As we are to be married in one week, there are practical matters requiring your attention. I have arranged for the wedding breakfast menu to be finalized and would appreciate your opinion on the selections.
I will send my carriage for you tomorrow at two o'clock. We will sample the proposed dishes and discuss any adjustments you deem necessary.
Everleigh
Anthea read the letter twice, then a third time.
He wanted her to come to his home. Alone. To sample wedding breakfast foods.
It was perfectly practical. Entirely reasonable. The bride should have input on her own wedding breakfast.
And yet.
She thought of Sybil's words.Establish terms. Discuss boundaries. Set expectations.
Perhaps this was her opportunity. Not a letter requesting an audience like some supplicant, but a meeting he had already arranged. She could raise these questions naturally, in the context of discussing their wedding.
She could ask him what he expected from this marriage. What boundaries they both needed. What this arrangement would truly entail.
If she was brave enough.
Anthea folded the letter carefully and pressed it against her chest.
One week until her wedding.
And, she would go to his home. Would sample foods and discuss menus and somehow—somehow—find the courage to ask for what she needed.
Understanding. Honesty. A foundation that might—possibly, perhaps, against all odds—support something more than mere convenience.
If she was brave enough to demand it.
Chapter Sixteen
Gregory's townhouse was far grander than Anthea had expected. She had known, intellectually, that he was a duke with considerable wealth. But knowing and seeing were different things entirely.
The entrance hall alone could have swallowed her family's drawing room whole. Marble floors gleamed beneath her feet. A chandelier dripped crystal above her head. Portraits of stern-faced ancestors lined the walls, their painted eyes seeming to follow her progress as a butler led her deeper into the house.
"His Grace is waiting in the dining room, Miss Croft."
The butler opened a door, and Anthea stepped into a room that managed to be both impressive and oddly intimate. The long mahogany table could have seated twenty, but only two places had been set—one at the head, one to its right. Covered dishes lined the sideboard, and the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread made her stomach clench with unexpected hunger.
Gregory stood near the window, his back to her. He had removed his coat, and his shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows in a way that suggested he had been here for some time. When he turned, his expression was unreadable.
"Miss Croft. You are prompt."
"You sent a carriage at the appointed time. It would have been rather difficult to be late."
His mouth twitched. "Fair enough. Please, sit."
He pulled out the chair to the right of the head of the table—close enough for conversation but not so close as to be improper. Anthea sat, hyperaware of the way his hand lingered briefly on the back of her chair before he moved to his own seat.
"I have arranged for several courses," he said, gesturing to the sideboard. "The cook has prepared variations on each dish. You will tell me which you prefer, and we will finalize the menu accordingly."
"That seems... elaborate for my opinion."
"It is your wedding breakfast." His gaze was steady. "You should have a say in what is served."
A footman appeared, setting a plate before each of them. Some sort of fish in a delicate sauce, garnished with herbs Anthea could not name.
