They slipped back through the darkened house like shadows, and Anthea bid Veronica goodnight at her door before continuing to her own chamber. But once there, she found she could not sleep.
She stood at her window, staring out at the dark London streets. Three years ago, she had built walls around her heart, had sworn never to trust another man, had chosen solitude over the risk of further heartbreak.
And now she would need to dive back into Society. Would need to watch her sisters dance with gentlemen and pray she could identify which ones were worthy and which ones would break their hearts as Maxwell Tinkett had broken hers.
The task felt overwhelming. But for Poppy and Veronica, she would do it.
Even if it meant confronting the Duke of Everleigh again. Even if it meant acknowledging the unwanted attraction that had sparked between them despite every rational reason to despise him.
It does not matter what I felt,she told herself firmly.It matters only what I do.
Anthea turned from the window and climbed into bed. Tomorrow she would visit Cassandra. Tomorrow she would begin the impossible task of navigating a social season she had spent three years avoiding.
But tonight, she would try to sleep.
Chapter Five
Gregory stood at the window of what had been his uncle's study—his study now, he reminded himself—and watched the sun rise over the grounds of Everleigh.
The estate stretched before him in the grey morning light: acres of parkland, tenant farms in the distance, the ornamental gardens closer to the house that his uncle had apparently spent a fortune maintaining whilst allowing the tenants' cottages to crumble.
The ledgers were still spread across the massive mahogany desk behind him. He had spent most of the night reviewing them again, trying to make sense of expenditures that defied all logic. Three thousand pounds for a pair of matched greys. Five hundred pounds for a single dinner party. Two thousand pounds for renovations to the London townhouse whilst the roof of the east tenant cottages leaked so badly that families had to sleep in their kitchens.
Unconscionable,Gregory thought grimly.Absolutely unconscionable.
"Your Grace?"
Gregory turned to find Hendricks, his butler, another inheritance from his uncle standing in the doorway. The man was approximately sixty years old, with perfect posture and an expression of perpetual disapproval that Gregory suspected had been perfected over decades of service to a negligent Duke.
"Yes, Hendricks?"
"Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace, but Mrs. Dawson wishes to know if you will be breakfasting in the dining room or if you prefer a tray in the study." The butler's tone suggested that taking breakfast in the study was somehow barbaric, but Gregory had learned in his two weeks of residence that Hendricks considered most of his preferences barbaric.
"The study will suffice," Gregory said. "And please inform Mrs. Dawson that she need not prepare a full breakfast. Toast and coffee will be adequate."
Hendricks's expression, if possible, grew even more disapproving. "Toast and coffee, Your Grace?"
"I am perfectly capable of surviving on simple fare, Hendricks. I spent a decade in the army doing precisely that."
"As you say, Your Grace." The butler bowed and withdrew, radiating silent judgment.
Gregory suppressed a sigh and returned his attention to the window. Everything about this life still felt foreign and uncomfortable. The servants who bowed and scraped. The massive house with more rooms than any reasonable person could possibly need. The complicated social expectations that seemed to govern every waking moment.
He had been a soldier. A commander of men, yes, but still fundamentally a soldier. He understood strategy and discipline, logistics and leadership. He knew how to assess a situation, identify the objective, and execute a plan to achieve it.
But he did not know why one needed three different types of forks at dinner. Did not understand why calling hours had such specific restrictions. Did not comprehend why everyone spoke in riddles and innuendo rather than simply saying what they meant.
Except for one person.
Miss Anthea Croft.
Gregory's jaw tightened as his mind returned, inevitably, to the previous evening. To the music room at Lady Harrington's ball. To a woman with sharp blue eyes and sharper words who had accused him of being a lunatic to his face.
He had compromised Miss Anthea Croft. Thoroughly and publicly. Which meant, by every rule of honor and propriety that governed this world, he owed her an offer of marriage.
Duty,he reminded himself firmly.This is a matter of duty, not desire.
Though he could not quite ignore the fact that his heart had beaten faster when he stood close to her. That her scent—jasmine and vanilla, damn it all—had affected him in ways he still did not fully understand. That when she had looked at him with those fierce blue eyes, something in his chest had tightened inexplicably.
