"I merely meant?—"
"I know precisely what you meant," Gregory said, his voice cold enough to freeze the Thames. "You meant that a man born to a governess has no business calling himself a duke. That I am an imposter in your world."
"Your Grace, I assure you?—"
"You need not assure me of anything. I am the Duke of Everleigh. The title is mine by law and by blood. And I will fulfill my responsibilities to my tenants regardless of what you or anyone else believes I am capable of." He paused, letting the words sink in. "If you wish to question my competence, do so plainly. I respect honesty, even when it is unflattering. But if you choose to hide your insults behind false courtesy, you will find I have very little patience for such games."
The silence that followed was absolute. Fenton's face flushed crimson.
"Well said, Your Grace," Ashworth murmured.
Gregory nodded curtly. He had made his point. He had also made an enemy.
So be it,he thought.Better an honest enemy than a false friend.
"Gentlemen," he said, "if you will excuse me, I find I require a moment of privacy."
"The library is two doors down on the left," Ashworth said quietly.
Gregory nodded his thanks and made his escape, with as much grace as he could muster, ignoring the whispers that followed his departure. He could feel their eyes on his back, could hear the resumption of gossip the moment he was beyond immediate earshot.
Let them talk,he thought grimly as he navigated through the crush of bodies toward the corridor.Let them laugh and whisper and mock. I did not come to London to win their approval.
He had come because his tenants were suffering. Because his uncle, the previous Duke, had neglected the estate so thoroughly that families were living in homes with collapsing roofs and children were going hungry while the Duke spent a fortune on racehorses and expensive wines.
Gregory had seen that ledger. Had read every damning entry. Had felt rage so pure and cold it scared him.
He would not be like his uncle. He would not be like his father either, selfish, cruel, caring only for his own wants and pleasures. He would be better. He had to be better.
Even if it meant enduring the mockery of people who would never understand what it meant to truly suffer.
The corridor was blessedly empty and mercifully quiet after the cacophony of the ballroom. Gregory drew a deep breath, trying to settle the familiar anger that Fenton had stirred. He had worked so hard to control his temper, to keep the violence he was capable of buried deep where it could harm no one.
But men like Fenton tested that control. Made him remember his father's sneering face, his father's cutting words about worth and station and knowing one's place.
You are not your father,he reminded himself firmly.You did not lose control. You merely stated truth.
He started down the corridor toward the library, his footsteps echoing on the polished floors. Ahead of him, a lady was walking in the opposite direction, her posture straight and graceful. Gregory could see only her back, the elegant line of her spine, the dark hair arranged in an intricate coiffure, the deep blue of her gown.
And then the scent reached him.
It was subtle at first, carried on the air as she passed—something floral but not overwhelmingly so. Jasmine, perhaps, with undertones of something warmer. Vanilla, maybe, or bergamot. The combination was unexpectedly pleasant, refreshing after the cloying perfumes that had assaulted his senses all evening.
The lady disappeared around a corner, but the scent lingered.
Gregory found himself pausing mid-step, drawing a deeper breath almost without conscious thought. There was something about that particular combination of fragrances that eased the tension in his shoulders, that quieted the angry thoughts churning through his mind.
It was... nice. Simply nice, in a way that nothing else about this evening had been.
He stood there for a moment longer, somewhat bemused by his own reaction. He had never been particularly affected by perfumes or scents. But this one had been different somehow. Distracting in the best possible way.
Shaking his head at his own foolishness, Gregory continued toward the library. The scent faded as he walked, but something of its effect remained, a slight easing of his mood, a fractional decrease in the tightness of his jaw.
The library, when he finally found it, was everything he had hoped for. Dark wood, leather-bound volumes, the smell of paper and ink rather than perfume and pretension. Gregory closed the door behind him and leaned against it, releasing a breath as his shoulders relaxed without his conscious direction.
He moved deeper into the room, his fingers trailing along the spines of books as he walked. The fire in the grate cast dancing shadows across the walls.
Leadership. Authority. Resources.These things he understood. These things he had learned in the army. But this world of double meanings and careful insults, of fans that spoke a language he did not know—this was foreign territory, and he was navigating it blind.
