He had failed. Not because his ideas were flawed, but because Society had already judged him and found him wanting.
And the worst part was knowing that if he had Anthea beside him—if she had been there to smooth the conversation, to redirect when things became tense, to use her knowledge of these men to navigate their prejudices—it might have gone differently.
But he had sent her away. Told her he did not need her help.
And now he was paying the price.
That evening, they passed each other in the hallway. Anthea was dressed for a dinner engagement. Gregory had just returned from his failed meeting at White's.
They stopped, facing each other in the dim corridor.
"Did you—" Anthea started.
"No," Gregory said shortly. "The investment meetings did not go as planned."
"I see." Her expression was carefully neutral. "I am sorry to hear that."
"And your tea party with Poppy?"
Anthea's jaw tightened slightly. "Also unsuccessful."
They stood in silence for a moment, neither quite able to meet the other's eyes.
"I should go," Anthea said finally. "I will be late for dinner."
"Of course," Gregory said.
She moved past him, her skirts brushing against his legs in the narrow hallway.
Gregory watched her go, then continued to his study where he poured himself a drink he did not want and stared at investment proposals no one would fund.
They had both failed.
Separately.
And neither was willing to admit that perhaps they needed each other after all.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Anthea could not sleep.
She had tried. Had lain in her enormous bed for hours, staring at the canopy above her head and replaying the disastrous tea party in her mind. Poppy's disappointed face. The polite disinterest of the gentlemen. The growing realization that her new title was not enough to erase years of her family's reputation.
Finally, near midnight, she gave up.
She wrapped a dressing gown over her nightdress and padded downstairs in bare feet, seeking the comfort of warm milk or perhaps something stronger from the kitchen. The house was dark and silent, the servants long since retired to their quarters.
Which was why she nearly jumped out of her skin when she entered the kitchen and found Gregory standing at the stove.
"What are you doing here?" The words came out more sharply than she intended, born of surprise rather than actual anger.
Gregory looked up from whatever he was stirring in a pan. He had removed his coat and cravat, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. In the flickering light from the single candle he had lit, he looked younger. Less like a duke and more like... just a man.
"I could ask you the same question," he said.
"I could not sleep," Anthea admitted, then gestured to the pan. "What are you doing?"
"Making eggs." He returned his attention to the stove. "I was hungry, and I did not wish to wake the servants for something so simple."
