Relief flooded through Anthea so powerfully it made her dizzy. Of course. That explained everything. Poppy had simply been running late—probably fussing over her appearance, as she tended to do—and had arrived just in time to slip into the back of the church unnoticed.
"Thank you for telling me," Anthea said. "I had been worried."
The footman bowed and disappeared back into the crowd.
Anthea felt the knot of anxiety that had been building in her chest finally loosen. Poppy was fine. She had witnessed her sister's wedding. Everything was as it should be.
She returned her attention to the celebration, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing servant and allowing herself to simply enjoy the moment. Veronica looked radiant, Mr. Hartley could not stop smiling, and the guests seemed to have collectively decided that Beatrice's objection was nothing more than the spiteful tantrum of a bitter woman.
Everything had turned out perfectly.
Well. Almost perfectly.
Because she still needed to find Gregory. Needed to hear him explain what he had meant by that speech. Needed to know if he truly believed love was worth protecting and cherishing, or if he had simply been performing for the crowd.
She spotted him across the room, deep in conversation with several gentlemen who were probably discussing investments or politics or some other suitably masculine topic. He looked handsome in his formal attire, his cravat perfectly tied, his expression animated as he spoke.
Her husband.
The man she loved.
The man who might—possibly—love her back.
As though sensing her attention, Gregory glanced up. Their eyes met across the crowded room, and something electric passed between them. He excused himself from the conversation and began making his way toward her, moving through the crowd with purposeful determination.
"Dance with me," he said when he reached her side, not bothering with preamble.
"Now?" Anthea asked. "The first dance should be for Veronica and Mr. Hartley?—"
"They have already danced," Gregory interrupted. "Which means we are free to join them. Unless you would prefer to continue making small talk with Lady Pemberton about the weather?"
Anthea glanced over her shoulder to where Lady Pemberton was indeed bearing down on them with the determined expression of someone preparing to extract gossip.
"Dancing sounds wonderful," Anthea said quickly.
Gregory grinned and offered his arm. They moved to the makeshift dance floor in the main drawing room, where several other couples were already waltzing to the musicians' elegant playing.
Gregory pulled her into the proper position, one hand at her waist, the other clasping hers. They began to move, and Anthea was reminded—as she always was when they danced—that despite his general disdain for Society's rules, Gregory was an excellent dancer.
"You are staring at me," Gregory observed after a moment.
"I am thinking," Anthea corrected.
"About?"
"Your speech," Anthea said. "In the church. About love being rare and precious."
Gregory's expression turned serious. "What about it?"
"Did you mean it?" The question emerged before she could stop it. "Or were you simply saying what needed to be said to salvage the ceremony?"
Gregory was quiet for a long moment, guiding them through a turn with easy competence.
"What do you think?" he asked finally.
"I think—" Anthea stopped, choosing her words carefully. "I think you are capable of saying things for strategic purposes. Of performing when necessary. And I think that speech was very effective in legitimizing the marriage and making everyone forget Beatrice's objection."
"That is all true," Gregory agreed. "But it does not answer my question. What do you think I meant?"
