Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
“Blast it!”
The ledger hit the mahogany desk with a sound that would take the most staid butler aback.
Gregory glared at the numbers, willing them to rearrange themselves into something less damning, something that did not mean doom for all of them if care wasn’t taken.
They did not oblige, of course, this wasn’t a magic show.
Instead, the neat columns of his uncle's spending mocked him from the page: three hundred pounds for a pair of matched grays.
Five hundred for cases of French brandy that could not possibly have been consumed by one man, no matter how devoted to his cups.
Two thousand—two bloody thousand—on refurbishing the London townhouse whilst tenant cottages collapsed around their occupants' ears.
What in the world had his uncle been doing?!
He scrubbed a hand across his face; the rasp of stubble was too loud in the silent study.
Three days he had been poring over these accounts.
Three days of discovering that the dukedom he had inherited was not merely troubled, but gutted from within by a man who had viewed his title as license for indulgence rather than duty.
If only he could smack some sense into the man and—
"Your Grace?"
Gregory's head snapped up. His butler —Hendricks, the man had introduced himself, though Gregory suspected he would never grow accustomed to being addressed by anything other than his rank—stood in the doorway with his usual impeccable posture.
"What is it?" He nodded stiffly.
"A report from Mr. Whitmore, the estate steward. He wished me to deliver it directly."
Gregory held out his hand, though dread settled heavy in his gut. Nothing good had come in the post these past days. "Give it."
The moment Hendricks withdrew, Gregory broke the seal. His eyes tracked across the page with increasing fury.
Cottage roof collapsed in east field. Tenant family of seven now residing with relations. Cannot make repairs without funds...
Miller reports wheel damaged beyond use. Production halted...
Three families behind on rent. They claim...
Gregory did not finish reading that last line.
He knew precisely what they claimed. That they could not pay rent when their homes were falling down around them.
That the land was worked but the equipment failing.
That the previous duke had promised repairs, improvements, relief—and delivered nothing but excuses.
And now everything was on him.
He pushed back from the desk so violently his chair scraped against the floor. The study felt too small suddenly, the walls pressing in as if they too were part of this suffocating inheritance.
This was why he had come to London. Not for the balls or the gossip or the tedious rituals of the ton. He had thought—foolishly, perhaps—that establishing himself in Society would grant him access to the resources he needed. That other peers might advise him, might invest in improvements, might…
Might what? Welcome a soldier with common manners into their exclusive circles? Share their wealth with a man they openly mocked?
Gregory stalked to the window overlooking the street. A carriage passed, emblazoned with some earl's crest. The occupants would be heading to yet another meaningless entertainment, spending in one evening what could repair five cottages.
The ton did not trust him. He had seen it at the ball—the sidelong glances, the barely concealed smirks, the way conversations stopped when he approached. They viewed him as an uncouth soldier, a man who knew nothing of managing estates or navigating Society.
Who had only recently entangled himself with a woman who appeared to share the ton's disdain for him.
Gregory's jaw tightened. No—that was unfair. Miss Croft had not disdained him. She had argued with him, certainly. Challenged him. Spoken to him with a frankness he had found both infuriating and oddly... refreshing.
You should not allow yourself to be in situations where scheming is possible.
He could still hear her voice, sharp with accusation and thoroughly lacking the false sweetness other young ladies employed.
She had not simpered or fluttered her lashes.
She had simply told him precisely what she thought of his judgment, then demanded he accept her explanation without equivocation.
Gregory returned to his desk, but his mind would not settle on the estate reports before him.
He needed to speak with Miss Croft—his future wife—before this marriage progressed any further.
He had already caused enough damage through his impulsive proposal and the scandal it created.
He would not add to that harm by allowing misunderstandings or false expectations to fester between them.
They needed to establish clear terms, honest boundaries.
Whatever this marriage became, it would not be built on silence and assumption.
A wife who spoke plainly. Who did not fear him or fawn over his title. Who had the wit to argue with him as an equal and the courage to call him out when he erred.
Gregory found himself remembering the way she had stood in that music room, chin lifted in defiance even as she attempted to explain the situation. The fire in her blue eyes when she refused to be cowed. That stubborn tilt to her jaw that made him want to—
He stopped himself sharply.
No.
He pulled the estate reports toward him with more force than necessary, focusing on the neat columns of figures.
He could not afford such thoughts. Could not allow himself to be distracted by a woman's spirit or the way her voice echoed in his mind long after she had left.
His uncle had let personal indulgences consume him, had prioritized his own pleasures over the people depending on him.
Gregory would not make that mistake.
This arrangement was practical. Necessary. Miss Croft would help him navigate Society, and he would provide security for her and her sisters. A mutually beneficial exchange, nothing more.
The next time he saw her, he would make certain she understood: theirs must remain a marriage on paper only. A convenient arrangement between two practical people who understood what was required of them.
Nothing more.
It could never be "more."
And with Miss Croft's help, he might actually succeed.
If she agreed, of course.
Gregory's mouth twisted. Somehow he suspected that particular battle would prove more challenging than any he had faced on the Peninsula. Miss Anthea Croft did not strike him as a woman who could be commanded into compliance.
Which was, he admitted grudgingly, part of why the prospect of marrying her was not entirely unappealing.
At least she would never bore him.