Chapter 2
Chapter Two
"And tell me, Your Grace, how are you finding London Society thus far?"
Gregory Briarson, Duke of Everleigh, resisted the urge to inform Lord Pemberton precisely how he was finding London Society. Insufferable. Artificial. And populated entirely by peacocks who have never done an honest day's work in their privileged lives.
"Most illuminating, my lord," he said, his voice carefully neutral.
The circle of gentlemen surrounding him tittered. Gregory's jaw tightened fractionally. In the army, when men wished to insult you, they did so plainly. Here, every word seemed to carry three additional interpretations, none of which he could decipher.
"The Duke has only recently assumed his title," a lady said from somewhere behind her fan. "We must make allowances for his... adjustment period."
"After all, His Grace comes from rather... rustic circumstances, does he not?" another gentleman added, his soft hands folded over his softer belly.
Rustic. As though his childhood of poverty and violence was something quaint and pastoral rather than brutal and desperate.
"I spent the last decade in His Majesty's service," Gregory said, steel entering his voice. "I would hardly characterize military campaigns as rustic."
Lord Pemberton's smile turned sharp. "Your military career is most impressive, Your Grace. Most... vigorous."
The word vigorous somehow sounded like an insult.
"Though one does wonder," Lady Thornbury continued, "whether military discipline translates effectively to the requirements of the ton."
"I find the skills remarkably similar," Gregory said coolly. "Both require identifying one's enemies and determining the swiftest path to victory."
A ripple of uncomfortable laughter followed. Good. Let them understand he was not some fool to be mocked.
"I am certain His Grace shall adapt admirably," a woman's voice said smoothly.
Gregory turned to find a handsome woman in her middle years regarding him with calculating eyes.
Something about her expression reminded him of officers he had known—the ones who smiled whilst planning your destruction.
"After all, we must welcome our newest Duke with open arms. Must we not, Lady Thornbury? "
"But of course, Mrs. Croft," Lady Thornbury agreed, though her fan fluttered with evident skepticism.
Mrs. Croft moved closer, her tone dripping with false sympathy.
"You must forgive us, Your Grace. We are simply concerned for your comfort.
Society can be so overwhelming for those unaccustomed to its demands.
The expectations, the protocols..." She shared a knowing look with Lady Thornbury.
"So very different from the... simplicity of military life. "
When Lady Thornbury made a particularly cutting remark about "provincial manners," Gregory noticed Mrs. Croft hide a slight smile behind her gloved hand, nodding in agreement even as she maintained her expression of concern.
"Though I am certain," Mrs. Croft continued sweetly, "that with proper guidance from those who understand these matters, Your Grace will eventually find his footing. One must have patience with those still learning."
Gregory's jaw tightened. The woman was ostensibly defending him whilst simultaneously confirming every insult the others had leveled.
"Tell me, Your Grace," Mrs. Croft said, her smile widening, "have you given any thought to securing the succession? A duke without an heir is in such a precarious position."
Several ladies exchanged meaningful glances. Gregory felt a familiar tension coil in his shoulders—the same tension that preceded battle.
"Mrs. Croft has two lovely daughters," Lord Pemberton offered. "Both of marriageable age."
"How fortunate for Mrs. Croft," Gregory said flatly. "Though I make my own decisions regarding marriage. I always have."
Mrs. Croft's smile thinned slightly, though she maintained her saccharine tone. "How very... independent of you, Your Grace. Though one does hope you will seek counsel from those more experienced in such delicate matters."
"Perhaps the Duke has arrived too recently to consider matrimony," a new voice interjected. Gregory turned to find a gentleman approximately his own age with an air of genuine amusement. "Give the man time to catch his breath before you marry him off, Pemberton."
"Lord Ashworth," Pemberton said with noticeably less warmth.
"Jonathan Fitzwilliam, Viscount Ashworth," the man said, bowing to Gregory. "I thought you might appreciate rescue from the matrimonial firing squad."
Gregory felt something in his chest ease slightly. "Your timing is impeccable, my lord."
"Military training," Ashworth said. "I served briefly with the 52nd before my father's death required my return."
A fellow soldier. Gregory reassessed the man before him, noting the straight bearing, the watchful eyes. "The 52nd Light Infantry. You saw action on the Peninsula?"
"Some," Ashworth admitted. "Nothing compared to your service, I'm certain. They say you earned your majority through merit rather than purchase."
"They say correctly."
Ashworth's smile widened. "Then you are precisely the sort of man these soft-handed fools cannot comprehend."
Before Gregory could respond, a nasal voice interrupted. "Your Grace, Lord Fenton at your service. I could not help but overhear your discussion."
Gregory turned to find a portly gentleman with thinning hair and an expression of barely concealed disdain.
"I must say, Your Grace, your enthusiasm for military matters is quite.
.. refreshing." The word refreshing somehow managed to sound like an insult.
"Though I wonder if perhaps you might benefit from guidance.
The Everleigh properties are vast and complex.
Not the sort of thing a man of your... background. .. might easily comprehend."
Background. Another pretty word for common birth.
Gregory set down his glass with deliberate care. When he spoke, his voice carried the authority of a man who had commanded soldiers in battle.
"I comprehend quite well, Lord Fenton. I have read every ledger, surveyed every property, and spoken with every steward. I know precisely what state my uncle left things in."
"Yes, but knowing and understanding are quite different—"
"I earned my rank through merit, Lord Fenton.
Through strategy, discipline, and the willingness to make difficult decisions.
I led men into combat and brought them home alive.
" He took a single step toward Fenton, who suddenly looked far less confident.
"Do you truly believe that managing an estate is beyond my capabilities? "
"I merely meant—"
"I know precisely what you meant," Gregory said, his voice cold enough to freeze the Thames. "You meant that a man born to a governess has no business calling himself a duke. That I am an imposter in your world."
"Your Grace, I assure you—"
"You need not assure me of anything. I am the Duke of Everleigh.
The title is mine by law and by blood. And I will fulfill my responsibilities to my tenants regardless of what you or anyone else believes I am capable of.
" He paused, letting the words sink in. "If you wish to question my competence, do so plainly.
I respect honesty, even when it is unflattering.
But if you choose to hide your insults behind false courtesy, you will find I have very little patience for such games. "
The silence that followed was absolute. Fenton's face flushed crimson.
"Well said, Your Grace," Ashworth murmured.
Gregory nodded curtly. He had made his point. He had also made an enemy.
So be it, he thought. Better an honest enemy than a false friend.
"Gentlemen," he said, "if you will excuse me, I find I require a moment of privacy."
"The library is two doors down on the left," Ashworth said quietly.
Gregory nodded his thanks and made his escape, with as much grace as he could muster, ignoring the whispers that followed his departure. He could feel their eyes on his back, could hear the resumption of gossip the moment he was beyond immediate earshot.
Let them talk, he thought grimly as he navigated through the crush of bodies toward the corridor. Let them laugh and whisper and mock. I did not come to London to win their approval.
He had come because his tenants were suffering. Because his uncle, the previous Duke, had neglected the estate so thoroughly that families were living in homes with collapsing roofs and children were going hungry while the Duke spent a fortune on racehorses and expensive wines.
Gregory had seen that ledger. Had read every damning entry. Had felt rage so pure and cold it scared him.
He would not be like his uncle. He would not be like his father either, selfish, cruel, caring only for his own wants and pleasures. He would be better. He had to be better.
Even if it meant enduring the mockery of people who would never understand what it meant to truly suffer.
The corridor was blessedly empty and mercifully quiet after the cacophony of the ballroom.
Gregory drew a deep breath, trying to settle the familiar anger that Fenton had stirred.
He had worked so hard to control his temper, to keep the violence he was capable of buried deep where it could harm no one.
But men like Fenton tested that control. Made him remember his father's sneering face, his father's cutting words about worth and station and knowing one's place.
You are not your father, he reminded himself firmly. You did not lose control. You merely stated truth.
He started down the corridor toward the library, his footsteps echoing on the polished floors.
Ahead of him, a lady was walking in the opposite direction, her posture straight and graceful.
Gregory could see only her back, the elegant line of her spine, the dark hair arranged in an intricate coiffure, the deep blue of her gown.
And then the scent reached him.
It was subtle at first, carried on the air as she passed—something floral but not overwhelmingly so.
Jasmine, perhaps, with undertones of something warmer.
Vanilla, maybe, or bergamot. The combination was unexpectedly pleasant, refreshing after the cloying perfumes that had assaulted his senses all evening.
The lady disappeared around a corner, but the scent lingered.
Gregory found himself pausing mid-step, drawing a deeper breath almost without conscious thought. There was something about that particular combination of fragrances that eased the tension in his shoulders, that quieted the angry thoughts churning through his mind.
It was... nice. Simply nice, in a way that nothing else about this evening had been.
He stood there for a moment longer, somewhat bemused by his own reaction. He had never been particularly affected by perfumes or scents. But this one had been different somehow. Distracting in the best possible way.
Shaking his head at his own foolishness, Gregory continued toward the library. The scent faded as he walked, but something of its effect remained, a slight easing of his mood, a fractional decrease in the tightness of his jaw.
The library, when he finally found it, was everything he had hoped for.
Dark wood, leather-bound volumes, the smell of paper and ink rather than perfume and pretension.
Gregory closed the door behind him and leaned against it, releasing a breath as his shoulders relaxed without his conscious direction.
He moved deeper into the room, his fingers trailing along the spines of books as he walked. The fire in the grate cast dancing shadows across the walls.
Leadership. Authority. Resources. These things he understood. These things he had learned in the army. But this world of double meanings and careful insults, of fans that spoke a language he did not know—this was foreign territory, and he was navigating it blind.
He had accepted every invitation sent to him, determined to establish his presence in Society. To secure the connections and influence necessary to properly manage his estates and protect his people.
But perhaps he had underestimated the difficulty of the campaign.
Gregory pulled a book from the shelf at random and settled into a leather chair near the fire. The words blurred before his eyes. He was not truly reading; he was simply breathing, simply existing in a space where he was not being watched and judged and found wanting.
"You are not good enough," his father's voice echoed from memory. "You will never be good enough."
Gregory's hands tightened on the book. His father had been wrong about many things. His father was dead, had been dead for fourteen years, and Gregory would not let a ghost determine his future.
He had watched that man fall. Had heard the terrible crack of his skull against the stone floor. The locals had called it an accident, had seen the bruises on his mother's arms and known the truth of what kind of man his father had been.
But Gregory knew the rage that had filled him in that moment. The desire to make it stop.
And he knew, with cold certainty, that he could never allow himself to lose control like that again. Could never allow himself to feel too much, to want too much, to need too much.
Which meant marriage—true marriage, the kind built on affection and regard—was impossible. He would not risk becoming his father.
But he needed a wife. Someone who could navigate this world he did not understand. Someone who could translate the language of fans and teach him the steps to this elaborate dance.
A marriage of convenience, then. Practical. Businesslike. Safe.
He just needed to find a woman who would accept such terms.