Gregory's grin widened. "Bloodthirsty. I approve." He stepped back, giving her space. "Sleep well, Anthea. Tomorrow should prove... entertaining."
"Good night, Gregory," she said.
She climbed the stairs to her chambers, acutely aware of his gaze following her. When she glanced back from the landing, he was still watching, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
Anthea closed her door and leaned against it, her hand rising to touch her cheek where his fingers had been.
The house party was barely halfway through. Three more days stretched ahead—archery tomorrow, then the eveningmusicale, followed by more games, more dinners, more carefully orchestrated opportunities for her sisters and Gregory's business prospects.
Three more days of working beside Gregory. Three more days of his increasingly bold flirtations. Three more days of trying to maintain her composure when he looked at her like she was something precious.
She moved to her window, looking out over the darkened grounds. Somewhere below, the guests were settling into their rooms. Poppy was probably still giddy about Henry's attention. Veronica was likely sketching by candlelight, thinking of Mr. Hartley.
And Gregory... Gregory was somewhere in this house, perhaps thinking of her the way she was thinking of him.
Anthea pressed her fingers to her lips, remembering the warmth of his touch.
Whatever was growing between them—this thing that felt increasingly impossible to ignore—would have to wait. She had responsibilities. A house party to manage. Sisters to protect.
But in three days, when the guests departed and life returned to normal...
What then?
Anthea climbed into bed, but sleep felt impossibly far away. Her mind spun with plans for tomorrow's activities, worries about whether everything would continue going so smoothly, and beneath it all, the steady drumbeat of awareness.
Gregory. Gregory. Gregory.
Three more days.
She would think about what came after when the time came.
For now, she needed to focus on ensuring the house party remained a success.
Even if her traitorous heart was beginning to want something else entirely.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The third day of the house party dawned with unseasonably warm weather—perfect for the afternoon walk Anthea had planned around the estate grounds.
The guests dispersed in small groups after luncheon, some heading toward the gardens, others to the lake. Anthea found herself walking with Gregory, slightly apart from the others, following a path that wound through a grove of ancient oaks.
They had not been alone—truly alone—since the night he had demanded she stop diminishing herself. The house party had kept them busy, surrounded by guests, always performing their roles. But now, in the dappled shade with only birdsong for company, the careful distance they had maintained seemed to dissolve.
"You have been avoiding me," Gregory said abruptly.
Anthea's steps faltered. "I have not?—"
"You have," Gregory interrupted, though his tone was not accusatory. Simply observant. "Ever since I came to your chambers. You smile at me during meals, work beside me during games, play the perfect duchess. But you have not been alone with me since."
Because being alone with him was dangerous. Because every time he looked at her with that particular warmth, every time he touched her even casually, she felt her carefully constructed walls crumbling a bit more.
"I have been busy," Anthea said instead. "Managing the house party requires?—"
"Anthea." Gregory caught her hand, stopping her mid-step. "Please. No more pretending. Not with me."
She turned to face him, her heart suddenly racing. They stood in a small clearing, sunlight filtering through the leaves above, completely hidden from the other guests.
"I do not know what you want me to say," she admitted quietly.
