Might what? Welcome a soldier with common manners into their exclusive circles? Share their wealth with a man they openly mocked?
Gregory stalked to the window overlooking the street. A carriage passed, emblazoned with some earl's crest. The occupants would be heading to yet another meaningless entertainment, spending in one evening what could repair five cottages.
The ton did not trust him. He had seen it at the ball—the sidelong glances, the barely concealed smirks, the way conversations stopped when he approached. They viewed him as an uncouth soldier, a man who knew nothing of managing estates or navigating Society.
Who had only recently entangled himself with a woman who appeared to share the ton's disdain for him.
Gregory's jaw tightened. No—that was unfair. Miss Croft had not disdained him. She had argued with him, certainly. Challenged him. Spoken to him with a frankness he had found both infuriating and oddly... refreshing.
You should not allow yourself to be in situations where scheming is possible.
He could still hear her voice, sharp with accusation and thoroughly lacking the false sweetness other young ladies employed. She had not simpered or fluttered her lashes. She had simply told him precisely what she thought of his judgment, then demanded he accept her explanation without equivocation.
Gregory returned to his desk, but his mind would not settle on the estate reports before him. He needed to speak with Miss Croft—his future wife—before this marriage progressedany further. He had already caused enough damage through his impulsive proposal and the scandal it created. He would not add to that harm by allowing misunderstandings or false expectations to fester between them. They needed to establish clear terms, honest boundaries. Whatever this marriage became, it would not be built on silence and assumption.
A wife who spoke plainly. Who did not fear him or fawn over his title. Who had the wit to argue with him as an equal and the courage to call him out when he erred.
Gregory found himself remembering the way she had stood in that music room, chin lifted in defiance even as she attempted to explain the situation. The fire in her blue eyes when she refused to be cowed. That stubborn tilt to her jaw that made him want to?—
He stopped himself sharply.
No.
He pulled the estate reports toward him with more force than necessary, focusing on the neat columns of figures. He could not afford such thoughts. Could not allow himself to be distracted by a woman's spirit or the way her voice echoed in his mind long after she had left. His uncle had let personal indulgences consume him, had prioritized his own pleasures over the people depending on him.
Gregory would not make that mistake.
This arrangement was practical. Necessary. Miss Croft would help him navigate Society, and he would provide security for her and her sisters. A mutually beneficial exchange, nothing more.
The next time he saw her, he would make certain she understood: theirs must remain a marriage on paper only. A convenient arrangement between two practical people who understood what was required of them.
Nothing more.
It could never be "more."
And with Miss Croft's help, he might actually succeed.
If she agreed, of course.
Gregory's mouth twisted. Somehow he suspected that particular battle would prove more challenging than any he had faced on the Peninsula. Miss Anthea Croft did not strike him as a woman who could be commanded into compliance.
Which was, he admitted grudgingly, part of why the prospect of marrying her was not entirely unappealing.
At least she would never bore him.
Chapter Nine
This was either going to be the worst idea of her life or the best one. But somehow, as Anthea stood in the beautiful garden, it was looking much more likely to be the former.
Anthea had decided that a garden party would suit her purposes better than another stifling ball. Less formal, more opportunities for genuine conversation, and most importantly, fewer watching eyes to judge every interaction. Lady Pemberton's gardens were lovely in late spring, and the guest list included several unmarried gentlemen who might prove suitable for her sisters.
Or so she had hoped.
Poppy had immediately cornered three young lords near the refreshment table and was currently holding forth on some topic with enough enthusiasm that all three looked slightly overwhelmed. Veronica, meanwhile, had been claimed by Mr. Thornbury—the scholarly gentleman from the menagerie—whoappeared to be lecturing her about the proper cultivation of roses.
Which left Anthea standing near the Pall Mall course when Lady Pemberton announced she was organizing teams.
"Miss Croft, you shall partner with the Duke of Everleigh," their hostess declared with the sort of determined cheerfulness that brooked no argument. "And Lord Hartford, you and your wife shall compete against them!"
