Time to go home and continue the careful campaign of wearing down his future wife's defenses.
After all, he had always been excellent at strategy.
And Anthea Croft was a challenge worth winning.
Chapter Twenty
The church smelled of roses and beeswax candles.
Anthea stood at the altar in her ivory silk gown, the Belgian lace at her shoulders catching the morning light that streamed through the stained glass windows. Her hands trembled slightly, clutching the small bouquet Veronica had pressed into her fingers that morning.
She was getting married.
Actually, truly getting married.
Six days ago, this had seemed like a practical solution to an impossible problem. A way to protect her sisters. A marriage of convenience that would give them both what they needed without the messy complications of emotion.
But now, standing here with half of London Society watching, she found herself searching Gregory's face for some sign—any sign—that this meant something more to him than simple obligation.
He stood beside her in his formal attire, looking every inch the Duke. Tall, imposing, his expression as unreadable as carved stone. His jaw was set, his posture military-straight, his hands steady as he took the ring from his groomsman.
She tried to catch his eye, but he was looking past her, focused on the priest.
"The stained glass is rather beautiful," she whispered, desperate to break through his cold distance. "Don't you think?"
"Mmm," Gregory responded, not looking at her.
Cold. Distant. Impassive.
As though this were merely another duty to discharge, no different from reviewing his estate accounts or attending Parliament.
The priest's voice echoed through the chapel: "Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud..."
Anthea felt something twist painfully in her chest. Love. The priest spoke of love as though it were something that could be summoned by ceremony, bound by vows, created through ritual.
"Marriage," the priest continued, "is a sacred bond between man and woman, ordained by God, built upon devotion and mutual respect?—"
But there was no devotion here. No love. Only duty and practicality and a business arrangement dressed up in white silk and empty promises.
This was what she had wanted, was it not? A marriage without sentiment. An arrangement that protected both of them from vulnerability.
So why did Gregory's indifference suddenly feel like rejection?
"Do you, Gregory Nathaniel Blackwood, Duke of Everleigh, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
"I do." His voice was steady, emotionless. The same tone he probably used to accept delivery of a horse or approve a menu.
The priest turned to her. "And do you, Anthea Caroline Croft, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
Her throat felt tight. "I do."
Gregory slid the ring onto her finger—a simple gold band that felt heavier than it should. His fingers were warm against hers, but the touch was perfunctory. Efficient. Over in seconds.
"I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride."
Gregory turned to face her fully for the first time since the ceremony began.
She looked up at him, searching his expression for warmth, affection, anything that suggested this was more than duty.
