Gregory looked at her, his expression unreadable. "Yes. Do you have any objections to the matter?"
Her mind was spinning. Betrothed. He was announcing their betrothal as though it were already decided, as though she had agreed, as though?—
"I—no," she heard herself say. "No objections."
"Good." He moved closer to the bed, his gaze never leaving hers. "The wedding will be in one week. I will have the special license ready by then. Be ready."
"One week?" Beatrice's voice rose with outrage. "That is completely?—"
"One week," Gregory repeated, finally turning to face her. "And you will ensure that Miss Croft and her sisters have everything they require for the ceremony. I will cover all expenses, naturally."
"But—"
"No buts." His voice dropped to something that might have been dangerous. "You will cooperate, Mrs. Croft. Am I understood?"
Beatrice's face drained of color. She opened her mouth, closed it, then turned and swept from the room without another word.
Gregory looked back at Anthea. She was staring at him with wide eyes, her mind still trying to grasp what had just happened.
"One week," she repeated numbly.
"Yes." He moved closer, and something in his expression softened fractionally. "You need time to recover. To prepare. But not too much time, or the scandal will overtake us both. A hasty wedding will give Society something to gossip about, but it will also force them to accept the marriage as legitimate."
"You have this all planned out."
"I spent the carriage ride considering various options. This is the most practical solution." His hand reached out, hesitated, then brushed a strand of damp hair from her face. "You should rest now. We can discuss details tomorrow."
"Your Grace?—"
"Rest, Anthea." His voice had gone gentle. "That is an order."
She rolled her eyes. "You cannot order me to rest."
"I just did." But his mouth curved slightly. "One week. Be ready."
He turned and left before she could formulate a response, the door clicking shut behind him with quiet finality.
Anthea lay back against her pillows, her heart racing.
She was getting married.
In one week.
To a man who had saved her life, carried her through London without caring about scandal, and then announced their betrothal as though it were as inevitable as sunrise.
A man who would have done it for anyone.
She pressed her hands to her face and tried very hard not to think about how much she wanted that last part not to be true.
Downstairs, Gregory accepted his coat from a footman and stepped out into the late afternoon air. His clothes were still damp, clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He should go home. Change. Attempt to salvage what remained of the day.
Instead, he stood on the pavement and tried to slow his racing heart.
One week.
In one week, Anthea Croft would become his wife. His duchess. His responsibility in every way that mattered.
This was practical. Necessary. The scandal from today's rescue made marriage inevitable, and he was simply ensuring it happened on his terms rather than Society's.
