Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Anthea could not sleep.
She had tried. Had lain in her enormous bed for hours, staring at the canopy above her head and replaying the disastrous tea party in her mind.
Poppy's disappointed face. The polite disinterest of the gentlemen.
The growing realization that her new title was not enough to erase years of her family's reputation.
Finally, near midnight, she gave up.
She wrapped a dressing gown over her nightdress and padded downstairs in bare feet, seeking the comfort of warm milk or perhaps something stronger from the kitchen. The house was dark and silent, the servants long since retired to their quarters.
Which was why she nearly jumped out of her skin when she entered the kitchen and found Gregory standing at the stove.
"What are you doing here?" The words came out more sharply than she intended, born of surprise rather than actual anger.
Gregory looked up from whatever he was stirring in a pan. He had removed his coat and cravat, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. In the flickering light from the single candle he had lit, he looked younger. Less like a duke and more like... just a man.
"I could ask you the same question," he said.
"I could not sleep," Anthea admitted, then gestured to the pan. "What are you doing?"
"Making eggs." He returned his attention to the stove. "I was hungry, and I did not wish to wake the servants for something so simple."
"You cook?" Anthea could not quite keep the surprise from her voice.
"I learned in the army." Gregory's mouth quirked in something that might have been amusement. "When one spends years on campaign, one either learns to take care of oneself or goes hungry. I chose the former."
He pulled the pan from the heat and divided the contents between two plates—scrambled eggs, simply prepared but perfectly done. He set one plate on the kitchen table, then gestured to the chair beside it.
"Sit," he said. "You look exhausted."
Anthea should have refused. Should have taken her plate and retreated to her chambers. They were keeping out of each other's way, after all. That had been the agreement.
But she was tired. And the eggs smelled good. And something about seeing Gregory like this—in shirtsleeves, cooking in his own kitchen—made him seem less like the distant, impassive husband from the past few days and more like the man who had teased her about blushing.
She sat.
They ate in silence for several minutes. The eggs were good—perfectly seasoned, cooked just enough to remain soft without being runny.
"Where did you learn to season them like this?" Anthea asked finally.
"France," Gregory said. "A farmer's wife took pity on my hopeless attempts at cooking and taught me a few basics. Said it was a crime against food to let a man continue eating the slop I had been making for myself."
Despite herself, Anthea smiled. "That sounds like a French woman."
"She was terrifying," Gregory agreed. "Barely came up to my shoulder but could reduce grown men to tears with a single look. I learned everything she was willing to teach me just to avoid disappointing her."
The image of Gregory—stern, commanding Gregory—being intimidated by a tiny French farmer's wife was so incongruous that Anthea felt her smile widen.
"I would have liked to meet her," she said.
"She would have liked you," Gregory said, and there was something in his tone that made Anthea look up sharply. But he was focused on his plate, his expression unreadable.
They lapsed back into silence. More comfortable this time.
"The tea party did not go well," Anthea said finally. She had not planned to say it. Had not planned to admit failure. But somehow, in the quiet kitchen with only Gregory for company, the words emerged anyway.
Gregory's jaw tightened slightly. "I gathered as much from your expression earlier."
"They were polite," Anthea continued, staring at her plate. "Perfectly civil. But they had already formed their opinions about Poppy. About my entire family. And nothing I said could change their minds."
"They are fools," Gregory said flatly.
"They are Society," Anthea corrected. "And Society has a long memory. Years of watching Beatrice scheme and manipulate—it created a reputation that follows my sisters no matter where they go."
She set down her fork, no longer hungry. "I thought being a duchess would be enough. That my new position would give me the influence to overcome the past. But it is not working. They still see us as... as social climbers. Desperate. Unworthy."
The admission hurt more than she had expected. But there was also something freeing about saying it aloud. About acknowledging the problem rather than pretending it did not exist.
"The investment meetings also failed," Gregory said after a moment.
Anthea looked up, surprised by the admission.
Gregory was staring at his own plate, his expression tight. "Lord Pemberton, Lord Weatherby's father, Sir Richard Cunningham—they listened to my proposals. And then they made it clear they would not invest because they question my judgment. Because I married you."
The words landed like stones in still water.
"They think my choice of wife reflects poor decision-making in all areas," Gregory continued, his voice carefully controlled. "That marrying into your family makes me unreliable. Unpredictable. Not someone they can trust with their money."
Anthea felt something cold settle in her stomach. "I am sorry. I did not realize—"
"It is not your fault," Gregory interrupted. "It is their prejudice. Their inability to look past reputation to see actual character." He paused. "Though I confess, I wonder if the meeting would have gone differently if you had been there."
Anthea blinked. "What?"
Gregory finally looked at her, and there was something vulnerable in his expression. Something that reminded her of the night they had first discussed their arrangement—when he had been honest about needing her help.
"You know them," he said. "Know how to navigate their prejudices, redirect conversations before they become hostile. If you had been there, you might have been able to smooth things over before they dismissed me entirely."
"I thought you did not want my help," Anthea said quietly. "You said I was managing you. Undermining you."
"I was angry," Gregory admitted. "And humiliated. Having you step in at that dinner party—in front of men whose respect I needed—it made me feel incompetent. As though I could not handle a simple conversation without my wife's intervention."
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"But I was wrong," he continued. "Or at least, partially wrong. You were not trying to undermine me. You were trying to help. And my pride prevented me from accepting that help when I needed it."
The admission hung in the air between them.
"I should not have interfered without discussing it with you first," Anthea said. "I saw you heading toward conflict and simply reacted. But I did not consider how it would make you feel. How it would appear to the other men."
"And I should not have dismissed you so coldly," Gregory said. "Especially not in public."
They sat in silence for a moment, both processing the unexpected apology.
"We are both terrible at this," Anthea said finally.
"At what?"
"At working together." She gestured between them. "We made this arrangement thinking it would be simple. You help me, I help you, we both achieve our goals. But it turns out that actually coordinating our efforts is far more complicated than we anticipated."
"Because we are both stubborn," Gregory said.
"And proud," Anthea added.
"And accustomed to handling everything ourselves rather than relying on others."
"Yes." Anthea felt a small smile tug at her lips despite everything. "We are perfectly matched in our dysfunction."
Gregory's mouth quirked. "Hardly a romantic sentiment."
"We are not a romantic match," Anthea reminded him, though the words felt less certain than they once had. "We are a practical arrangement."
"Of course," Gregory agreed, but there was something in his expression that suggested he did not entirely believe it either.
Anthea pushed her plate aside and leaned forward, an idea beginning to form.
"What if we tried again?" she said. "But differently this time. Not separately, but together."
Gregory raised an eyebrow. "What did you have in mind?"
"A house party," Anthea said, the idea gaining momentum as she spoke. "Here, at the estate. We invite gentlemen for a hunt—men you need for your investment proposals. And we also invite my sisters, along with eligible men who might be suitable matches for them."
Gregory's expression shifted from skepticism to interest. "A multi-purpose gathering."
"Exactly." Anthea's mind was already racing ahead, planning.
"The hunt gives you a chance to interact with potential investors in an environment where you are comfortable.
You understand hunting, military tactics, outdoor pursuits.
It plays to your strengths rather than forcing you into drawing rooms where you feel out of place. "
"And your sisters would be there as your guests," Gregory continued, following her logic. "Which gives them legitimacy. Shows that you—a Duchess—consider them worthy of your time and attention."
"And more than that," Anthea added, warming to the theme, "it gives the men a chance to see me as your wife. To see us working together as partners. If they see that you value my input, that we present a united front—"
"—then perhaps they will reconsider their prejudices about our marriage," Gregory finished. "And by extension, their willingness to work with me."