Damn him for noticing.
"My pulse is perfectly steady," she lied.
"Liar." But he said it fondly, without judgment. "You can lie to yourself, Anthea, but you cannot lie to me. I see you. All of you. Even the parts you try to hide."
Despite every effort to remain composed, heat flooded her cheeks.
She hated that he could do this—strip away her defenses with nothing more than words and that infuriating gentle smile.
"You are impossible," she muttered.
"You say that a great deal," Gregory observed. "Almost as often as you blush when I compliment you."
"I do not—" She stopped, furious with herself for rising to the bait. "Your idea about the gentleman's club. Will you consider it or not?"
"Of course I will consider it," he said. "Your idea is excellent. In fact, I shall apply to White's tomorrow." He paused, his expression turning wicked. "Though I confess, I find myself far more interested in the benefits of a happy wife than in business connections."
"Gregory—"
"Yes, my almost-wife?" He was openly grinning now, clearly delighting in her reaction.
She refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much he affected her. "I should have let you flounder in Society without my help."
"Perhaps," he agreed. "But then you would not have the pleasure of my company. And I think you would miss it."
"I would not miss it at all," she said, but the words lacked conviction.
He leaned close enough that his breath ghosted across her ear. "Six days, Anthea. And then we shall see exactly how much you enjoy my company."
Despite herself—despite every wall she had built—her breath hitched.
Gregory pulled back, satisfaction written across his features.
The carriage rolled to a stop outside their townhouse. Poppy stirred, blinking sleepily. Veronica straightened, wiping quickly at her eyes.
Gregory climbed out first, then turned to help each of them down. But when Anthea placed her hand in his, he held on just a moment longer than necessary, his thumb brushing across her knuckles.
"Six days," he murmured, too low for her sisters to hear. "And then, my dear future wife, we shall see who is more impossible—you or me."
He released her hand and offered his arm to escort her inside, the perfect gentleman.
Anthea's heart was racing, her skin tingling where he had touched her, and she was furious with herself for letting him get to her.
But beneath the fury was something else. Something warm and terrifying and altogether too close to hope.
Because Gregory was dangerous in a way Maxwell had never been.
Maxwell had lied.
Gregory told the truth.
And when he looked at her with heat and promise and something that looked dangerously close to affection—when he said he wanted her, that he had chosen her, that he saw all of her?—
He meant every word.
Which terrified her more than any lie ever could.
Chapter Nineteen
