Chapter Seventeen
Gregory did not answer immediately.
He simply looked at her, his expression unreadable, and Anthea felt the weight of his gaze like a physical thing. She had asked for what she needed—distance, safety, clear boundaries. Surely he would agree. It made sense. It was practical.
It was exactly what he should want from this arrangement.
But as Gregory studied her face—the careful composure, the determination in her eyes, the way she held herself so rigidly as though bracing for rejection—an entirely different vision invaded his thoughts.
Anthea laughing at something he said over breakfast. Not the polite amusement she offered in company, but genuine laughter that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. Anthea curled in the chair across from his desk while he worked through correspondence, her presence a comfortable constantrather than an obligation. Anthea reaching for his hand without thinking, the gesture easy and natural because they had learned each other's rhythms.
The images came unbidden, surprisingly vivid. Her turning to him first when problems arose, trusting him with more than just practical concerns. The two of them discussing household matters not as duchess and duke but as partners who actually cared what the other thought. Quiet evenings where conversation flowed freely because distance had given way to something warmer, something real.
And his estates—God, his estates. Lindenwood standing empty year after year, perfectly maintained but utterly lifeless. What would it look like if Anthea lived there? Not just occupied rooms between social obligations, but truly inhabited the space. She would notice which rooms needed better light, which furniture should be arranged for comfort rather than formality. Would know the servants' names, remember their families, transform cold grandeur into actual warmth.
She would care about his home. Would make it somewhere worth returning to instead of a monument to be managed from a distance.
He wanted that.
Wanted more than social advantage and household management. Wanted more than a wife who performed duties and retreated to her separate life, maintaining careful boundaries that kept anything real from developing.
Wanted Anthea—not the perfectly composed version she presented to Society, but the woman who loved her sisters fiercely, who had opinions about lemon sauce when given permission to voice them, who looked at him sometimes with cautious hope as though she wanted to trust but did not quite dare.
He wanted the possibility of more. Of something neither of them had planned but both of them might want if they were brave enough to reach for it.
And she was asking him to promise he would never try.
"No," he said finally.
Anthea blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"No." Gregory leaned back in his chair, his posture deceptively relaxed. "I will not agree to those terms."
"But—" She stopped, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. "You said this was a practical arrangement. That we both understood what we were entering into. How is maintaining separate lives not practical?"
"Because you are attempting to dictate terms of my marriage to me as though you have any authority to do so." His voice remained calm, almost casual, but there was steel beneath it. "I will not be managed, Anthea. Not by you, not by anyone."
Heat flooded her cheeks—part embarrassment, part anger. "I am not trying to manage you. I am simply requesting?—"
"You are attempting to establish rules that suit your comfort without considering what I might want from this arrangement." He tilted his head slightly. "Did it occur to you to ask what I expected from our marriage before announcing what you would and would not provide?"
"You said you needed help with Society. I agreed to that."
"And you assume that is all I want? A wife who performs her social duties and then retreats to her separate life?" Something flickered in his expression. "That is rather insulting, actually."
Anthea's hands clenched in her lap. "Then what do you want?"
"I want—" He stopped, seemed to consider his words carefully. Then he rose, moving to the door. "Leave us. And do not return until I summon you."
The footman who had been standing discreetly near the sideboard bowed and disappeared. The door closed with a quiet click, leaving them utterly alone.
Gregory turned back to face her, and something in his expression had shifted. Become more focused. More intent.
"Stand up," he said.
"What?"
"Stand up, Anthea. If we are going to discuss the terms of our marriage, I prefer not to have this conversation across a table."
