"What would I even say?" Anthea asked. "Excuse me, Your Grace, but before we marry, I would like to discuss the terms of our arrangement? That sounds absurd."
"It sounds practical," Sybil corrected. "Which is what you both claim to value. Write to him. Request a meeting. Tell him you wish to discuss the marriage before the ceremony."
"And if he refuses?"
"He will not refuse." Cassandra's voice held certainty. "That man jumped into a lake for you. He will agree to a conversation."
Anthea wanted to argue. Wanted to insist that Gregory would find such a request presumptuous or unnecessary. But remembering the way he had looked at her yesterday—the fear in his eyes when she would not open them, the relief when she finally did—she found she could not quite convince herself he would refuse.
"What would I even ask him?" she said quietly.
"Everything," Sybil replied. "What he expects from this marriage. What he needs from you. What you can expect from him. Whether this will remain strictly practical or if there is possibility for more." She paused. "And most importantly—what boundaries you both need in place to feel safe."
Safe. The word resonated in a way Anthea had not expected. She had not felt safe in years. Not since her father died. Not since Maxwell.
But yesterday, wrapped in Gregory's arms as he carried her through London, she had felt something close to it.
"I will talk to him," she said, the decision solidifying even as she spoke. "I will request a meeting. And I will—I will demand we discuss terms before this wedding happens."
"Good." Cassandra sat back, looking satisfied. "And if he proves to be unreasonable?"
"Then I will marry him anyway," Anthea admitted. "Because despite everything—despite the confusion and the uncertainty and the fact that this is happening far too quickly—I do not regret saying yes. I only wish to understand what I have agreed to."
Sybil reached across and squeezed her hand. "That is all any of us can ask for. Understanding. Honesty. A foundation to build upon."
"And if the foundation crumbles?"
"Then you rebuild." Sybil's smile was gentle. "But I do not think it will. The Duke strikes me as a man who, once committed to something, does not waver. He may be gruff and commandingand entirely too accustomed to having his own way, but he is not fickle."
"No," Anthea agreed softly. "He is decidedly not fickle."
After her friends left, Anthea sat at her writing desk and stared at a blank page for a long moment.
She should write to him. Should request a meeting to discuss these terms before the wedding happened. It was the practical thing to do. The sensible thing.
She picked up her pen, dipped it in ink.
Your Grace,
I find I have questions about our impending marriage?—
She stopped. Set down the pen. Stared at the half-formed words.
What if he thought her presumptuous? What if he saw this as her trying to control the arrangement, to make demands before she had any right to do so? He had saved her life, offered marriage to protect her reputation, and now she wanted to dictate terms?
No. She could not send this.
She would wait. Perhaps an opportunity would arise naturally to discuss these matters. Perhaps?—
A knock at the door interrupted her spiraling thoughts.
"Miss Anthea?" A footman entered, carrying a silver salver. "A letter has arrived for you. From the Duke of Everleigh."
Anthea's heart performed an acrobatic leap. She took the letter with hands that were steadier than she felt and dismissed the footman with a nod.
The seal was impressive—the Everleigh crest pressed into deep blue wax. She broke it open and unfolded the heavy paper.
Miss Croft,
