She thought about the responsibility she had just taken on. Two sisters depending on her to secure their futures. A duchy to manage. A role to play that she had no idea how to fulfil.
And she thought about the nights ahead. Years of nights, perhaps, with Gregory on the other side of that door, so close but forever distant.
Was this what her life would be?
A marriage of convenience that left her feeling more alone than she had ever been before?
She had been so certain she could do this. Could maintain her emotional distance. Could have a marriage without vulnerability.
But lying here in her wedding dress, in rooms that felt too large and too empty, she realized she had been lying to herself.
She did not want distance anymore.
She wanted her husband.
Wanted him to look at her the way he had before the wedding. Wanted him to tease her, challenge her, make her blush and stutter despite her best efforts to remain composed.
Wanted him to keep the promises he had made—that she would not be able to resist him, that he would spend their lives proving himself trustworthy, that he saw all of her and wanted her anyway.
But he had been cold today. Impassive. As though none of it had mattered.
As though she did not matter.
Anthea lay back against the pillows, still fully dressed, and stared at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, she would need to be strong. Would need to start planning for her sisters, fulfilling her new duties, proving that she could do everything she had promised.
Tomorrow, she would be the perfect Duchess.
But tonight, in the privacy of her chambers, she allowed herself to acknowledge the truth she had been avoiding.
She wanted him.
Wanted his attention, his warmth, his affection.
But she had no idea if he felt anything for her at all.
Chapter Twenty-One
"Imaintain that French lace is vastly superior to Belgian," Lady Pemberton's daughter declared with the conviction of someone who had never actually seen lace being made. "The craftsmanship is simply unparalleled."
"Nonsense," countered Miss Hartwell, a young woman with more opinions than sense. "Belgian lace has far more delicate patterns. French lace is overwrought."
"Overwrought?" Lady Caroline's voice rose half an octave. "I shall have you know that the Duchess of Devonshire wore French lace at her presentation, and it was universally admired."
"The Duchess of Devonshire," Miss Hartwell said with a sniff, "has the advantage of being a duchess. She could wear burlap and it would be declared fashionable."
Anthea bit back a smile. She had been married to the Duke of Everleigh for precisely three days, and already she wasdiscovering that being a duchess meant enduring pointless debates about lace at dinner parties.
"Perhaps both have merit depending on the application," Anthea suggested diplomatically. "French lace for formal occasions, Belgian for more delicate work?"
"Oh, but Your Grace," Lady Caroline leaned forward eagerly, "surely you must have a preference? I understand you ordered several new gowns for the season. Which lace did you select?"
"A combination, actually. My modiste recommended?—"
"There, you see!" Miss Hartwell interrupted triumphantly. "Even Her Grace acknowledges that one cannot simply choose one over the other. It is a matter of?—"
"Of personal taste," Lady Caroline insisted. "Which brings me back to my original point about French superiority?—"
