"Did you?" The question emerged before she could stop it. "Because it seems rather... impulsive."
"It was instinct." His jaw tightened. "I saw you fall. Saw you go under. And I—" He stopped, seemed to struggle with the words. "I did not think. I simply moved."
"You could have drowned as well."
"I am a strong swimmer." His hand, still resting at her waist, pressed slightly. "And I was not going to stand there and watch you die. Not when I could do something about it."
"Anyone would have done the same," Anthea said quietly, though her chest felt too tight.
"Perhaps." His voice had gone carefully neutral. "But I am the one who did."
Her eyes snapped up to meet his in shock. She had not known what to expect when she threw his words back at him, she’d just been hurt and had just said those words, but eating him speaks softened and eased some of the hurt inside her.
They fell into silence. Anthea became acutely aware of her position—curled against his chest, his arm supporting her, the heat of him seeping through layers of wet fabric.
"Thank you," she said. "For saving me. I—I do not know how to properly express?—"
"Do not." The words were quiet but firm. "Do not thank me for that. Not when it was my—" He stopped abruptly.
"Your what?"
"Nothing." But his expression had shuttered, gone distant in a way that made her want to demand answers.
The carriage rolled through London's streets, carrying them toward her home and whatever consequences awaited. Anthea knew she should be worried about the scandal, about what Beatrice would say, about how this would affect her sisters.
But wrapped in Gregory's arms, still shaking from cold and shock and the devastating certainty that she had nearly died, she could not quite bring herself to care.
"I am taking you inside," Gregory said as they approached her street. "And I am not leaving until a physician has examined you and confirmed you are well."
"That is not necessary?—"
"It is necessary to me." His voice brooked no argument. "You will submit to a physician's care. You will change into dry clothes. You will rest. And I will remain until I am satisfied that you are in no danger."
"You are being autocratic."
"I am being practical." But there was a hint of something else in his voice. Something that sounded almost like fear. "Humor me, Anthea. For once, simply humor me."
The carriage stopped. Gregory moved to the door, still holding her, and descended to the pavement. A footman rushed forward, eyes wide with shock at the sight of them both soaked through.
"Fetch Mrs. Croft," Gregory commanded the footman. "And tell the maids to bring warm clothes and blankets to Miss Croft's room immediately. Have them tend to a fire as well."
"Your Grace, I?—"
"Immediately."
The footman fled. Gregory strode up the steps and through the door without waiting for permission, carrying Anthea into her own home as though he owned it.
Beatrice appeared at the top of the stairs, her expression shifting from confusion to horror to something calculating in rapid succession.
"What on earth is going on here?"
"Miss Croft fell into the lake at the Royal Menagerie," Gregory said curtly, not breaking his stride. "She requires a physician. Now."
"I hardly think you can waltz into my home and issue commands?—"
"Now." The word emerged low, dangerous. "Or I will fetch one myself and leave you to explain to Society why you hesitated to care for your own stepdaughter."
Beatrice's face flushed with anger, but she turned and snapped orders at a hovering maid.
