Chapter 6
They loaded the pies into boxes, working in companionable silence. The sun was beginning to rise, painting the snow-covered village in shades of pink and gold. Through the window, Alaric could see other shops beginning to open, the village coming alive for another day of Christmas preparation.
"Thank you," Marianne said suddenly.
"For destroying your kitchen?"
"For trying. For being willing to look ridiculous in the name of helping."
"I don't look ridiculous."
"You're wearing a red ruffled apron."
"I'm making it fashionable."
"You're making it stretched. It was never meant for someone your height."
"Nothing in this kitchen was meant for someone my height."
"That's because normal-sized people do the baking."
"I'm normal-sized."
"For a giant."
They carried the boxes across the square to the inn, where Mrs. Morrison was waiting with barely contained glee.
"Marianne! Mr. Fletcher! How wonderful to see you've reconciled after your morning... encounter."
"We didn't need to reconcile," Marianne said. "We weren't fighting."
"Fighting is one word for it."
"We literally weren't doing anything except falling."
"Falling for each other?"
"Falling on each other. Very different."
"Not from where I was standing."
"You were too far away!"
"I have excellent vision."
"You wear spectacles!"
"For reading, not for observing romance."
"There was no romance!"
"The lady doth protest too much," Mrs. Morrison quoted.
"The lady doth protest exactly the right amount," Marianne countered.
The committee was already gathering in the inn's dining room—an assortment of village worthies who seemed to have been chosen for their ability to have opinions about everything.
The land steward was holding court at the head of the table, his cousin from Nottingham looking slightly overwhelmed by the rural enthusiasm.
"Ah, Marianne!" the land steward boomed. "We heard about your morning adventure!"
"It wasn't an adventure."
"Mrs. Morrison says you were compromised!"
"Mrs. Morrison says many things."
"Are we having a Christmas wedding?"
"We're having a Christmas fair. That's quite enough excitement."
"But Mr. Fletcher seems like such a nice young man."
"Mr. Fletcher is the duke's steward. He's here to work, not to... whatever you're suggesting."
"Courting," Mrs. Martin supplied helpfully. "We're suggesting courting."
"No one's courting anyone."
"That's not what it looked like this morning."
"This morning was an accident involving gravity and ice!"
"And passion?" Mrs. Morrison suggested hopefully.
"And pies," Marianne corrected. "Gravity, ice, and pies. No passion."
Alaric had been trying to remain invisible during this interrogation, but the land steward turned to him with a grin.
"What do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Fletcher? Compromising our Marianne on your second day in the village?"
"I didn't compromise anyone. I was compromised by pies."
"Is that a metaphor?"
"It's a statement of fact. I was attacked by pastry."
"Marianne's pastry is usually better behaved," Mrs. Ironwell said.
"It was having a rebellious morning," Marianne explained.
"Like its maker?" Mrs. Morrison suggested with a wink.
"Its maker was trying to deliver breakfast, not create scandal."
"Sometimes the two go hand in hand."
"Not in my bakery."
"What about outside your bakery?"
"That was the street, not the bakery."
"Technicalities."
"Important technicalities."
The committee meeting devolved into discussions of fair logistics, but Alaric noticed that every few minutes, someone would glance at Marianne and him with barely hidden speculation. The morning's incident had clearly provided enough gossip fuel for weeks.
"I should go," Marianne announced once the pies had been distributed and consumed. "The lunch bread won't bake itself."
"I shall walk you back," Alaric offered without thinking.
"It's across the square. I think I can manage."
"There might be ice."
"It's the same ice I've been navigating for thirty years."
"But now it has a taste for causing compromising positions."
"The ice doesn't have taste."
"This morning suggests otherwise."
"This morning suggests you shouldn't lurk outside bakeries."
"I wasn't lurking."
"You were definitely lurking."
"I was investigating."
"Investigating through a fogged window?"
"The fogging was unintentional."
"But the investigating was intentional?"
"The investigating was... exploratory."
"That's just a fancy word for lurking."
They were walking across the square as they argued, apparently having decided without discussion that he would escort her despite her protests.
"You know," Marianne said as they reached the bakery door, "for someone who claims to hate Christmas, you're getting very involved in our preparations."
"I don't hate Christmas."
"You said it was collective hysteria."
"I said it was like collective hysteria. Simile, not equation."
"That's avoidance."
"Of what?"
"Of admitting you might actually be enjoying yourself."
"I'm not enjoying myself."
"You were laughing while making pies."
"I was laughing at the pies."
"You were laughing with me."
"Near you. I was laughing near you."
"That's the same thing."
"It's really not."
Marianne shook her head, but she was smiling. "You're impossible."
"You keep saying that."
"It keeps being true."
"Then at least I'm consistent."
"Consistently impossible isn't necessarily a virtue."
"It's not necessarily a flaw either."
They stood there for a moment, neither quite ready to end the conversation. The sun was fully up now, the village awake and bustling with fair preparations. Alaric could hear hammering from somewhere, probably another booth being constructed.
"I really do need to start the bread," Marianne said finally.
"And I need to review ledgers."
"Actual ledgers this time, not bakery windows?"
"I make no promises."
"Try not to lurk too obviously."
"I'll work on my subtlety."
"You do that."
She disappeared into the bakery, and Alaric stood there for a moment, still holding the ridiculous apron he was wearing, covered in flour and the remains of his morning's baking adventure.
***
"Your Grace looks cheerful," Grimsby observed, appearing with his usual impeccable timing.
"I look like I've been in a food fight."
"A cheerful food fight, apparently."
"There's no such thing as a cheerful food fight."
"Your expression suggests otherwise."
"My expression is neutral."
"Your expression is what I believe the locals would call 'besotted.'"
"That's absurd."
"That's accurate."
"I am not besotted with anyone."
"Of course not, Your Grace. You simply spent the morning baking pies with a widow while wearing her mother's apron."
"That was... circumstances."
"Romantic circumstances?"
"Accidental circumstances."
"The two are not mutually exclusive."
"They are in this case."
"If Your Grace says so."
"I do say so."
"Then it must be true."
"Your agreement sounds..."
"Like disagreement, yes. Years of practice, Your Grace."
They walked back to the inn, Alaric still holding the apron and folding it carefully. He'd return it later. That would be the polite thing to do. The fact that returning it would require seeing Marianne again was entirely incidental.
"Your Grace has flour in your hair," Grimsby observed.
"I'm aware."
"And what appears to be mincemeat on your collar."
"Also aware."
"And a smile on your face."
"I'm not smiling."
"My mistake. That must be a grimace of contentment."
"There's no such thing as a grimace of contentment."
"Your Grace appears to be inventing one."
Alaric caught his reflection in a shop window. He was, indeed, smiling. It was disturbing. Dukes of Wexmere didn't smile about flour fights and failed pies and widows who argued about everything.
Except, apparently, this one did.
"Grimsby, I think I might be in trouble."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"You're supposed to reassure me."
"I'm supposed to be honest, Your Grace."
"Since when?"
"Since Your Grace started wearing aprons and smiling at his reflection."
"I wasn't smiling at my reflection."
"You were smiling at the memory of the morning."
"That's worse."
"Considerably, Your Grace."
Alaric retreated to his room, where the ledgers waited on his desk like old friends—predictable, logical, and entirely uninterested in his romantic prospects or lack thereof.
He opened the first ledger, determined to focus on numbers and accounts and things that made sense.
Instead, he found himself staring at the same page for twenty minutes, thinking about the way Marianne's eyes lit up when she laughed, the way her hair escaped its pins, the warm weight of her when she'd landed on him in the snow.
This was ridiculous. He was the Duke of Wexmere. He didn't develop... feelings... for provincial bakers. He certainly didn't spend his mornings making ugly pies while wearing aprons. And he absolutely didn't stand outside bakery windows at dawn like some love-struck youth.
Except he'd done all of those things.
And worse, he was already planning to return the apron the next morning. At approximately the same time. Just in case Marianne needed help with anything.
"I'm in so much trouble," he said to the ledgers.
The ledgers, being ledgers, offered no comfort.
From outside came the sound of hammering, singing, and general Christmas preparation.
The fair was in a few days. He could endure a few more days of this, then return to London and forget all about Marianne Whitby and her dangerous eyes and her flour-dusted hands and the way she made him want to be someone who knew how to bake pies properly.
A few days. How bad could it be?
Through the window, he saw Marianne emerge from the bakery carrying another tray, this time walking slowly and carefully. She glanced up at the inn, and for a moment, their eyes met across the square. She smiled, quick, almost shy, then hurried on her way.
Alaric touched his fingers to the window, then realized what he was doing and snatched his hand back.
A few days.
He was never going to survive a few days.
The truly alarming part was that he wasn't sure he wanted to.