Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Gregory settled into the carriage seat, watching London's streets roll past the window with unseeing eyes. His mind was elsewhere—on a lawn, on a game, on the feel of a woman's waist beneath his hands.
Ridiculous. He was a duke with an estate to restore, tenants depending on him, and a reputation to establish.
He had no business dwelling on the way Miss Anthea Croft had felt when he lifted her into the air.
Light as a feather despite her layers of skirts and stays.
Warm and solid and real in a way that had made something in his chest tighten uncomfortably.
The way she had looked at him in that moment, her hands gripping his shoulders, her face so close he could count the flecks of gold in her blue eyes—
"Your Grace, we are approaching the residence."
Gregory blinked, pulled from his thoughts by his driver's voice. "Thank you, Peters."
He straightened in his seat, adjusting his cravat with deliberate precision. This was a business call. A practical matter to be addressed with the same efficiency he had once used to plan military campaigns.
Miss Croft required a husband who could provide for her sisters. He required a wife who understood Society. The arrangement benefited both parties.
That she also happened to be the most infuriating, sharp-tongued, delightfully competitive woman he had ever met was irrelevant.
As was the fact that her rare smile had nearly undone him yesterday.
The carriage stopped, and Gregory descended to the pavement. The Croft residence looked the same as it had when he had called before—respectable but not grand, well-maintained but clearly not wealthy.
His first visit had been illuminating in more ways than one.
Miss Croft's refusal to accept his proposal immediately had surprised him.
Her willingness to expose her stepmother's schemes had impressed him.
And Mrs. Croft's constant interruptions and thinly veiled criticisms of her stepdaughter had made him want to throttle the woman.
Today, however, he came prepared. He had rehearsed his arguments, considered her likely objections, and planned his responses with military precision. Miss Croft was practical above all else. He simply needed to present the arrangement in terms that made sense to that practical mind.
And perhaps, if he were fortunate, she might look at him again the way she had yesterday when they won the game. Like he was something more than a brutish soldier playing at being a duke.
Gregory climbed the steps and knocked. The same elderly butler answered, his expression carefully neutral.
"Your Grace. How may I assist you?"
"I have come to call upon Miss Anthea Croft," Gregory said, handing over his card. "I believe she is expecting me."
The butler's expression flickered—so briefly Gregory might have imagined it. "I shall inquire, Your Grace. Please wait here."
Gregory stepped into the entrance hall, clasping his hands behind his back. Something felt off. The butler had hesitated. And Miss Croft knew he intended to call today—he had mentioned it yesterday before they parted.
Unless she had decided to avoid him entirely.
The thought made his jaw tighten. No. She would not do that. Miss Croft was many things—stubborn, argumentative, far too clever for her own good—but she was not a coward. If she wished to refuse him, she would do so to his face.
"Your Grace."
Gregory turned to find Mrs. Beatrice Croft sweeping into the hall, her expression perfectly composed. Too composed. He recognized that look from his military days—the careful blankness of someone about to deliver bad news.
"Mrs. Croft," he said, inclining his head with the bare minimum of courtesy.
"What a pleasant surprise," she said, though her tone suggested it was anything but. "I was not aware you intended to call today."
A lie. He could see it in the set of her shoulders, the way her hands clasped just a bit too tightly together. "I sent word of my intention to call upon Miss Croft."
"Ah." Mrs. Croft's smile was thin. "I fear there has been some miscommunication. Anthea is not at home."
Not at home. The polite fiction Society used when someone did not wish to receive a caller. Gregory's hands clenched behind his back.
"I see. When do you expect her to return?"
"I could not say with certainty, Your Grace.
She left quite early this morning on some charitable errand or another.
" Mrs. Croft moved closer, her expression shifting to something that might have been sympathy if it did not feel so calculating.
"However, since you have taken the trouble to call, perhaps one of my daughters might provide some company?
I am certain either would be delighted to join you for a promenade, if that was your intention. "
There it was. Gregory kept his expression neutral through sheer force of will, though anger simmered beneath the surface. Did she truly believe him such a fool? Or was she simply so accustomed to manipulating people that she no longer bothered with subtlety?
"Poppy has been quite eager to become better acquainted with you," Mrs. Croft continued, her smile brightening.
"She is a lively conversationalist, very spirited.
Or perhaps Veronica would suit better? She is more reserved, of course, but possesses such a gentle disposition. Either would make an excellent—"
"Mrs. Croft," Gregory interrupted, his voice dropping to the tone that had once silenced entire regiments. "I came to call upon Miss Anthea Croft. Not Miss Poppy. Not Miss Veronica. Miss Anthea Croft specifically."
The woman's smile faltered. "Yes, but as she is not available—"
"Is she truly not at home?" Gregory asked, letting every ounce of skepticism show in his voice. "Or have you simply told your butler to say so?"
Mrs. Croft drew herself up with obvious affront. "Your Grace, I assure you—"
"You assured me last time I called that you wanted only the best for your stepdaughter," Gregory said flatly. "And then spent the entirety of my visit undermining her at every opportunity. So you will forgive me if I find your assurances less than convincing."
Color rose in Mrs. Croft's cheeks. "I was merely being honest about Anthea's limitations—"
"Miss Croft has no limitations that concern me," Gregory said, his patience exhausted. "She is intelligent, honest, and entirely capable of managing the responsibilities of a Duchess. The fact that you cannot see that says far more about your judgment than hers."
"How dare you—"
"I dare because I am a duke, and you are attempting to manipulate me as though I were some green boy fresh from the country.
" Gregory took a step closer, using his height to his advantage.
"Let me be perfectly clear, Mrs. Croft. I have no interest in your daughters.
I have no interest in your schemes or your opinions on Miss Anthea Croft's suitability.
I came here with a specific purpose, and I will not be deterred by your interference. "
Mrs. Croft stared at him, clearly stunned into silence. Gregory seized the opportunity.
"I will send a letter directly to Miss Croft," he said. "And I trust you will ensure it reaches her without delay or interference. Am I understood?"
"I—yes, Your Grace, but—"
"Good." Gregory turned toward the door, then paused and looked back.
"And Mrs. Croft? Should I discover that you have prevented my correspondence from reaching Miss Croft, or that you have continued to interfere in matters that do not concern you, I will make it my personal mission to ensure that every hostess in London knows precisely how you treat your stepdaughter.
?Your social standing may survive many things, but I assure you, it will not survive my displeasure. "
He did not wait for her response. The butler who had been standing frozen by the door quickly opened it, and Gregory descended the steps to his waiting carriage.
Only when he was safely inside did he allow himself to unclench his fists. His hands were shaking slightly with rage. He had faced enemy fire with more composure than he had just shown in that entrance hall.
But the thought of that manipulative woman standing between him and Miss Croft, the thought of her undermining and belittling the one person in London who had spoken to him with genuine honesty—
No. He would not allow it.
"Peters," he called to his driver. "Take me home. I have a letter to write."
As the carriage lurched into motion, Gregory pulled out his pocket notebook. He would write to Miss Croft immediately. And this time, he would ensure the letter reached her by sending it with one of his own footmen, with instructions to place it directly into her hands.
?Mrs. Croft had made a grave error. She had underestimated both his determination and his resources.
And she was about to discover that he had not risen through the military ranks by accepting defeat easily.
If Miss Anthea Croft required rescuing from her poisonous stepmother, then by God, he would rescue her. Even if she had not asked for it. Even if she might be furious with him for interfering.
Because yesterday, when he had held her in his arms after their victory, when she had looked at him with those impossibly blue eyes, he had felt something he had not felt in years.
Hope.
And he would not surrender that easily.