Gregory Briarson was not Maxwell Tinkett. The Duke had been honest with her from the start. He had not pretended affection or promised romance. He had offered exactly what he said: a partnership. Practical. Businesslike.
Except it did not feel safe. Not when she remembered the way his eyes had darkened when they argued. Not when she recalled the heat of his presence despite their mutual antagonism.
You are attracted to him,she admitted with brutal honesty.And that terrifies you.
The carriage pulled up before her townhouse. She was no closer to a decision than she had been when she left.
Marry the Duke and secure her sisters' futures—but risk her own hard-won peace.
Refuse the Duke and maintain her independence—but watch her sisters suffer.
There was no good option. No choice that did not require sacrifice.
And she had until tomorrow to decide.
Chapter Eight
“Blast it!”
The ledger hit the mahogany desk with a sound that would take the most staid butler aback.
Gregory glared at the numbers, willing them to rearrange themselves into something less damning, something that did not mean doom for all of them if care wasn’t taken.
They did not oblige, of course, this wasn’t a magic show.
Instead, the neat columns of his uncle's spending mocked him from the page: three hundred pounds for a pair of matched grays. Five hundred for cases of French brandy that could not possibly have been consumed by one man, no matter how devoted to his cups. Two thousand—two bloody thousand—on refurbishing the London townhouse whilst tenant cottages collapsed around their occupants' ears.
What in the world had his uncle been doing?!
He scrubbed a hand across his face; the rasp of stubble was too loud in the silent study. Three days he had been poring over these accounts. Three days of discovering that the dukedom he had inherited was not merely troubled, but gutted from within by a man who had viewed his title as license for indulgence rather than duty.
If only he could smack some sense into the man and?—
"Your Grace?"
Gregory's head snapped up. His butler —Hendricks, the man had introduced himself, though Gregory suspected he would never grow accustomed to being addressed by anything other than his rank—stood in the doorway with his usual impeccable posture.
"What is it?" He nodded stiffly.
"A report from Mr. Whitmore, the estate steward. He wished me to deliver it directly."
Gregory held out his hand, though dread settled heavy in his gut. Nothing good had come in the post these past days. "Give it."
The moment Hendricks withdrew, Gregory broke the seal. His eyes tracked across the page with increasing fury.
Cottage roof collapsed in east field. Tenant family of seven now residing with relations. Cannot make repairs without funds...
Miller reports wheel damaged beyond use. Production halted...
Three families behind on rent. They claim...
Gregory did not finish reading that last line. He knew precisely what they claimed. That they could not pay rent when their homes were falling down around them. That the land was worked but the equipment failing. That the previous duke had promised repairs, improvements, relief—and delivered nothing but excuses.
And now everything was on him.
He pushed back from the desk so violently his chair scraped against the floor. The study felt too small suddenly, the walls pressing in as if they too were part of this suffocating inheritance.
This was why he had come to London. Not for the balls or the gossip or the tedious rituals of the ton. He had thought—foolishly, perhaps—that establishing himself in Society would grant him access to the resources he needed. That other peers might advise him, might invest in improvements, might…
