Chapter 14
Alaric was surprised at how wise Thomas sounded but before he could respond to this assessment, the church bells rang, calling people to the pie judging. He could see Marianne at the tent, determinedly not looking in his direction while organizing the entries with violent efficiency.
"Go judge the pies," Thomas said. "She'll have to be near you for that. Maybe you can start groveling then."
"In front of the entire village?"
"That's probably best, actually. Witnesses make it harder for her to murder you."
"You're not very reassuring."
"I'm not trying to be reassuring. I'm trying to be helpful."
The pie judging was held in the tent that the geese had recently vacated, though evidence of their rampage remained in the form of scattered crumbs and one lingering feather that Admiral Feathers had left like a calling card.
Marianne stood at the judges' table, her expression carved from ice. "Your Grace," she said with cutting formality. "How good of you to still participate in our little village activities."
"Marianne..."
"Mrs. Whitby," she corrected sharply. "We don't know each other well enough for Christian names."
"We know each other very well."
"I thought I knew someone named Edmund Fletcher. I don't know the Duke of Wexmere at all."
"I'm the same person."
"No, you're really not. Mr. Fletcher helped with the fair and baked terrible bread and fought geese. The Duke of Wexmere is someone who hasn't bothered to visit his estate in years."
"Both of those people are me."
"Then you're even more complicated a liar than I thought."
The other judges, Mrs. Morrison, the vicar, and Mr. Ironwell, watched this exchange with fascination. Mrs. Morrison, in particular, looked like she was mentally composing the gossip she'd be spreading for the next six months.
"Perhaps we should begin?" the vicar suggested nervously. "The pies are getting cold."
“Yes,” Marianne said, her voice so sharp it could have sliced pastry. “Let’s judge pies. I’m sure His Grace has many important opinions about pastry, given his extensive experience with common baking.”
“Actually...” Alaric began, but she wasn’t finished with him. Not nearly.
“Oh wait,” she said, turning to the assembled judges with brittle brightness, “that was Mr. Fletcher who had experience with baking. His Grace, of course, probably has his pies prepared by French chefs who’ve never seen a common kitchen in their lives.”
“I don’t have a French chef,” he said, though the protest sounded pathetic even to his own ears.
“How disappointing for you,” she replied, sweetly venomous. “Now, shall we begin, Your Grace, or do you need a footman to hold your fork?”
“Marianne...Mrs. Whitby...can we please talk?”
She smiled, all teeth and fury. “We are talking. About pies. Which need judging. So—judge them.”
And so began what could only be described as the most excruciating pie tasting in the history of mankind.
Every slice felt like an act of penance, every spoonful a moral reckoning.
Marianne presided with the precision of a general and the temperature of an arctic wind.
The other judges...Mrs. Morrison, the vicar, and Mr. Ironwell.
..did their best to pretend this was a normal civic duty and not a public dissection of a duke’s soul.
Alaric sampled the first pie, an apple-and-pear confection. “Excellent crust,” he said cautiously.
Mrs. Morrison nodded. “Exceptionally flaky.”
“Unlike some people,” Marianne murmured, not even looking at him.
Mrs. Morrison blinked. “Pardon?”
“Nothing,” Marianne said crisply. “Just commenting on the texture.”
The next pie was cherry. The vicar, striving valiantly for peace, ventured, “the filling is perfectly spiced.”
“Yes,” Marianne said. “At least the cherries are honest about what they are. Cherries. Not secretly oranges pretending to be apples.”
The vicar frowned. “That’s… rather philosophical.”
“Is it?” she said. “I think it’s straightforward.”
Mr. Ironwell cleared his throat. “The metaphor doesn’t quite...”
“I’ll work on it,” Marianne snapped.
Alaric tried to focus on the judging sheet before him, but the words blurred. He had faced Parliament inquiries with less terror.
They moved on to Mrs. Ironwell’s mince pie, which was shaped like a star and somehow tasted like regret.
“Delightful presentation,” Mrs. Morrison said gamely.
“Presentation,” Marianne echoed, her gaze cutting to Alaric. “Funny thing, that. How people put so much effort into appearances when the substance underneath is so very… misleading.”
“Marianne,” he said softly, “please...”
“Don’t.” She sliced into the next pie as if it were him in its place.
When they reached Mrs. Martin’s entry, an absurdly tall creation that looked more like a tiered monument than anything meant for human consumption, Alaric set down his fork. The thing was glazed, gilded, and groaning under sugared holly leaves.
“It’s overworked,” he said finally. “Too much decoration, not enough attention to the fundamental structure. All appearance, no substance.”
There was a beat of silence and Marianne didn’t miss it.
“Like some people,” she said, her tone soft as silk but sharp as a knife’s edge.
“Yes,” Alaric said quietly. “Exactly like some people.”
That stilled her. For the first time since Lord Dupont’s revelation had detonated their fragile world, she looked directly at him. And beneath the righteous anger, beneath the betrayal and humiliation and winter in her eyes, he saw the glimmer of what she was really fighting. Real, human, raw hurt.
It was the kind of look that stripped a man of his titles, his excuses, and his defenses. The look of someone who’d let herself believe, just once, that she could trust again and learned she was wrong.
"Why?" she asked softly, the other judges suddenly very interested in their scoring sheets. "Just tell me why."
"Because I'm a coward," he said simply. "Because it was easier to be nobody than to be somebody. Because for four days, I got to be just a man helping with a fair, not a duke with responsibilities and expectations and so many years of failure behind him."
"That's not good enough."
"I know."
"You made me trust you."
"I know."
"You made me..." She stopped, shaking her head. "It doesn't matter."
"It does matter. Marianne, what we shared..."
"What we shared was based on a lie."
"No. My name was a lie. Everything else was true."
"How can I believe that?"
"Because I'm still here. The truth is out. I could leave, go back to London, never see any of you again. But I'm here, judging pies, because leaving would mean never seeing you again, and that's... unacceptable."
"Unacceptable," she repeated. "Like inadequate, another of your safe words."
"There's nothing safe about what I feel for you."
The judges were not even pretending to look at their sheets anymore. Mrs. Morrison was actually leaning forward in anticipation.
"Don't," Marianne said. "Don't you dare make declarations now, in front of everyone, when you couldn't even tell me the truth in private."
"When should I make them?"
"Never. You should never make them because you're leaving tomorrow and going back to your real life, and I'm staying here in mine, and that's how it should be."
"What if I don't want to leave?"
"Dukes don't live in villages."
"This one could."
"No," she said firmly. "He couldn't. Because this village doesn't need another person who plays at understanding their lives. We need someone real, someone honest, someone who actually cares about more than just playing Christmas games for a few days."
"I care!"
"About what? About me? About the village? About anything beyond your own entertainment?"
"Yes."
"Prove it."
"How?"
"I don't know. But until you figure it out, stay away from me."
She left the tent, and this time, he knew better than to follow. The other judges sat in uncomfortable silence until Mrs. Morrison finally spoke.
"Well. That was dramatic."
"That was horrible," the vicar corrected. "That poor girl."
"That poor duke doesn't look too happy either," Mr. Ironwell observed.
"He brought it on himself," Mrs. Morrison said, though not unkindly. "But he does look properly miserable."
"I'm still here," Alaric pointed out.
"Yes, and what are you going to do about it?" Mrs. Morrison asked. "Because if you're just going to sit there looking tragic, you might as well go back to London now."
"What would you suggest?"
“Oh no, I'm not helping you. Since you have so industriously dug the pit, I shall leave you to devise your own ascent.”
"Actually," the vicar said thoughtfully, "there might be something..."
"Reverend, no," Mrs. Morrison warned.
"What?" Alaric asked desperately.
"The Christmas service tonight. It's tradition for the lord of the manor to do a reading if he's in residence."
"He hasn't been in residence for twenty-three years," Mr. Ironwell pointed out.
"But he's here now," the vicar continued. "And if he were to do the reading, to participate in the service as himself, not as some pretend steward..."
"It would be a start," Mrs. Morrison admitted grudgingly. "A small start."
"What time?"
"Eleven o'clock. Midnight mass, technically, though we start a bit early because some of the older parishioners fall asleep if we actually wait until midnight."
"I shall be there."
"Will you though?" Mrs. Morrison asked. "Or will you run back to London like your father always did?"
"My father has nothing to do with this."
"Doesn't he? You're following in his footsteps quite nicely—avoiding responsibility, running from difficulty, leaving others to clean up your messes."
"That's not..." But he stopped, because wasn't it true? Hadn't he spent twenty-three years doing exactly what his father had done, just from a different location?
"I'll be there," he said again, more firmly.
"We'll see."