"Miss Croft will be leaving shortly," he said calmly. "Please ensure her carriage is ready."
Anthea stood against the wall, her heart still racing, her skin still tingling where he had touched her.
He had agreed not to pursue her.
So why did she feel as though she had just lost the most important battle of her life?
Chapter Eighteen
"Istill do not understand why you insisted on accompanying us."
Anthea sat stiffly in the carriage beside Gregory, acutely aware of how close he was sitting. His thigh pressed against hers through layers of fabric, and every bump in the road sent her shoulder brushing against his arm.
"A gentleman should accompany his future wife to important appointments," Gregory said, his tone perfectly reasonable. "Besides, I wished to see you in your wedding dress."
"You are not supposed to see it before the wedding," Veronica said from the opposite seat, though her voice lacked its usual warmth. "It is bad luck."
"I am not superstitious," Gregory replied, then turned to Anthea with a smile that she refused to acknowledge as charming. "AndI confess I am curious to see what sort of gown my beautiful bride has chosen."
Anthea kept her expression neutral. "I have not chosen anything yet. That is the entire point of today's appointment. And you are wasting your flattery—I am not some simpering debutante who swoons at empty compliments."
"Good," Gregory said, utterly unrepentant. "I have never been fond of simpering. And my compliments are not empty—you are beautiful. Surely you own a mirror?"
"I own a mirror and a functioning brain," Anthea said coolly. "Both tell me you are being absurd."
"Then perhaps you should trust my judgment instead," he suggested. "I have excellent taste."
"In military strategy, perhaps. Not in women's fashion."
"On the contrary." He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "I have impeccable taste in women. I chose you, did I not?"
Anthea turned to face him fully, one brow raised. "You did not choose me. We were caught in a compromising position by my stepmother and her gossips."
You had little choice in the matter,she thought, but kept the words locked behind her teeth. Her sisters did not need to hear the sordid details repeated.
Gregory's expression did not change. "I could have left after we were discovered. Could have denied everything. Could have claimed the gossips were mistaken. I am a duke—Society would have believed whatever story I chose to tell."
She had not considered that. It had seemed so obvious—a duke caught in a compromising position would have no choice but to offer marriage. His honor would demand it.
"Then why did you not?" The question emerged before she could stop it.
"Because I wanted you from the moment you refused to be intimidated by me in that music room." His gaze held hers, steady and sure. "Everything since has merely been an exercise in patience."
Poppy made a strangled sound that might have been a suppressed laugh.
Anthea tore her gaze away from Gregory's, forcing down the flutter in her chest. He was being ridiculous. Theatrical. This was a practical arrangement, nothing more, and she would not let him muddle her thinking with pretty words.
"How romantic," she said, her voice dry. "Do you rehearse these speeches, or do they simply flow naturally from an overabundance of arrogance?"
Gregory's grin widened. "Natural talent, I assure you. Though I appreciate you noticing."
"I was not complimenting you."
"Were you not?" He settled back against the seat, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "You should try it sometime. I promise not to let it go to my head."
"Your head could not possibly accommodate anything more," Anthea muttered.
The carriage rolled to a stop outside Madame Laurent's shop, mercifully ending the conversation before Gregory could respond.
