"You cook?" Anthea could not quite keep the surprise from her voice.
"I learned in the army." Gregory's mouth quirked in something that might have been amusement. "When one spends years on campaign, one either learns to take care of oneself or goes hungry. I chose the former."
He pulled the pan from the heat and divided the contents between two plates—scrambled eggs, simply prepared but perfectly done. He set one plate on the kitchen table, then gestured to the chair beside it.
"Sit," he said. "You look exhausted."
Anthea should have refused. Should have taken her plate and retreated to her chambers. They were keeping out of each other's way, after all. That had been the agreement.
But she was tired. And the eggs smelled good. And something about seeing Gregory like this—in shirtsleeves, cooking in his own kitchen—made him seem less like the distant, impassive husband from the past few days and more like the man who had teased her about blushing.
She sat.
They ate in silence for several minutes. The eggs were good—perfectly seasoned, cooked just enough to remain soft without being runny.
"Where did you learn to season them like this?" Anthea asked finally.
"France," Gregory said. "A farmer's wife took pity on my hopeless attempts at cooking and taught me a few basics. Said it was a crime against food to let a man continue eating the slop I had been making for myself."
Despite herself, Anthea smiled. "That sounds like a French woman."
"She was terrifying," Gregory agreed. "Barely came up to my shoulder but could reduce grown men to tears with a single look. I learned everything she was willing to teach me just to avoid disappointing her."
The image of Gregory—stern, commanding Gregory—being intimidated by a tiny French farmer's wife was so incongruous that Anthea felt her smile widen.
"I would have liked to meet her," she said.
"She would have liked you," Gregory said, and there was something in his tone that made Anthea look up sharply. But he was focused on his plate, his expression unreadable.
They lapsed back into silence. More comfortable this time.
"The tea party did not go well," Anthea said finally. She had not planned to say it. Had not planned to admit failure. But somehow, in the quiet kitchen with only Gregory for company, the words emerged anyway.
Gregory's jaw tightened slightly. "I gathered as much from your expression earlier."
"They were polite," Anthea continued, staring at her plate. "Perfectly civil. But they had already formed their opinions about Poppy. About my entire family. And nothing I said could change their minds."
"They are fools," Gregory said flatly.
"They are Society," Anthea corrected. "And Society has a long memory. Years of watching Beatrice scheme and manipulate—it created a reputation that follows my sisters no matter where they go."
She set down her fork, no longer hungry. "I thought being a duchess would be enough. That my new position would give me the influence to overcome the past. But it is not working. They still see us as... as social climbers. Desperate. Unworthy."
The admission hurt more than she had expected. But there was also something freeing about saying it aloud. About acknowledging the problem rather than pretending it did not exist.
"The investment meetings also failed," Gregory said after a moment.
Anthea looked up, surprised by the admission.
Gregory was staring at his own plate, his expression tight. "Lord Pemberton, Lord Weatherby's father, Sir Richard Cunningham—they listened to my proposals. And then they made it clear they would not invest because they question my judgment. Because I married you."
The words landed like stones in still water.
"They think my choice of wife reflects poor decision-making in all areas," Gregory continued, his voice carefully controlled. "That marrying into your family makes me unreliable. Unpredictable. Not someone they can trust with their money."
Anthea felt something cold settle in her stomach. "I am sorry. I did not realize?—"
"It is not your fault," Gregory interrupted. "It is their prejudice. Their inability to look past reputation to see actual character." He paused. "Though I confess, I wonder if the meeting would have gone differently if you had been there."
