"The ivory silk with Belgian lace," Gregory said, turning to Madame Laurent without breaking eye contact with Anthea. "Fitted bodice, full skirt, perhaps a slight train. And—" He reached out, not quite touching but close enough that she could feel the warmth of his hand near hers. "Delicate embroidery here, at the cuffs. Small pearls. Nothing ostentatious, but beautiful. Like her."
Despite her best efforts, heat crept into her cheeks.
Damn him.
"You are being ridiculous again," she said, but her voice lacked its earlier sharpness.
"I am being observant," Gregory corrected. "There is a difference."
Madame Laurent beamed. "Magnifique! Your Grace has excellent taste. Now, for the veil?—"
"No veil," Anthea said quickly.
Gregory's brow rose. "No?"
"I prefer my face visible." She kept her voice steady, revealing nothing of the memory that flashed through her mind—standing in a chapel, face hidden behind lace, believing lies whispered in her ear.
Gregory studied her for a long moment, and she saw understanding dawn in his expression. He did not ask. Did not press. Simply nodded.
"No veil," he agreed quietly. "I want to see your face when you become my wife."
Something in the way he said it—something soft and certain—made her chest tighten.
She looked away, focusing on Madame Laurent. "Shall we continue with the measurements?"
The next several minutes passed in a professional blur of measuring tape and pins. Gregory returned to his chair, but Anthea could feel his gaze on her the entire time.
"You are staring," she said finally, when Madame Laurent stepped away to make notes.
"Yes," Gregory agreed without shame. "You are beautiful. I enjoy looking at you."
"You sound like a lovesick fool."
"Perhaps." His smile widened. "But only for you."
Despite herself—despite every effort to remain unmoved—heat flooded her cheeks again.
She was going to murder him.
"Turn, please, Miss Croft," Madame Laurent instructed, returning with more pins.
Anthea turned, and suddenly found herself facing the mirror.
The woman staring back at her looked like a stranger. The ivory silk draped over her frame transformed her from plain Anthea Croft into something almost... elegant. The fitted bodice emphasized curves she usually hid beneath practical day dresses. The lace at the shoulders softened her sharp edges.
She looked like someone who might actually deserve to be a duchess.
Behind her reflection, she saw Gregory rise from his chair and move closer. He did not touch her—Madame Laurent was still working—but he stood just behind her left shoulder, meeting her eyes in the mirror.
"Stunning," he murmured.
"It is only fabric," she said, fighting to keep her voice steady.
"It is you," he corrected. "The fabric is merely framing what was already there."
This felt eerily familiar. Standing in a shop, being fitted for a wedding dress, a handsome man complimenting her. She had done this before, had she not? The memory hovered just out of reach, leaving only an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu.
She pushed the feeling aside. This was different. It had to be.
