She should refuse. She should insist on maintaining the barrier the table provided. Instead, she found herself rising, her legs unsteady beneath her.
Gregory moved closer. Not touching her, but near enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.
"Let me be very clear about what I will and will not agree to," he said, his voice low. "I will not visit your bed uninvited. I will not demand you give me anything you are not ready to give. Your body, your affection, your trust—those are yours to offer or withhold as you see fit."
Relief flooded through her. "Then you agree?—"
"I did not say I agreed." He took another step closer, and Anthea found herself backing up until her spine hit the wall. "I said I will not demand those things. But I cannot promise that you will not offer them freely."
"I will not." The words emerged with more confidence than she felt. "I have no intention of—of complicating our arrangement with?—"
"With what?" He placed one hand on the wall beside her head, leaning in slightly. "Physical intimacy? Attraction? The natural progression of two people living in close proximity?"
"With emotional entanglement," Anthea corrected, proud that her voice remained steady. "I will fulfill my duties as your duchess. I will manage your household, attend events, help you navigate Society. But that is where my obligations end."
"Obligations." He said the word as though tasting it. "Tell me, Anthea, what duties do you believe a duchess has?"
"I just explained?—"
"No. You explained what you are willing to give. I am asking what you think I expect." His free hand came up, and he caught a loose strand of her hair between his fingers, studying it as though it fascinated him. "Be specific."
Anthea's breath hitched. "I will—I will manage the household staff. Oversee menus and schedules. Host dinners when required."
"Go on." He was still playing with that strand of hair, his attention apparently focused on it rather than her face. But she could feel the intensity of his awareness, the way he tracked every breath she took.
"I will accompany you to balls. Introduce you to influential people. Provide guidance on social customs and expectations."
"And?" His fingers left her hair, trailing down to the simple gold necklace at her throat. He traced the chain with one finger, the touch feather-light.
"And—" Her voice had gone breathless. "And I will present a united front in public. Act as your partner. Your—your duchess."
"Very thorough." His finger hooked under the chain, lifting the small pendant slightly before letting it fall back against her skin. "But you have left something out."
"I do not—what have I left out?"
"You will be my wife, Anthea. Not just my duchess." His gaze lifted to hers, and the heat in his eyes made her stomach clench. "Do you understand the distinction?"
"We have already agreed?—"
"We have agreed that I will not force anything. That your person is your own to offer or withhold." His hand left her necklace, rising to cup her jaw. His thumb brushed across her cheekbone. "But we have not agreed that I will pretend not to want more. That I will ignore the way you react when I touch you. That I will maintain some polite fiction of indifference when we both know attraction exists between us."
"Attraction does not mean?—"
"It means something," he interrupted quietly. "Perhaps not everything. Perhaps not what either of us expected. But something."
Anthea's heart was racing. She should push him away. Should insist he give her space. But his hand on her face was gentle despite the intensity in his eyes, and she found she could not quite bring herself to move.
"You are trying to manipulate me," she said, but the accusation lacked conviction.
"I am being honest with you." His thumb continued its slow stroke across her cheek. "I am telling you that I will not pursue you, will not demand anything you are unwilling to give, but I also will not lie and claim I am satisfied with a marriage that exists only in name. I want more from you than performance of duties, Anthea. And I suspect—" His voice dropped lower. "I suspect you want more as well, even if you are too afraid to admit it."
"I am not afraid."
"No?" He smiled, and it was devastating. "Then why is your pulse racing? Why are you looking at me as though you cannot decide whether to slap me or?—"
"Or what?" The challenge emerged before she could stop it.
His smile widened. "Why do you not tell me?"
