He needed a wife who understood this world he was trying to navigate. Miss Croft, for all her sharp edges and evident distrust of men, fit those requirements perfectly.
She knew Society. She spoke directly. She was not afraid of him, a quality he was beginning to realize was remarkably rare among the Quality.
And if she also happened to be beautiful and intelligent and utterly unlike any woman he had ever met... well. That was merely an added benefit. Not a reason. Certainly not a factor in his decision.
You are lying to yourself,a voice that sounded suspiciously like Lord Ashworth observed in his mind.But by all means, continue.
Gregory scowled at the window and his own reflection in the glass.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. "Enter," he called.
Hendricks reappeared with a silver tray bearing toast, coffee, and Gregory noted with resignation, a full array of breakfast accompaniments he had specifically said he did not require.
"Mrs. Dawson felt you should have options, Your Grace," Hendricks said, setting the tray on the desk with meticulous care.
Gregory looked at the spread with resignation. Eggs, kippers, toast with three types of preserves, cold ham, fresh fruit. Enough food for three men.
"Mrs. Dawson is determined to fatten me up like a Christmas goose," he muttered.
"Mrs. Dawson wishes to ensure Your Grace maintains his strength," Hendricks replied without a hint of humor.
Gregory bit back a sigh. In the army, he had eaten whatever was available, often cold and always simple. Now he had servants who seemed personally offended if he did not consume a banquet at every meal.
"Tell Mrs. Dawson her concern is noted," Gregory said diplomatically.
"Will there be anything else, Your Grace?"
"Yes, actually." Gregory straightened his shoulders, drawing on the command presence that had served him so well in the army. "Have the carriage prepared. I shall be calling upon the Croft household this morning."
If Hendricks was surprised by this announcement, his expression did not betray it. "Very good, Your Grace. Shall I send word ahead of your arrival?"
"No." Gregory had learned enough about Society to know that sending advance notice would give Miss Croft, and more importantly, her stepmother, time to prepare, to strategize, to erect defenses. Better to arrive unannounced during calling hours and handle the matter directly. "I will call upon them during the appropriate hours. That should suffice."
"As you wish, Your Grace." Hendricks bowed and departed.
Gregory forced himself to eat the toast, though he tasted nothing. His mind was already moving ahead to the confrontation to come. Miss Croft would likely refuse him initially. Her words from the previous evening had been quite clear on the subject.
I have no interest in marriage, Your Grace. To you or to anyone else.
But circumstances had changed. They had been caught together. Her reputation would suffer if he did not offer, and suffer even more if she refused.
Surely she would see the logic of accepting. Surely her practical nature would override whatever personal objections she harbored.
And if some part of him hoped she would accept for reasons beyond mere practicality... well. That was a fairy tale, and he had buried fairy tales in the mud of Waterloo alongside better men than himself. The battlefield had cured him of hoping for things simply because he wanted them.
Gregory finished his coffee and rose from the desk, his decision made. He would call upon Miss Croft. He would make his offer. And he would accept nothing less than her agreement to become his Duchess.
After all, he had faced enemy soldiers and artillery fire. How difficult could one sharp-tongued spinster possibly be?
Chapter Six
Anthea was attempting to read the same page of her book for the fourth time when Veronica burst into the morning room with barely concealed panic.
"Mama is in a fury," Veronica whispered urgently. "She has been pacing the drawing room since dawn, muttering about ruined plans and disasters."
Anthea set down her book. "I imagine she is rather displeased with how last evening unfolded."
"Displeased?" Poppy entered behind Veronica, her eyes red from crying. "She spent an hour this morning berating me for failing to reach the music room quickly enough. She said I was too slow, too timid, too—" Her voice broke.
