The modiste's establishment smelled of lavender and expensive silk. Madame Laurent herself—a tiny woman with silver-streaked dark hair and sharp eyes—took one look at Gregory and immediately began speaking in rapid French.
"Your Grace, what an honor! And with your lovely bride-to-be, how wonderful! Please, come, sit, we shall make her the most beautiful duchess in all of England!"
Gregory responded in flawless French, and Anthea watched as he charmed the modiste with the same ease he probably used to command soldiers.
"You speak French," she observed when they finally switched back to English.
"I spent two years in France during the war," Gregory replied. "One picks up the language when one's life depends on it."
"How practical," Anthea said. "Perhaps it will prove useful when you wish to flirt with continental debutantes after we are married."
"Why would I flirt with continental debutantes when I have you?" Gregory asked, his tone suggesting genuine confusion at the very idea.
"Because our marriage is a practical arrangement," Anthea said firmly, though she kept her voice low enough that Madame Laurent would not overhear. "Not a love match. You will have your freedom, and I will have mine."
Something flickered in Gregory's expression—something that looked almost like challenge. "Is that what you believe?"
"That is what I know."
"Hmm." He did not argue further, but the small smile playing at his lips suggested he disagreed entirely.
Madame Laurent clapped her hands together. "Come, come! Let us see what we have for the future Duchess of Everleigh!"
The next hour passed in a blur of fabric samples and measurements. Anthea stood on a raised platform while Madame Laurent draped various silks and satins over her frame, all while maintaining a running commentary in a mixture of English and French.
Gregory sat in a velvet chair near the window, watching with unnerving focus.
"The ivory silk," he said when Madame Laurent held up two nearly identical swatches. "With the Belgian lace."
"You have a good eye, Your Grace," Madame Laurent approved. "And for the bodice? Perhaps something fitted, to show off Miss Croft's lovely figure?"
"Definitely fitted," Gregory agreed, his gaze traveling over Anthea in a way that should have been inappropriate but somehow managed to remain just barely acceptable.
Anthea met his eyes directly. "I am standing right here. Perhaps I should have some say in my own wedding dress?"
"Of course," Gregory said, his expression perfectly innocent. "What would you prefer?"
"Something simple. Elegant. Nothing too elaborate."
"Boring," Gregory pronounced without hesitation.
"Practical," Anthea corrected.
"Cowardly," he countered, and there was challenge in his voice now. "You are about to become a duchess, Anthea. Why are you so determined to hide?"
The question struck too close to home, and she felt her spine stiffen.
"I am not hiding. I simply do not require excessive ornamentation to prove my worth."
"No," Gregory agreed, rising from his chair and moving closer. He stopped at the edge of the platform, looking up at her. "You do not require anything to prove your worth. Which is precisely why you should wear whatever you wish, rather than choosing the plainest option simply because it feels safer."
He was too perceptive by half.
"Perhaps I genuinely prefer simplicity," she said coolly.
"Perhaps," he allowed. "Or perhaps you spent years being told you were not good enough, and now you default to making yourself invisible rather than risk being criticized again."
Anthea's breath caught. How did he?—
