Nothing.
His eyes were shuttered, his face a mask of polite civility.
He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers—a brief, chaste kiss that ended almost before it began. The kind of kiss one might give a maiden aunt at a family gathering.
Not the kiss of a man who wanted his wife.
The congregation applauded politely.
Anthea forced herself to smile as Gregory offered his arm and led her back down the aisle. Through the crowd of guests. Out into the bright morning sunshine where a carriage waited to take them to the wedding breakfast.
She was married.
She was a Duchess.
And her husband looked at her as though she were a stranger whose name he could not quite recall.
The banquet was held at Gregory's—their—townhouse in Mayfair. An enormous affair with too many courses and too many guests, all eager to congratulate the Duke on his marriage and assess his new Duchess.
Anthea smiled until her face ached. She made conversation with dowagers who asked intrusive questions about when she planned to provide an heir. Accepted congratulations from people who had never spoken to her before and likely never would again.
And through it all, Gregory remained distant.
Oh, he was perfectly proper. Attentive enough for appearances. He ensured her wine glass stayed full, introduced her to important guests, played the role of devoted husband with the precision of a military exercise.
But there was no warmth in it. No genuine connection.
He was performing. Following the script. Doing what was expected.
And Anthea felt the distance between them like a physical thing—a chasm that seemed to widen with every passing moment.
Had she imagined the heat between them? The flirtation, the teasing, the moments when he had looked at her as though she were something precious?
Or had that simply been part of the courtship game, now abandoned since the goal had been achieved?
She pushed the thoughts aside. She had more important matters to attend to.
Like ensuring her sisters' futures.
She spotted Beatrice across the room, holding court with a group of matrons. Her stepmother looked resplendent in dark blue silk, her expression smug as she accepted congratulations on her stepdaughter's advantageous match.
Anthea's hands clenched in her lap.
Time to remind Beatrice exactly who held the power now.
She rose from her seat at the head table, smoothing her skirts. Gregory glanced at her, one brow rising in silent question.
"I need to speak with my stepmother," she said quietly.
Something moved in his expression—concern, perhaps, or understanding—but it was gone before she could identify it. He simply nodded.
"I will be here if you need me," he said.
The words should have been comforting. Instead, they felt like another polite formality.
Anthea made her way through the crowd, her new title clearing a path more effectively than any announcement. People moved aside, bowing and curtseying, their expressions ranging from genuine warmth to calculating interest.
She had power now. Real power.
