Chapter 21 #2
"I was trying to help you," Anthea said, each word clipped. "That was what we agreed. I help you navigate Society, you provide protection and resources for my sisters. That was our arrangement."
"Our arrangement did not include you undermining me in public," Gregory said coldly.
They stared at each other across the study, the distance between them feeling far greater than the few feet of carpet.
"Fine," Anthea said finally. "If you do not want my help, then you will not have it. Manage your own social affairs. Navigate Society on your own. See how far your brutal honesty takes you."
"Gladly," Gregory said. "And perhaps you could extend me the same courtesy of not interfering in matters you do not understand."
"Matters I do not understand?" Anthea's voice rose again. "I understand Society far better than you do. That is the entire reason you married me."
"I married you because we had an agreement," Gregory said. "Not because I needed a nursemaid to manage my every interaction."
The words hung in the air between them, sharp and cutting.
Anthea felt something crack in her chest. "I see. Then perhaps we should simply keep out of each other's way. You handle your affairs, I will handle mine, and we can avoid any further... misunderstandings."
"Perhaps we should," Gregory agreed.
Anthea turned and walked toward the door, her back straight despite the hurt flooding through her.
"Anthea—" Gregory started.
She did not stop. Did not look back. Simply walked out of the study and climbed the stairs to her chambers, each step feeling heavier than the last.
Behind her, she heard the study door close with a decisive click.
The next morning, Anthea threw herself into her new responsibilities with determined focus.
She would prove she did not need Gregory's help any more than he apparently needed hers.
"Higher. No—left. Your other left, Thomas." Anthea directed the footman arranging flowers in the drawing room, while simultaneously reviewing the seating chart spread across the escritoire.
"You know," Cassandra's voice came from behind her, "most newly married women spend their first weeks in marital bliss, not orchestrating tea parties."
Anthea glanced over her shoulder to find her friend examining the dessert trays with suspicious interest. "And most friends offer to help rather than—Cassandra, are you eating the lemon tarts?"
"Merely quality control." Cassandra popped another into her mouth, utterly unrepentant. "Someone must ensure they meet ducal standards."
"There will be none left for the actual guests at this rate."
"Then it's fortunate I'm not an actual guest, isn't it?" Cassandra moved to the next tray, eyeing the petit fours. "Now, explain to me again why you're doing this? I thought the Duke was meant to help secure matches for your sisters."
"He is busy with his estates," Anthea said, keeping her tone carefully neutral. "And I am perfectly capable of managing this myself. I've secured invitations to Lady Pemberton's musicale next week, the Ashford ball, and—"
A tremendous thump from the hallway interrupted her, followed by breathless laughter.
Both women turned to see Poppy sliding past the open doorway on the banister, her skirts flying, face alight with glee as she landed at the bottom with practiced grace.
"Poppy!" Anthea called, exasperated.
Her sister appeared in the doorway, not the least bit contrite. "I'm here, aren't I? And with ten minutes to spare." She straightened her dress and patted her hair. "Do I look respectable?"
"You look lovely," Anthea said, though she couldn't quite suppress a smile. "But perhaps in future, try using the stairs like a civilized person?"
"Where's the fun in that?" Poppy grinned, then noticed Cassandra. "Oh! I didn't know you were helping today."
"Helping is a generous term for what I'm doing," Cassandra said, reaching for another tart. "Mostly I'm eating your refreshments and providing moral support."
"Perfect. I need both." Poppy moved to the mirror to check her reflection. "I'm terribly nervous. What if they find me dull? What if I say something foolish?"
"You're not dull," Anthea assured her. "You're witty and charming and—Cassandra, stop eating the tarts!"
"You've plenty more in the kitchen." Cassandra licked her fingers delicately. "Though if you're truly concerned about running short, you could always invite fewer eligible bachelors to your little gathering."
"There are only four."
"Four eligible bachelors in one room?" Cassandra's eyes gleamed with mischief. "Why, Lady Anthea, at this rate you'll have your sisters married off before I've even begun looking."
"Perhaps you should begin looking, then," Anthea said pointedly, arranging teacups with perhaps more force than necessary. "Given the number of gentlemen who will be here today, you might find one to your liking."
"Me?" Cassandra laughed. "I'm perfectly content as I am, thank you. Besides, I prefer men with a bit more—"
"More what?" Poppy asked, curious.
"Complexity. Your sister's tea party bachelors are likely perfectly pleasant, but I imagine they're also perfectly boring."
"They are respectable gentlemen," Anthea protested.
"Which is precisely my point." Cassandra stole one more tart. "But don't let my cynicism discourage you, Poppy. I'm sure you'll find them delightful. And if not, at least there are excellent lemon tarts."
"Were excellent lemon tarts," Anthea corrected dryly, eyeing the depleted tray.
A knock at the door announced the first arrival. Anthea drew a steadying breath, smoothing her skirts as Thomas moved to answer.
Mr. Caldwell arrived first—a second son with a respectable income and reasonable prospects. Anthea had danced with him last season and found him pleasant enough, if somewhat dull.
Lord Ashton came next, followed by Mr. Thornton and Sir Edward. All gentlemen she had met before. All men who had shown interest in making connections with eligible young ladies.
Poppy entered the drawing room looking lovely in her sprigged muslin gown, her dark curls arranged becomingly, her eyes bright with nervous excitement.
"Gentlemen," Anthea said warmly, "may I introduce my sister, Miss Poppy Hillington? Poppy, these are Mr. Caldwell, Lord Ashton, Mr. Thornton, and Sir Edward."
The gentlemen bowed. Poppy curtseyed with appropriate grace.
And then... nothing.
Oh, they were polite. Perfectly civil. Made appropriate conversation about the weather and the upcoming season and various innocuous topics.
But there was no warmth. No genuine interest.
"I must say, the weather has been quite pleasant this week," Lord Pemberton remarked to Anthea, even as Poppy sat directly beside him.
"Indeed," Poppy offered brightly. "My sister and I took a lovely walk through—"
"Your Grace," Pemberton interrupted, turning to Anthea, "what is your opinion on the matter? Do you think the fine weather will hold?"
Anthea's smile felt tight. "I believe Miss Poppy was speaking, my lord."
"Oh. Yes. Quite." He nodded politely at Poppy, then immediately turned back to Anthea. "I understand congratulations are in order for your recent marriage."
Across the room, Mr. Hartford engaged Veronica in similar fashion.
"The season promises to be quite exciting," Veronica said softly.
"Mm. Yes." Hartford took a sip of tea, his gaze drifting past her. "Your Grace, I heard the most fascinating discussion at White's the other day about agricultural reform..."
It took Anthea half an hour to realize what was happening.
"Mr. Hartford, my sister Veronica has quite an interest in literature," Anthea interjected desperately. "She has read extensively on—"
"How lovely," he said with a polite smile that didn't reach his eyes. Then back to Anthea: "But as I was saying, Your Grace, about the crop rotation methods..."
They had already formed their opinions. About Poppy, about Veronica, about the entire Croft family.
Years of watching Beatrice manipulate and scheme, of seeing the sisters trotted out each season with increasingly desperate attempts at securing matches—it had created a reputation that preceded them.
And no matter how much Anthea smiled, no matter how she tried to redirect attention to her sisters, the gentlemen remained polite but distant. They were here because refusing a duchess's invitation would be rude. But they had no intention of pursuing anything further.
By the time the tea party ended and the last guest departed, Anthea felt exhausted and defeated.
"They were not interested," Poppy said quietly, once they were alone. "Were they?"
"They were perfectly pleasant—" Anthea started.
"They were polite," Poppy corrected. "Which is not the same as interested. Anthea, I know what it looks like when a gentleman is actually interested versus when he is simply being courteous. Those men were being courteous."
Anthea wanted to argue. Wanted to insist that it simply needed more time, more opportunities, that eventually someone would see past the family reputation to Poppy's genuine appeal.
But she could not lie to her sister.
"I will find others," she said instead. "There are plenty of gentlemen in London. We simply need to expand our search."
But even as she said it, she knew the problem.
The gentlemen she knew—the ones who would accept her invitations—had already formed opinions.
And changing those opinions would require more than simply being a duchess now.
It would require... connections. Influence.
The kind of social weight that came from being fully accepted by the ton, not merely tolerated because of her new title.
The kind of weight that Gregory might have been able to provide, if she had not pushed him away.
These men are idiots, Gregory thought as he settled into his chair at White's.
He had arranged to meet with several lords to discuss investment opportunities in agricultural improvements. Sensible, practical improvements that would benefit not just his own estates but could be implemented across multiple properties.
Unfortunately, sense seemed to be in short supply among the peerage.
Gregory laid out his proposals clearly. Explained the methods he had observed during his military service. Provided specific calculations about potential yield increases and return on investment.
The lords listened politely.
And then Lord Pemberton smiled—the kind of smile that never reached the eyes. "Fascinating proposals, Your Grace. Quite... innovative. Though I confess, I am curious about the source of these ideas. You say you observed these methods during your military service?"
"Yes," Gregory said. "In France and Belgium. The farmers there—"
"Ah yes." Lord Pemberton's smile widened into something sharp and unpleasant. "Foreign methods. How very... progressive of you." He pronounced the last word as though it tasted foul.
"The methods work," Gregory said flatly. "The nationality of their origin is irrelevant."
"Of course, of course." Lord Pemberton exchanged a glance with Sir Richard. "Though one does wonder if English soil might respond differently to these foreign techniques."
Gregory bit back his immediate response—that soil was soil, that agricultural science did not particularly care about national borders—and forced himself to remain calm.
"I have already begun implementing these methods on my own estates," he said instead. "The results have been promising."
"Promising," Lord Weatherby's father repeated. "How... optimistic. Though I suppose optimism is to be expected from a man who married so... unconventionally."
There it was. The real issue.
"My marriage has nothing to do with agricultural investments," Gregory said, his voice going cold.
"Does it not?" Lord Weatherby raised an eyebrow. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but when a duke marries a young woman from a family known for... ambitious matchmaking schemes... well. It does make one wonder about judgment. In all areas."
Gregory's hands clenched beneath the table. "My wife is the daughter of a gentleman and has been properly educated in Society's expectations. Her family's reputation has nothing to do with her character or capabilities."
"Of course not," Lord Pemberton said smoothly.
"We meant no offense. Simply that... well.
Unconventional choices in one's personal life do sometimes reflect unconventional thinking in business matters.
And when we are discussing significant investments, we prefer to work with men whose judgment is. .. proven."
Translation: they would not invest because Gregory had married Anthea. Because her family's reputation—Beatrice's schemes, the desperation of previous seasons—had tainted her by association. And by marrying her, Gregory had tainted himself.
No amount of practical demonstration would change their minds. They had already decided he was unreliable. Unpredictable. Not one of them.
And his marriage—which was supposed to make him more legitimate, more acceptable to Society—had apparently made everything worse.
"I see," Gregory said quietly. "Then I will not waste any more of your time, gentlemen."
He rose, gave the briefest of nods, and walked out of White's with his proposals clutched in one hand and frustration burning in his chest.
He had failed. Not because his ideas were flawed, but because Society had already judged him and found him wanting.
And the worst part was knowing that if he had Anthea beside him—if she had been there to smooth the conversation, to redirect when things became tense, to use her knowledge of these men to navigate their prejudices—it might have gone differently.
But he had sent her away. Told her he did not need her help.
And now he was paying the price.
That evening, they passed each other in the hallway. Anthea was dressed for a dinner engagement. Gregory had just returned from his failed meeting at White's.
They stopped, facing each other in the dim corridor.
"Did you—" Anthea started.
"No," Gregory said shortly. "The investment meetings did not go as planned."
"I see." Her expression was carefully neutral. "I am sorry to hear that."
"And your tea party with Poppy?"
Anthea's jaw tightened slightly. "Also unsuccessful."
They stood in silence for a moment, neither quite able to meet the other's eyes.
"I should go," Anthea said finally. "I will be late for dinner."
"Of course," Gregory said.
She moved past him, her skirts brushing against his legs in the narrow hallway.
Gregory watched her go, then continued to his study where he poured himself a drink he did not want and stared at investment proposals no one would fund.
They had both failed.
Separately.
And neither was willing to admit that perhaps they needed each other after all.