"I fail to see how personal taste equates to objective superiority," Miss Hartwell countered. "That is precisely the sort of reasoning that leads to?—"
"Ladies," the Dowager Countess of Pemberton's voice cut through the debate from the head of the table, "perhaps we might discuss something other than lace? The gentlemen will think us terribly frivolous."
"Of course, Lady Pemberton," Lady Caroline said, looking chastened. Then, lowering her voice to Anthea: "Though I still maintain I am correct about the French lace."
Anthea nodded politely, but her attention had already begun to drift toward the other end of the table where Gregory sat among several influential lords.
She had been monitoring their conversation from the corner of her eye—a habit formed from years of watching for social missteps that might reflect poorly on her sisters.
"The drainage system on my northern estates has proven remarkably effective," Gregory was saying to Lord Hartwick. "Increased crop yields by nearly thirty percent within two seasons through proper crop rotation."
"Indeed?" Lord Hartwick's tone was politely interested. "I confess my steward handles such matters on my Kent estate. We implemented a four-field system some years ago."
"Your steward handles it?" Gregory's voice carried that blunt edge. "Strange. I would have thought a landowner would want to understand the mechanisms that generate his income, not simply defer to his steward on everything."
Lord Hartwick stiffened. "I beg your pardon?"
"I merely mean that relying entirely on stewards without understanding the principles yourself—it seems rather irresponsible, does it not?"
Her breath caught as Lord Hartwick's expression shifted from polite interest to barely concealed offense, the telltale flush creeping up his neck. Gregory had said something wrong.
She recognized the signs. Gregory's jaw had that stubborn set that meant he was about to dig in rather than retreat. Lord Hartwick had straightened in his chair, his face reddening. The other gentlemen had gone quiet, watching the exchange with the avid attention of men anticipating conflict.
Anthea made a quick decision.
"Excuse me," she murmured to Lady Pemberton's daughter, then rose and moved down the table with what she hoped was casual grace.
"Gentlemen," she said brightly, inserting herself into the conversation with a smile. "I could not help but overhear your discussion of crop rotation. Fascinating topic. Lord Hartwick, I believe your estate in Kent has been quite successful with similar improvements, has it not?"
Lord Hartwick turned to her, his expression still tight but softening slightly at the direct address. "Indeed, Your Grace. We implemented a four-field system five years ago."
"How innovative," Anthea said, then turned to Gregory. "Darling, perhaps Lord Hartwick could provide some insight into the initial challenges? I am certain his experience would be invaluable."
She had intended it as a peace offering. A way to redirect the conversation, smooth over whatever Gregory had said to offend, and allow both men to save face.
Gregory's expression went from stubborn to thunderous.
"I am certain Lord Hartwick's experience is indeed valuable," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "However, I was in the middle of explaining my own approach. Which is based on methods I observed during my military service, not theories from agricultural texts."
The implied criticism—that Lord Hartwick worked from theory while Gregory had practical experience—hung in the air like smoke.
Anthea felt her smile freeze. "Of course. I simply thought?—"
"I know what you thought," Gregory interrupted, still in that quiet, dangerous tone. "But I am quite capable of conducting my own conversations without assistance."
The table had gone completely silent now. Everyone watching. Everyone pretending not to watch.
Anthea's cheeks burned. "I was merely?—"
"Interfering," Gregory finished. "Now, if you will excuse us, Lord Hartwick and I were discussing business."
It was a dismissal. Clear and unmistakable.
Anthea stood frozen for a heartbeat, humiliation flooding through her. Then she forced another smile, inclined her head, and returned to her seat with as much dignity as she could muster.
The remainder of the dinner passed in excruciating discomfort.
They did not speak during the carriage ride home. Anthea stared out the window at the dark streets, her hands clenched in her lap, while Gregory sat rigid and silent across from her.
