They slipped into the small sitting room off the main hall—the same room where Anthea had confronted Beatrice about sponsoring her sisters.
"What is it?" Anthea asked, though she suspected she already knew from the way Veronica's eyes were shining.
"Mr. Hartley proposed," Veronica said in a rush. "This afternoon, during our walk. He asked Gregory's blessing first—actually sought him out this morning before breakfast—and Gregory approved, and then he asked me, and I said yes!"
Joy flooded through Anthea so powerfully it made her dizzy. "Oh, Veronica!"
She pulled her sister into a fierce embrace, tears pricking her eyes.
"Are you certain?" she asked, pulling back to study Veronica's face. "You are not feeling pressured, or?—"
"I am certain," Veronica said firmly. "Anthea, he is kind. He listens when I speak. He wants to hear my opinions about art and literature and everything. He does not expect me to be quiet or demure or anything other than myself. And he makes me laugh." Her smile was radiant. "I love him. Truly."
"Then I am so happy for you," Anthea said, wiping at her eyes. "So incredibly happy."
They returned to the drawing room together, and Veronica made her announcement to the assembled guests. The response was warm—genuine congratulations, toasts to the happy couple, Mr. Hartley looking slightly overwhelmed but pleased.
Gregory caught Anthea's eye across the room and smiled. This—all of this—had worked exactly as they had planned. Better, even.
Her sisters were happy. His investments were secured. And somehow, impossibly, they had found each other in the process.
Later, after the guests had retired and the house had grown quiet, Gregory found her in the library.
"A successful house party," he said, settling into the chair beside hers.
"Very successful," Anthea agreed.
"Your sister seems genuinely happy."
"She is." Anthea smiled. "Mr. Hartley is a good man. He will treat her well."
"He will," Gregory confirmed. "I made certain of that before giving my blessing. He understands that if he hurts her, he will have to answer to both of us."
"Did you threaten him?" Anthea asked, amused.
"I merely made clear the consequences of making my sister-in-law unhappy," Gregory said innocently. "It was very polite. Barely threatening at all."
Anthea laughed. "You are impossible."
"Yes," Gregory agreed. "But I am your impossible now. You said so yourself."
"I said no such thing," Anthea protested.
"You said I was yours," Gregory countered. "Which, by the laws of logic, means you are mine as well."
"That is not how logic works."
"Is it not?" Gregory reached out and caught her hand, pulling her from her chair into his lap. "Then perhaps you should explain itto me. I am but a simple soldier, after all. These complex matters confuse me."
"You are many things," Anthea said, settling against his chest. "But simple is not one of them."
And when Anthea finally returned to her own chambers, she lay in bed with a smile on her face and hope blooming warm in her chest.
Whatever came next, they would face it together.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Royal Horticultural Society’s Spring flower show was considered one of the season's premier events—an opportunity for London's elite to admire exotic blooms while conducting the real business of gossip and social maneuvering.
