Chapter 17 #2
"Foolish nobility," she clarified. "Throwing yourself at a problem until it is solved or you are broken."
"I'll keep throwing," he said. "Aim improved, I promise."
"That sounds exhausting."
"Worth the fatigue."
They stood a heartbeat too long by the door, close enough that he could count the cinnamon freckles of flour along her cheek, close enough that the fire's warmth leaned around them like a benediction. Outside, snow began again, the light, quiet kind that erases old footprints and invites new ones.
"Tomorrow night," Marianne said, her voice quieter now, as though the thought itself carried weight. "The bonfire. Will you really come?"
"If you want me there," Alaric replied.
"The whole village will be there," she reminded him, as though to offer an excuse should he change his mind.
"That’s not what I asked."
The words lingered, warm and uncertain, like breath fogging glass. She hesitated—he could see her wrestling with herself, the cautious logic that always guarded her heart doing battle with something softer. At last she said, barely above a whisper, "Yes. I want you there."
"Then I’ll be there."
"Good."
"Good," he echoed, though neither moved, and neither seemed entirely certain what they had agreed to.
"Marianne..." he began, his voice rougher than intended.
"Don’t," she said softly, and that single word stopped him cold. "Not yet. Maybe not ever. But definitely not yet."
Her gaze didn’t waver. There was no anger in it now; only exhaustion, a wary tenderness, and perhaps the faintest spark of something that might one day be forgiveness.
"When will you know?" he asked quietly.
"When it happens," she said. "If it happens."
"That’s vague."
"That’s honest."
"I prefer specific timelines," he said, trying for lightness, though his tone betrayed the hope beneath it.
"And I prefer men who don’t lie about their entire identity," she countered, "yet here we are."
He winced, but nodded. "Fair point."
"I’m full of fair points."
"Among other things."
Her brows lifted. "Such as?"
"Flour," he said, almost smiling. "You’re full of flour. It’s everywhere—your hands, your sleeves, your hair. How do you manage that while wearing a cap?"
"It’s a talent," she said, straight-faced.
"An impressive one."
She smiled then and it was devastating in its quiet sincerity. The kind of smile that made his chest ache, that spoke of life and warmth and all the ordinary, beautiful things he’d forgotten how to want.
"Go home," she said after a moment, her voice gentler. "Your hands need rest, and I need to think."
"What will you think about?"
"Bread," she replied. "It’s simpler than dukes."
He tilted his head. "But less interesting?"
She met his eyes, a spark of humor returning. "Different interesting. Bread is predictably interesting. Dukes are chaotically interesting."
"I’m choosing to take that as a compliment."
"That’s very optimistic of you."
"I’m learning optimism," he said, smiling faintly.
"Careful," she replied. "It might suit you."
He left then, walking through the falling snow back to the inn. His hands hurt, his back ached from all the work, and he was exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with physical labor and everything to do with emotional effort.
But she'd smiled. She'd held his hands. She'd invited him to the next day’s celebration. It wasn't forgiveness, not yet, but it was progress.
***
"Your Grace looks marginally less tragic than this morning," Grimsby observed when Alaric returned to his room. "Though significantly more damaged. Are those bandages?"
"Battle wounds from roof repair."
"Your Grace engaged in actual manual labor?"
"Your Grace engaged in four hours of roofing in winter weather."
"And survived?"
"Barely."
"And was this heroic effort appreciated?"
"She made me soup."
"Soup. How romantic."
"It was actually. We sat by her fire and talked without arguing for almost an hour."
"A miracle indeed."
"Don't jest, Grimsby. It's progress."
"I'm not jesting, Your Grace. I'm genuinely pleased. You've been brooding for five days. It's good to see you with something approaching hope."
"Is that what this is? Hope?"
"Either that or indigestion from the soup."
"The soup was excellent."
"Then it's hope."
"Your Grace appears to be attempting to strangle his cravat, which suggests either a sudden hatred of neckwear or an unprecedented level of nervousness about tonight's village celebration."
Alaric stopped his fourth attempt at tying the perfectly simple knot he'd been managing without thought since he was twelve and turned to face Grimsby, who was watching with an expression of barely contained amusement.
"I'm not nervous. I'm simply ensuring I'm properly dressed for a village bonfire, which requires a different level of formality than London events, being neither too elevated which would seem condescending, nor too casual which would seem dismissive, but rather striking exactly the right note of respectful participation without aristocratic pretension. "
"Of course, Your Grace. And this has nothing to do with the fact that Mrs. Whitby specifically invited you to attend and you've been preparing for this evening with the intensity of a military campaign."
"I've done nothing of the sort."
"Your Grace has changed clothes three times, practiced casual conversation starters with Thomas Ironwell for an hour, and is currently destroying what was a perfectly serviceable cravat."
"The cravat was already substandard."
"The cravat was perfect until Your Grace decided it needed to be exactly the right shade of informal formality, whatever that means."
"It means," Alaric said, giving up on the cravat entirely and starting over with a fresh one, "that this is my first village event as myself, not as Mr. Fletcher, and the entire village will be watching to see if I'm sincere about staying and being part of this community."
"And Mrs. Whitby will be watching to see if Your Grace is sincere about other things entirely."
"That too."
"Might I suggest, Your Grace, that sincerity is better demonstrated through action than through perfectly tied neckwear?"
"You might suggest it, but I'm still going to ensure the neckwear is perfect as well."
"Very good, Your Grace. Though perhaps I should mention that the celebration began twenty minutes ago and Your Grace's absence is probably being noted with increasing speculation."
Alaric froze mid-knot. "Twenty minutes ago? Why didn't you say something?"
"I've been trying to, Your Grace, but you were engaged in what appeared to be a philosophical debate with your wardrobe about the metaphysical implications of button choices."
"That's an exaggeration."
"Your Grace literally asked the waistcoat if it conveyed 'approachable authority with undertones of romantic possibility.'"
"I was thinking out loud."
"Your Grace was having a conversation with clothing. That transcends thinking out loud and enters the realm of concerning behaviour."
Alaric abandoned the cravat entirely, leaving it slightly crooked in a way that probably achieved the casual formality he'd been attempting to manufacture. "How do I look?"
"Like a duke pretending to be a common man, pretending to be comfortable, pretending to be himself."
"That's unnecessarily complicated."
"Your Grace's emotional state is unnecessarily complicated. The clothing is merely reflecting its wearer."
Before Alaric could defend his perfectly reasonable emotional complications, there was a knock at the door.
Grimsby opened the door to reveal Marianne Whitby, dressed in her best winter dress of deep blue wool that made her eyes even more dangerous than usual, her hair pinned up in a way that was already showing signs of rebellion against its constraints, and an expression that suggested she was both amused and exasperated in equal measure.
"You're late," she said without preamble, looking past Grimsby to where Alaric stood frozen in surprise.
"You came to fetch me?"
"The entire village is waiting to see if you'll actually show up or if you'll flee to London after all. Mrs. Morrison has started a betting pool on how long you'll last before making an excuse to leave. Currently, the odds favor you lasting less than an hour."
"That's insulting."
"That's realistic, based on historical precedent. Are you coming or are you going to continue whatever sartorial crisis you're clearly having?"
"I'm not having a sartorial crisis."
"Your cravat is crooked and you have the general air of someone who's been overthinking everything for the past hour."
"How can you possibly know all that?"
"The cravat is obvious and the overthinking is just your general state of being."
Grimsby made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh. "Mrs. Whitby has Your Grace's measure quite precisely."
"Thank you, Grimsby. Your support is, as always, overwhelming."
Marianne stepped into the room, moving with the confidence of someone who'd decided something important and wasn't going to waste time with preliminaries. "Right, we're fixing this. Grimsby, is there a simple cravat without any pretensions?"
"Several, madam. His Grace rejected them all as either too simple or not simple enough."
"Of course he did." She moved to Alaric, reaching up to undo the crooked cravat with businesslike efficiency. "Hold still."
"I can tie my own cravat."
"Clearly you can't, not tonight anyway. You're nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"You're terrified. The whole village is going to be watching you, judging whether the Duke of Wexmere can actually be part of things or whether you're just playing at it."
"That's... actually accurate."
"I know. That's why I came to get you." Her hands were gentle as she retied the cravat with simple efficiency, nothing fancy, just clean lines that somehow looked better than all his elaborate attempts. "There. You look like yourself."
"Do I? Because I'm not entirely sure who that is anymore."
"You're the man who worked until his hands bled fixing my roof. You're the duke who listened to three hours of village complaints without once looking bored. You're the fool who fell in love with a baker and had to learn to make gingerbread to prove it."
"I haven't made gingerbread yet."
"You will. It's tradition. Everyone who's truly part of the village makes gingerbread for New Year's luck."
"And if I fail spectacularly?"
"Then you'll fit right in. Half the village fails spectacularly every year. Mr. Ironwell once made gingerbread so hard it broke a tooth. His own tooth."
"That's oddly comforting."
"Come on," she said, stepping back but not before her hands lingered just a moment on his chest, smoothing the fabric of his waistcoat in a gesture that was almost tender.
"The bonfire's been lit, Thomas's already started three different betting pools about us, and Mrs. Morrison is practically vibrating with matchmaking energy. "
"About us?"
"Oh yes. The current bets include whether we'll dance together, whether you'll make some sort of declaration, and whether I'll throw something at you before the night ends."
"What are the odds on that last one?"
"Depressingly high in favor of violence."
"And what do you think?"
"I think," she said, moving toward the door, "that the village is about to be surprised."
"In what way?"
She looked back at him with a smile that made his heart do something complicated and possibly medically concerning in his chest. "You'll see."