“Yes, well.” Cavendish’s voice went dry. “He usually was. Come. I’ve had everything set up.”
They arrived at a small table tucked beneath a lemon tree full of fruit. Two glasses. A decanter of deep red wine. An array of cigars Henry didn’t recognize but were surely more expensive than anything he’d purchased in the two years prior.
Cavendish poured the claret with steady hands, then selected a cigar. He clipped it, struck a match, and demonstrated the proper technique—short puffs until the end glowed red.
He prepared a second cigar and held it out.
Henry shook his head. “No, thank you.”
Cavendish paused. “Seriously? It’s quite good.”
“I’m sure.” The smell alone made his eyes water. Sweet and acrid at once. He’d noticed the men inside had yellow staining on their teeth. Smoke clung to everything. “I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself.” Cavendish set the cigar aside without judgment.
Henry had caught raised eyebrows from other men when he’d declined at dinner. The whispered comments about the new duke who didn’t smoke. Who didn’t hunt. Who didn’t belong. Oddity was how scandal began—one small difference, passed from mouth to mouth until it became a story.
They were right. He didn’t fit in.
And increasingly, he thought that might be all right.
“Better?” Cavendish asked, gesturing to the quiet garden a distance from the stifling ballroom.
“Strange,” Henry admitted. “All of it. I keep waiting to wake up in my old room with bills under the door and yesterday’s bread for breakfast.”
“That won’t happen.”
“That’s what makes it strange.” Henry sipped his claret, the best wine he’d ever tasted, which somehow made everything worse. “A month ago, I was teaching Latin to a merchant’s son who didn’t want to learn anything. I was debating philosophy with men who had more opinions than money. I was—” He stopped. Shook his head. “I was no one.”
“You were someone,” Cavendish said quietly. “You just weren’t titled.”
“Same thing, in this world.”
“Is it?” Cavendish leaned back in his chair. “I don’t think so. A title is an accident of birth. Being someone—that’s what you do with it.”
Henry met his eyes. “And what am I supposed to do with it?”
“Whatever you want. That’s the gift.” Cavendish’s expression turned thoughtful. “You weren’t raised for this. You don’t owe anyone your obedience or your conformity. You’re Dashfield now. That means you get to decide what that means.”
Something fierce and hopeful flared in Henry’s chest. “You really believe that?”
“I do.” Cavendish smiled. “Though I’d recommend you start small. Survive dinner tonight. Learn the faces. Figure out who your allies are.” He paused. “And for the love of all that’s dear, don’t mention your philosophical debates with radicals. Half the room will think you’re a revolutionary, and the other half will be terrified you’ll redistribute their wealth.”
Henry laughed despite himself. “Noted.”
They walked the orangery path, cigars in hand, while Cavendish explained who to avoid and who to charm. Which widows were genuinely grieving, and which were hunting for their next husband.
“One young widow in particular,” Cavendish said, “Lady Margaret Foley, Lost her husband at war. Lovely girl. Utterly miserable at these things. My sister seated her next to you at dinner.”
Henry’s stomach clenched. “Why would she do that?”
“Because Margaret won’t expect you to perform,” Cavendish said simply. “She’s too busy performing herself. It might be a relief for both of you.”
The dinner bell rang—a clear, resonant sound that made Henry’s pulse kick up a notch. Time to face the wolves—most of them smiling, all of them hungry.
Cavendish clapped him on the shoulder. “Remember. You’re Dashfield. You outrank nearly everyone in that room. They should be nervous about impressing you, not the other way around.”
“That’s not how it feels.”
