"Which room is hers?" Gregory asked, already heading for the stairs.
Beatrice pointed wordlessly down the corridor, her jaw tight with fury.
Anthea finally found her voice. "You are carrying me to my bedroom. That is—that is beyond improper. That is scandalous. That is?—"
"Necessary," Gregory finished. He shouldered open a door—her door, she realized—and finally, finally set her down.
On her bed.
She looked up at him, this man who had jumped into a lake without hesitation, who had refused to put her down despite every rule of propriety, who was now standing in her bedroom dripping water onto her carpet.
"I need to fetch your maid," he said, his voice rough. "You need dry clothes. I will wait downstairs until?—"
"Your Grace." Beatrice appeared in the doorway, her expression tight. "The physician has been sent for. I must insist that you leave now."
"I will leave when I am satisfied that Miss Croft is being properly cared for," Gregory said without looking at her. "Not before."
"You cannot simply?—"
"I can. I am. Do not test me on this, Mrs. Croft."
Beatrice's mouth snapped shut, though fury radiated from every line of her body. She turned and vanished down the corridor, her footsteps sharp with anger.
Gregory looked back at Anthea. "Your maid will be here shortly to help you change. I will wait downstairs."
"You do not need to?—"
"I do." His jaw was set, implacable. "I will not leave until I know you are well."
He turned and strode from the room before she could argue further.
Chapter Fourteen
The physician arrived within the half hour—a competent-looking man with kind eyes who examined Anthea thoroughly and pronounced her fortunate. No lasting damage. Rest and warmth would see her recovered.
"Though I must say," he added as he packed his bag, "falling into a lake in all those layers—you are very fortunate His Grace was there to pull you out. Another minute or two and..."
He did not finish the sentence. Did not need to.
When he left, a maid helped Anthea into a dry nightgown and wrapper, settling her beneath warm blankets. She should sleep. Should rest as the physician ordered.
But she could hear voices downstairs. Gregory's deep rumble, Beatrice's sharp tones. She could not make out words, but the tension was palpable even from here.
She had just closed her eyes when her door opened again.
"Miss Croft should be resting," she heard a maid protest from the hallway.
"This will only take a moment," Gregory's voice replied, brooking no argument.
Anthea sat up as he entered, closing the door behind him. Beatrice appeared a second later, looking scandalized.
"Your Grace, you cannot be alone with her in her bedroom! The impropriety?—"
"Is irrelevant given that we are betrothed," Gregory said calmly.
The room went utterly silent.
"B-Betrothed?" Anthea's voice emerged as barely a whisper.
