Gregory released him, stepping back as the man collapsed into his chair, gasping and red-faced.
Gregory turned his attention to the others, who had all gone very still.
"Let me be clear," he said, his voice pitched to carry through the entire room now. "I am the Duke of Everleigh. The legitimate heir to a dukedom that predates most of your families' titles by centuries. I fought for this country. Bled for it. And I will not tolerate disrespect from men whose greatest accomplishment is being born to the right parents."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"If any of you wish to challenge that—if you have something to say about my character, my service, or my right to be here—then say it now. To my face. And be prepared to back up your words with action."
Silence.
Gregory waited, but no one moved. No one spoke.
"Excellent," he said. "Then I suggest we all return to our afternoon pursuits and pretend this unpleasantness never occurred."
He turned back toward the chair he had originally chosen, dismissing them as completely as if they had ceased to exist.
The room remained silent for a long moment. Then, gradually, conversation resumed—quieter now, more careful.
Gregory settled into the wingback chair and picked up a discarded newspaper, though he did not read it. He was too busy monitoring the room, assessing reactions, cataloging who seemed cowed and who might prove problematic later.
A footman appeared at his elbow. "Brandy, Your Grace?"
"Whiskey," Gregory said. "Neat."
"Of course."
The footman disappeared, and Gregory allowed himself a moment of grim satisfaction. Not how he would have preferred to establish himself, but effective nonetheless. Men like thoseby the fireplace only understood one language—power, wielded without hesitation.
"Impressive."
Gregory looked up to find a man standing beside his chair. Tall, dark-haired, perhaps thirty years of age. Well-dressed but not ostentatious. His expression suggested amusement rather than fear or hostility.
"I prefer 'efficient,'" Gregory said.
The man laughed. "Fair enough. Lord Henry Ashford. And before you ask—no, I am not related to the Ashford who made a fool of himself by suggesting you were uncertain of your inheritance. That was my distant cousin, whom the family generally pretends does not exist."
Despite himself, Gregory's mouth twitched. "Your Grace. Though you seem to know that already."
"Everyone knows," Henry said. "You are the talk of the season. The military Duke who actually knows which end of a sword is sharp. Half the ton is terrified of you, and the other half is trying to figure out how to use you to their advantage."
"And which half are you?"
"Neither." Henry gestured to the empty chair beside Gregory's. "May I?"
Gregory nodded.
Henry sat, accepting a glass of whiskey from the same footman who had just delivered Gregory's. They sat in silence for a moment, both watching the room.
"You made an enemy today," Henry said finally, his voice low enough not to carry. "Weatherby—the man whose throat you decorated with your hand—his father is influential. Vindictive. The sort who holds grudges."
"Then he should have raised a son with better manners," Gregory said.
"Agreed." Henry took a sip of his whiskey. "But you might want to watch your back regardless."
"I always do."
Henry smiled. "I believe it. Military habit?"
