Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Gregory stood at the window of what had been his uncle's study—his study now, he reminded himself—and watched the sun rise over the grounds of Everleigh.
The estate stretched before him in the grey morning light: acres of parkland, tenant farms in the distance, the ornamental gardens closer to the house that his uncle had apparently spent a fortune maintaining whilst allowing the tenants' cottages to crumble.
The ledgers were still spread across the massive mahogany desk behind him.
He had spent most of the night reviewing them again, trying to make sense of expenditures that defied all logic.
Three thousand pounds for a pair of matched greys.
Five hundred pounds for a single dinner party.
Two thousand pounds for renovations to the London townhouse whilst the roof of the east tenant cottages leaked so badly that families had to sleep in their kitchens.
Unconscionable, Gregory thought grimly. Absolutely unconscionable.
"Your Grace?"
Gregory turned to find Hendricks, his butler, another inheritance from his uncle standing in the doorway. The man was approximately sixty years old, with perfect posture and an expression of perpetual disapproval that Gregory suspected had been perfected over decades of service to a negligent Duke.
"Yes, Hendricks?"
"Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace, but Mrs. Dawson wishes to know if you will be breakfasting in the dining room or if you prefer a tray in the study.
" The butler's tone suggested that taking breakfast in the study was somehow barbaric, but Gregory had learned in his two weeks of residence that Hendricks considered most of his preferences barbaric.
"The study will suffice," Gregory said. "And please inform Mrs. Dawson that she need not prepare a full breakfast. Toast and coffee will be adequate."
Hendricks's expression, if possible, grew even more disapproving. "Toast and coffee, Your Grace?"
"I am perfectly capable of surviving on simple fare, Hendricks. I spent a decade in the army doing precisely that."
"As you say, Your Grace." The butler bowed and withdrew, radiating silent judgment.
Gregory suppressed a sigh and returned his attention to the window.
Everything about this life still felt foreign and uncomfortable.
The servants who bowed and scraped. The massive house with more rooms than any reasonable person could possibly need.
The complicated social expectations that seemed to govern every waking moment.
He had been a soldier. A commander of men, yes, but still fundamentally a soldier. He understood strategy and discipline, logistics and leadership. He knew how to assess a situation, identify the objective, and execute a plan to achieve it.
But he did not know why one needed three different types of forks at dinner. Did not understand why calling hours had such specific restrictions. Did not comprehend why everyone spoke in riddles and innuendo rather than simply saying what they meant.
Except for one person.
Miss Anthea Croft.
Gregory's jaw tightened as his mind returned, inevitably, to the previous evening. To the music room at Lady Harrington's ball. To a woman with sharp blue eyes and sharper words who had accused him of being a lunatic to his face.
He had compromised Miss Anthea Croft. Thoroughly and publicly. Which meant, by every rule of honor and propriety that governed this world, he owed her an offer of marriage.
Duty, he reminded himself firmly. This is a matter of duty, not desire.
Though he could not quite ignore the fact that his heart had beaten faster when he stood close to her.
That her scent—jasmine and vanilla, damn it all—had affected him in ways he still did not fully understand.
That when she had looked at him with those fierce blue eyes, something in his chest had tightened inexplicably.
He needed a wife who understood this world he was trying to navigate. Miss Croft, for all her sharp edges and evident distrust of men, fit those requirements perfectly.
She knew Society. She spoke directly. She was not afraid of him, a quality he was beginning to realize was remarkably rare among the Quality.
And if she also happened to be beautiful and intelligent and utterly unlike any woman he had ever met... well. That was merely an added benefit. Not a reason. Certainly not a factor in his decision.
You are lying to yourself, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Lord Ashworth observed in his mind. But by all means, continue.
Gregory scowled at the window and his own reflection in the glass.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. "Enter," he called.
Hendricks reappeared with a silver tray bearing toast, coffee, and Gregory noted with resignation, a full array of breakfast accompaniments he had specifically said he did not require.
"Mrs. Dawson felt you should have options, Your Grace," Hendricks said, setting the tray on the desk with meticulous care.
Gregory looked at the spread with resignation. Eggs, kippers, toast with three types of preserves, cold ham, fresh fruit. Enough food for three men.
"Mrs. Dawson is determined to fatten me up like a Christmas goose," he muttered.
"Mrs. Dawson wishes to ensure Your Grace maintains his strength," Hendricks replied without a hint of humor.
Gregory bit back a sigh. In the army, he had eaten whatever was available, often cold and always simple. Now he had servants who seemed personally offended if he did not consume a banquet at every meal.
"Tell Mrs. Dawson her concern is noted," Gregory said diplomatically.
"Will there be anything else, Your Grace?"
"Yes, actually." Gregory straightened his shoulders, drawing on the command presence that had served him so well in the army. "Have the carriage prepared. I shall be calling upon the Croft household this morning."
If Hendricks was surprised by this announcement, his expression did not betray it. "Very good, Your Grace. Shall I send word ahead of your arrival?"
"No." Gregory had learned enough about Society to know that sending advance notice would give Miss Croft, and more importantly, her stepmother, time to prepare, to strategize, to erect defenses.
Better to arrive unannounced during calling hours and handle the matter directly.
"I will call upon them during the appropriate hours. That should suffice."
"As you wish, Your Grace." Hendricks bowed and departed.
Gregory forced himself to eat the toast, though he tasted nothing. His mind was already moving ahead to the confrontation to come. Miss Croft would likely refuse him initially. Her words from the previous evening had been quite clear on the subject.
I have no interest in marriage, Your Grace. To you or to anyone else.
But circumstances had changed. They had been caught together. Her reputation would suffer if he did not offer, and suffer even more if she refused.
Surely she would see the logic of accepting. Surely her practical nature would override whatever personal objections she harbored.
And if some part of him hoped she would accept for reasons beyond mere practicality... well. That was a fairy tale, and he had buried fairy tales in the mud of Waterloo alongside better men than himself. The battlefield had cured him of hoping for things simply because he wanted them.
Gregory finished his coffee and rose from the desk, his decision made. He would call upon Miss Croft. He would make his offer. And he would accept nothing less than her agreement to become his Duchess.
After all, he had faced enemy soldiers and artillery fire. How difficult could one sharp-tongued spinster possibly be?