"Your Grace." Sybil materialized beside them, her face pale with worry. "My carriage is just there. We can?—"
"I am taking her home myself," Gregory said. "Send word to her household that a physician should be summoned immediately."
"Your Grace, you cannot simply—" Sybil stopped herself, seeming to recognize the futility of argument. "Very well. I shall see to Veronica and follow shortly."
"Thank you."
He strode toward the carriages with long, purposeful steps. Anthea wanted to protest but her head had somehow found its way to his shoulder, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear was oddly soothing.
"This will cause a scandal," she managed to say. "Everyone saw you jump in. Saw you?—"
"I do not care."
"You should care. You need Society's approval for your investments, for?—"
"I said I do not care." He looked down at her, and something in his expression made her breath catch. "Let them gossip. Let them whisper and speculate and draw whatever conclusions they please. You nearly died, Anthea. Nothing else matters."
She should correct him. Should insist he call her Miss Croft, should point out that such informality would only fuel the scandal. But her name in his voice, rough with such foreignemotion and stripped of all pretense, made something warm unfurl in her chest.
They reached his carriage. The driver had already opened the door, his eyes wide with shock at the sight of his employer dripping wet and carrying a half-drowned woman.
Gregory climbed in without setting her down, settling onto the bench with her still in his lap. The blanket had slipped, and he adjusted it with careful hands, tucking it more securely around her shoulders.
"Your Grace, you should—I can sit on the other bench?—"
"No."
"This is highly improper?—"
"I jumped into a lake fully clothed and pulled you out in front of half the ton," Gregory said dryly. "I believe we are well past propriety at this point."
The carriage lurched into motion. Anthea tried once more to shift to the opposite seat, but his arm remained firm around her waist.
"You do not understand," she said, her voice gaining strength despite her exhaustion. "This will be ascandal. Everyone saw you dive in after me. Saw you carry me. And combined with the rumors from before—when we were found in the music room—they will say we have been conducting some sort of clandestine affair. You cannot simply dismiss this! Your reputation?—"
"My reputation will survive."
"But mine might not," Anthea said sharply. "And more importantly, my sisters' reputations. Veronica and Poppy will be tainted by association. Any gentleman considering them will think twice about?—"
"Then I will make certain no one dares speak ill of any of you." His voice had gone flat, commanding. "The solution is quite simple."
"There is no simple solution to scandal?—"
"There is." He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. "But we will discuss it when you are not half-frozen and in shock."
Anthea wanted to argue. Wanted to demand he explain himself. But exhaustion was pulling at her, making her thoughts slow and heavy.
He did not care. Of course he did not care. Men like him—titled, powerful—never truly suffered the consequences of scandal. That burden always fell on the women involved. He could walk away from this with nothing more than a reputation for being heroic and impulsive. Meanwhile, she would be ruined. Her sisters would be ruined.
Even good men, it seemed, only cared for themselves in the end.
"I am getting you wet," she pointed out.
"I am already wet."
"Your carriage?—"
"Can be cleaned." He looked at her with something approaching exasperation. "Anthea, stop trying to protect me from the consequences of my own choices. I knew exactly what I was doing when I dove in after you."
