Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
"Imaintain that French lace is vastly superior to Belgian," Lady Pemberton's daughter declared with the conviction of someone who had never actually seen lace being made. "The craftsmanship is simply unparalleled."
"Nonsense," countered Miss Hartwell, a young woman with more opinions than sense. "Belgian lace has far more delicate patterns. French lace is overwrought."
"Overwrought?" Lady Caroline's voice rose half an octave. "I shall have you know that the Duchess of Devonshire wore French lace at her presentation, and it was universally admired."
"The Duchess of Devonshire," Miss Hartwell said with a sniff, "has the advantage of being a duchess. She could wear burlap and it would be declared fashionable."
Anthea bit back a smile. She had been married to the Duke of Everleigh for precisely three days, and already she was discovering that being a duchess meant enduring pointless debates about lace at dinner parties.
"Perhaps both have merit depending on the application," Anthea suggested diplomatically. "French lace for formal occasions, Belgian for more delicate work?"
"Oh, but Your Grace," Lady Caroline leaned forward eagerly, "surely you must have a preference? I understand you ordered several new gowns for the season. Which lace did you select?"
"A combination, actually. My modiste recommended—"
"There, you see!" Miss Hartwell interrupted triumphantly. "Even Her Grace acknowledges that one cannot simply choose one over the other. It is a matter of—"
"Of personal taste," Lady Caroline insisted. "Which brings me back to my original point about French superiority—"
"I fail to see how personal taste equates to objective superiority," Miss Hartwell countered. "That is precisely the sort of reasoning that leads to—"
"Ladies," the Dowager Countess of Pemberton's voice cut through the debate from the head of the table, "perhaps we might discuss something other than lace? The gentlemen will think us terribly frivolous."
"Of course, Lady Pemberton," Lady Caroline said, looking chastened. Then, lowering her voice to Anthea: "Though I still maintain I am correct about the French lace."
Anthea nodded politely, but her attention had already begun to drift toward the other end of the table where Gregory sat among several influential lords.
She had been monitoring their conversation from the corner of her eye—a habit formed from years of watching for social missteps that might reflect poorly on her sisters.
"The drainage system on my northern estates has proven remarkably effective," Gregory was saying to Lord Hartwick. "Increased crop yields by nearly thirty percent within two seasons through proper crop rotation."
"Indeed?" Lord Hartwick's tone was politely interested. "I confess my steward handles such matters on my Kent estate. We implemented a four-field system some years ago."
"Your steward handles it?" Gregory's voice carried that blunt edge. "Strange. I would have thought a landowner would want to understand the mechanisms that generate his income, not simply defer to his steward on everything."
Lord Hartwick stiffened. "I beg your pardon?"
"I merely mean that relying entirely on stewards without understanding the principles yourself—it seems rather irresponsible, does it not?"
Her breath caught as Lord Hartwick's expression shifted from polite interest to barely concealed offense, the telltale flush creeping up his neck. Gregory had said something wrong.
She recognized the signs. Gregory's jaw had that stubborn set that meant he was about to dig in rather than retreat. Lord Hartwick had straightened in his chair, his face reddening. The other gentlemen had gone quiet, watching the exchange with the avid attention of men anticipating conflict.
Anthea made a quick decision.
"Excuse me," she murmured to Lady Pemberton's daughter, then rose and moved down the table with what she hoped was casual grace.
"Gentlemen," she said brightly, inserting herself into the conversation with a smile. "I could not help but overhear your discussion of crop rotation. Fascinating topic. Lord Hartwick, I believe your estate in Kent has been quite successful with similar improvements, has it not?"
Lord Hartwick turned to her, his expression still tight but softening slightly at the direct address. "Indeed, Your Grace. We implemented a four-field system five years ago."
"How innovative," Anthea said, then turned to Gregory. "Darling, perhaps Lord Hartwick could provide some insight into the initial challenges? I am certain his experience would be invaluable."
She had intended it as a peace offering. A way to redirect the conversation, smooth over whatever Gregory had said to offend, and allow both men to save face.
Gregory's expression went from stubborn to thunderous.
"I am certain Lord Hartwick's experience is indeed valuable," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "However, I was in the middle of explaining my own approach. Which is based on methods I observed during my military service, not theories from agricultural texts."
The implied criticism—that Lord Hartwick worked from theory while Gregory had practical experience—hung in the air like smoke.
Anthea felt her smile freeze. "Of course. I simply thought—"
"I know what you thought," Gregory interrupted, still in that quiet, dangerous tone. "But I am quite capable of conducting my own conversations without assistance."
The table had gone completely silent now. Everyone watching. Everyone pretending not to watch.
Anthea's cheeks burned. "I was merely—"
"Interfering," Gregory finished. "Now, if you will excuse us, Lord Hartwick and I were discussing business."
It was a dismissal. Clear and unmistakable.
Anthea stood frozen for a heartbeat, humiliation flooding through her. Then she forced another smile, inclined her head, and returned to her seat with as much dignity as she could muster.
The remainder of the dinner passed in excruciating discomfort.
They did not speak during the carriage ride home. Anthea stared out the window at the dark streets, her hands clenched in her lap, while Gregory sat rigid and silent across from her.
The moment they entered the townhouse, Gregory strode toward his study without a word.
"We need to discuss what happened," Anthea said, following him.
"There is nothing to discuss." He did not look at her, already reaching for the brandy decanter.
"You humiliated me in front of everyone," Anthea said, anger finally breaking through the hurt. "I was trying to help you, and you dismissed me like—like some irritating child who had interrupted the adults."
Gregory poured himself a generous measure of brandy. "You were not trying to help me. You were trying to manage me."
"Because you were about to offend Lord Hartwick! I could see it happening—"
"And so you swooped in to rescue me," Gregory said, finally turning to face her. "As though I am some incompetent fool who cannot conduct a simple business conversation without his wife's intervention."
"That is not—" Anthea stopped, forcing herself to take a breath. "I was doing what we agreed. Helping you navigate Society. That was our entire arrangement."
"Our arrangement," Gregory said coldly, "did not include you treating me like an incompetent in front of the very men whose respect I need to secure funding for my estates."
"I was not treating you like an incompetent! I was smoothing over a potential conflict before it became worse!"
"I did not need you to smooth anything over." He took a swallow of brandy. "I was handling the situation."
"By insulting Lord Hartwick's agricultural knowledge?" Anthea's voice rose despite her efforts to remain calm. "By implying his methods were inferior? That was your idea of handling it?"
"I was being honest," Gregory said. "Lord Hartwick's approach is outdated. The four-field system he uses may have worked a decade ago, but there are more efficient methods available now. Methods I learned from men who actually work the land rather than gentlemen who theorize from their libraries."
"And you think insulting him will make him more likely to support your investment proposals?" Anthea asked incredulously. "Gregory, these men have fragile egos. You cannot simply—"
"I will not lie to flatter egos," Gregory interrupted. "I will not pretend inferior methods are adequate simply because acknowledging superior alternatives might offend someone. That is not how I operated in the military, and I will not operate that way now."
"You are not in the military anymore," Anthea said sharply. "You are trying to secure support from men who value courtesy and tact over brutal honesty. Whether you like it or not, that means occasionally softening your approach."
"Softening my approach?" Gregory's laugh was bitter. "You mean lying. Pretending. Playing the same ridiculous games everyone else in this godforsaken city plays."
"Yes," Anthea said. "If that is what it takes to achieve your goals, then yes. That is how Society works."
"Then Society is broken," Gregory said flatly. "And I will not debase myself by—"
"You are being impossibly stubborn," Anthea interrupted. "I know you are uncomfortable with Society's rules. I know they seem arbitrary and foolish. But they exist, and you cannot simply ignore them because you find them inconvenient."
"And you cannot simply swoop in every time you think I am about to make a misstep," Gregory countered. "If I am to establish myself here—if I am to be taken seriously—then I need to do it on my own terms. Not by hiding behind my wife's skirts while she smooths over every rough edge."
The words landed like a slap.
"Hiding behind my skirts?" Anthea's voice came out dangerously quiet. "Is that what you think I was doing? Coddling you? Treating you like a child who needs protection?"
"What else would you call it?" Gregory demanded. "You saw me having a difficult conversation and immediately assumed I needed rescue. As though I am incapable of handling conflict without your intervention."