Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
The guests began arriving on a crisp Friday morning, their carriages rolling up the drive in carefully orchestrated intervals that Anthea had spent days planning.
She stood beside Gregory at the entrance, playing the role of gracious hostess while her stomach twisted with nerves. So much depended on this weekend. Her sisters' futures. Gregory's investments. Their ability to work together without descending into another argument.
"Breathe," Gregory murmured, too low for anyone else to hear. "You have planned everything perfectly. It will work."
Anthea glanced at him, surprised by the reassurance. He was watching the approaching carriages, his expression calm, but his hand found hers briefly—a quick squeeze of support before propriety forced them apart.
The first carriage disgorged Lord Ashford and his son Henry. Anthea recognized the younger man from Gregory's descriptions—the friend from White's who had been kind when others were hostile.
"Everleigh!" Henry bounded up the steps with the enthusiasm of a puppy. "Excellent timing for a hunt. The weather could not be better."
"Lord Ashford, Mr. Ashford," Gregory said, shaking hands. "May I present my wife, the Duchess of Everleigh."
"Your Grace." Henry bowed, and there was genuine warmth in his smile. "My father and I are honored by the invitation."
"We are delighted to have you," Anthea said. "I believe you will find the company quite... interesting."
More carriages arrived. Sir Richard Cunningham, who Gregory needed for his agricultural investments.
Lord Pemberton, still somewhat cool from the disastrous dinner party but willing to give Gregory another chance.
Mr. Hartley—the gentleman artist from the menagerie, whom Anthea had tracked down and invited with Gregory's enthusiastic approval.
And finally, Veronica and Poppy, arriving with barely concealed excitement.
Anthea watched as Henry's gaze caught on Poppy. Watched as her sister noticed his attention and straightened slightly, color rising in her cheeks.
Good. That was very good.
"Shall we get everyone settled?" Gregory said quietly. "I believe you have assigned rooms with your usual terrifying efficiency."
Despite her nerves, Anthea felt her lips twitch. "Terrifying efficiency?"
"It is a compliment," Gregory assured her. "I have learned to appreciate your terrifying qualities."
The Pall Mall game was scheduled for the afternoon, after guests had time to refresh from their journeys and enjoy a light luncheon.
Anthea stood on the lawn, watching the teams form. Gregory had orchestrated this beautifully—pairing potential investors with engaging partners, ensuring everyone felt included without being obvious about his motives.
"Your Grace," Henry appeared at her elbow. "Might I request the honor of your sister's company on my team? Miss Poppy, that is. I understand you have two sisters, and I should hate to cause confusion by making assumptions."
Anthea glanced at Poppy, who was pretending very hard not to be watching this exchange. "I believe my sister would be delighted, Mr. Ashford. Though I should warn you—she is quite competitive."
"Excellent," Henry said. "I cannot abide people who do not play to win."
He offered his arm to Poppy, who took it with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm. Within moments, they were deep in discussion about strategy, Poppy's earlier shyness completely forgotten as she gestured animatedly about angles and force.
"They seem to be getting along well," Gregory observed, appearing at Anthea's other side.
"Quite well," Anthea agreed.
"He is a good man," Gregory continued. "Honest. Kind. Terrible at cards but excellent at estate management. Your sister could do far worse."
"Are you matchmaking, Your Grace?"
"I am merely making observations," Gregory said innocently. Then, lowering his voice, "And I believe we are on the same team today. Try not to let your terrifying competitiveness intimidate our opponents too badly."
"I shall endeavor to be merciful," Anthea said dryly.
The game began, and almost immediately Anthea found herself falling into the same easy partnership she had discovered with Gregory at the garden party.
He was aggressive, strategic, utterly focused on winning.
She was more subtle, identifying weaknesses in their opponents' positions and exploiting them ruthlessly.
"Excellent shot," Gregory said after she sent Lord Pemberton's ball careening into the bushes. "Remind me never to play against you."
"You are only saying that because I am on your team," Anthea replied.
"No," Gregory said, and there was something warm in his voice. "I am saying it because you are brilliant, and I enjoy watching you demolish opponents who underestimated you."
Heat crept into Anthea's cheeks. "You are being absurd again."
"Am I?" Gregory moved closer, ostensibly to line up his next shot. "Or am I simply stating facts? You strategize like a general. It is remarkably attractive."
"Gregory—"
"Yes, my brilliant wife?" He hit his ball with perhaps more force than necessary, sending it through two wickets in rapid succession. "You were saying?"
Anthea had no idea what she had been about to say. Her mind had gone blank the moment he called her brilliant in that particular tone.
This was becoming a problem.
They won the game handily. Lord Pemberton congratulated them with slightly better grace than Anthea had expected, and Sir Richard actually laughed when Gregory made a self-deprecating comment about having an unfair advantage with a wife who understood geometry.
"You give her too much credit," Lord Pemberton said, but there was less frost in his voice than before. "Though I confess, Your Grace, you played quite well. Perhaps there is something to this partnership approach after all."
Anthea felt Gregory's hand settle briefly at the small of her back—a gesture of unity, of claiming.
"My wife makes everything better," Gregory said simply. "I am merely intelligent enough to recognize that and get out of her way."
Something in Anthea's chest squeezed tight.
That evening, after dinner, Anthea organized parlor games in the drawing room. Charades first, then a word game that required quick thinking and creativity.
She had positioned herself carefully—close enough to the gentlemen Gregory needed to impress that she could facilitate conversation, but not so close as to appear pushy.
She laughed at appropriate moments, asked intelligent questions that made the gentlemen feel clever, smoothed over any conversational rough patches before they became awkward.
And through it all, Gregory watched her.
She could feel his gaze even when she was not looking at him. Could sense his attention tracking her movements around the room.
During the word game, Lord Pemberton made a comment about agricultural innovations that was not quite accurate. Anthea opened her mouth to correct him gently—then stopped.
No. That would make him defensive. It would make her seem like she was challenging him.
Instead, she smiled. "How fascinating, Lord Pemberton. I confess I know very little about such technical matters. Perhaps you could explain it more simply for those of us less knowledgeable?"
It was a blatant lie. She understood agricultural science quite well—had spent hours reading Gregory's reports and proposals. But she made herself look appropriately vapid, appropriately feminine, appropriately... diminished.
Lord Pemberton preened, launching into a longer explanation that was still not quite right but close enough not to matter.
Anthea smiled and nodded and pretended to be impressed.
Across the room, Gregory's expression had gone very still.
She did not realize anything was wrong until much later, after the guests had retired for the evening. She was in her chambers, reviewing the next day's schedule, when a sharp knock came at the connecting door.
Before she could respond, Gregory entered.
"We need to talk," he said.
His tone was not angry, exactly. But there was something in it that made Anthea straighten.
"About what?"
"About this afternoon." Gregory closed the door behind him. "About the way you were acting during the parlor games."
Anthea's spine stiffened. "I was facilitating conversation. Helping you make connections with—"
"You were pretending to be ignorant," Gregory interrupted. "And I want you to stop."
The blunt words hit like a slap.
"I was not—"
"Yes, you were." Gregory moved closer, his expression intense.
"That comment Lord Pemberton made about crop rotation?
You knew it was wrong. I saw it in your eyes.
But instead of correcting him gently—which you are perfectly capable of doing—you pretended to be some empty-headed woman who knows nothing about agricultural science. "
"I was being diplomatic," Anthea said defensively. "Men like Lord Pemberton do not respond well to women who challenge them—"
"I do not care how Lord Pemberton responds," Gregory said flatly. "I care that you made yourself smaller to accommodate his fragile ego."
"I was helping you," Anthea insisted. "If I had corrected him, he would have been offended. He might have withdrawn his support—"
"Then let him withdraw it," Gregory said, and there was real anger in his voice now.
"Do you think I want success at any cost?
I need your help navigating society, Anthea, but not like this.
Not if it means you must pretend to be less than you are.
Not if it costs you the very things I admire most—your intelligence, your sharp tongue, your refusal to suffer fools.
" He stepped closer, his voice dropping.
"I will not have you diminishing yourself to secure my investments.
I will not have you silencing the parts of yourself that make you extraordinary simply to make insecure men comfortable. "
Anthea stared at him, genuinely shocked. "But that is what wives do. What Society expects—"