffed softly. If only that was true.
She had been very alert, her many layers of dress wrapped around her legs, clinging to her, drawing her down. The weight of the water too felt immobilizing, even as he held her, let alone if she were to try and walk.
"I am fine," she insisted, even as she shivered violently.
"You are freezing and waterlogged." His arms tightened fractionally. "And I am not discussing this further."
Someone, a footman, judging by the livery, appeared with a blanket. Gregory took it one-handed, somehow managing to wrap it around her without loosening his hold. The wool was rough but warm, and Anthea found herself burrowing into it despite her determination to remain dignified.
