"I do not—" Anthea stopped, realizing she was, in fact, biting her lower lip at that exact moment.
Gregory's smile widened. "You are doing it right now."
Despite herself—despite everything—Anthea felt heat flood her cheeks.
"You are being ridiculous again," she said, but the words lacked conviction.
"Perhaps." Gregory reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture achingly familiar. "But you are not telling me to stop."
He was right. She was not telling him to stop.
She should. Should step back, should remind him of their agreement, should maintain the distance they had established. But standing here in the quiet kitchen with only candlelight between them, Anthea found she did not want distance anymore.
She wanted this. Wanted him looking at her like this. Wanted the warmth in his eyes, the gentle teasing in his voice, the way he made her feel both flustered and cherished all at once.
"I should go to bed," she said, but made no move to leave.
"You should," Gregory agreed, but his hand lingered near her face, his thumb brushing her cheekbone.
They stood like that for a long moment, close enough that Anthea could feel the warmth radiating from him. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his green eyes. Close enough that if she just leaned forward slightly?—
"Good night, Anthea," Gregory said softly.
"Good night," she whispered.
She forced herself to step back. To turn away. To walk toward the door on legs that felt suddenly unsteady.
At the threshold, she paused and looked back.
Gregory was watching her, his expression unreadable in the flickering candlelight.
"We will make this work," Anthea said. Not a question. A statement.
"Yes," Gregory said. "We will."
Anthea climbed the stairs to her chambers, her mind spinning with plans for the house party. Guest lists to compile. Menus to arrange. A thousand details that would require her full attention.
But beneath all of that was something else. Something warm and hopeful and altogether too dangerous.
The memory of Gregory's hand against her cheek. His voice saying her name like it mattered. The way he had looked at her as though she were something precious rather than simply useful.
She had not chastised him for flirting. Had not pushed him away or reminded him of their arrangement. Had simply stood there, feeling shy and uncertain and far too aware of how much she wanted him to touch her again.
This was dangerous.
They had a plan now. A way forward. And she needed to focus on that—on securing her sisters' futures, on helping Gregory succeed, on fulfilling her duties as his duchess.
She could not afford to be distracted by her growing feelings for her husband.
Even if those feelings were becoming harder to ignore with every passing day.
Even if the thought of him on the other side of the connecting door made her heart race and her resolve weaken.
Even if some foolish part of her had started to hope that perhaps their marriage of convenience might become something more.
She climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling, her mind refusing to settle.
In two weeks, they would host the house party.
