The door opened, and Gregory entered carrying a tea tray. He was already dressed for the day in charcoal gray that made his eyes look almost green, his cravat tied with the slightly imperfect precision that suggested he had done it himself rather than waiting for his valet.
"I thought you might need this," he said, setting the tray on the small table by her window. "You have that look you get when you are planning to survive on willpower alone rather than actual sustenance."
"I do not have a look," Anthea protested, but she was already moving toward the tea with embarrassing eagerness.
"You absolutely have a look," Gregory said, pouring for her with careful attention. "Your jaw gets tight, your shoulders go up near your ears, and you start speaking in lists. 'First the flowers, then the ribbons, then we must ensure the musicians?—'"
"I do not sound like that," Anthea interrupted, accepting the cup he offered.
"You sound exactly like that," Gregory said, utterly unrepentant. He poured his own tea and settled into the chair across from hers. "Which is why I am here to ensure you actually eat breakfast before you attempt to manage an entire wedding on nervous energy alone."
"I am perfectly capable of—" Anthea stopped as he revealed what else he had brought on the tray: toast with jam, sliced fruit, and?—
"Are those chocolate biscuits?" she asked, momentarily derailed.
"They are," Gregory confirmed. "I may have bribed the cook. She seems to think you do not eat enough and was very enthusiastic about helping me ensure you had a proper breakfast."
Anthea felt something warm bloom in her chest. "You bribed the cook to make me chocolate biscuits?"
"I prefer to think of it as strategic resource allocation," Gregory said seriously. "The cook wanted to help. I wanted to ensure my wife did not collapse from exhaustion before the ceremony. We formed a mutually beneficial alliance."
"You are ridiculous," Anthea said, but she was already reaching for a biscuit.
"Perhaps," Gregory agreed. "But I am your ridiculous now. You said so yourself."
They ate in comfortable silence for several minutes. Anthea had not realized how hungry she was until the food was in front of her. She demolished two biscuits and half the toast before she even looked up.
"Better?" Gregory asked, watching her with obvious amusement.
"Much," Anthea admitted. Then, because honesty had become easier with him, "Thank you. For thinking of this. I would have forgotten to eat until halfway through the wedding breakfast."
"I know," Gregory said. "Which is why I have taken it upon myself to ensure you survive your own organizational competence."
"My organizational competence is what makes events like this possible," Anthea pointed out.
"True," Gregory allowed. "But it also makes you forget basic human needs like food and sleep. Someone has to look after you while you are busy looking after everyone else."
The matter-of-fact way he said it—as though caring for her was simply obvious, natural, an assumed part of his duties—made Anthea's throat feel tight.
"You are being sweet," she said, aiming for teasing but landing somewhere closer to genuine.
"I am being practical," Gregory corrected. "A wife who faints from hunger during her sister's wedding would be inconvenient for everyone."
"How romantic," Anthea said dryly.
Gregory's expression softened. "Would you prefer I say that watching you work yourself to exhaustion makes me worry? That I want to take care of you not because it is practical but because the thought of you suffering even minor discomfort makes me unreasonably agitated?"
Anthea set down her teacup very carefully. "That is... slightly more romantic."
"Only slightly?" Gregory rose from his chair and moved to kneel beside hers, taking her hand. "Then perhaps I should add that you are beautiful in the morning, even when you are mentally reviewing flower arrangements. Especially then, actually. You get this little wrinkle between your eyebrows that I find unreasonably adorable."
"I do not have a wrinkle," Anthea said, but she was smiling.
"You are doing it right now," Gregory informed her. He reached up and smoothed his thumb across her forehead. "There. That is the wrinkle. The one that appears when you are thinking very hard about being irritated with me but cannot quite manage it."
"I am not irritated with you," Anthea said. "I am... flustered. There is a difference."
"Good," Gregory said, grinning. "Flustering you has become my favorite pastime."
