Chapter 18
The walk to the village square was both too long and too short.
Too long because he could feel Marianne beside him, close enough to touch but not touching, the space between them charged with possibility.
Too short because he wasn't nearly ready for the scrutiny of the entire village watching to see what would happen between the duke who'd lied and the widow who'd been betrayed.
The bonfire was massive, flames reaching toward the stars in defiance of the winter cold.
The entire village seemed to be there, clustered in groups around braziers for warmth, children running about, adults passing around flasks of something that was definitely not tea despite what they might claim if asked.
Their arrival caused a ripple of attention, conversations pausing, heads turning, everyone suddenly very interested in watching while pretending not to watch.
"They're all staring," Alaric murmured.
"Let them stare," Marianne replied, and then, in a move that caused several audible gasps, she took his arm. Not formally, the way a lady might take a gentleman's arm at a London ball, but casually, possessively, the way a woman might claim a man she'd decided belonged to her.
"Marianne," he said, surprised.
"What? We're neighbours. Neighbours can be friendly."
"This is more than friendly."
"Is it? How unfortunate. I was aiming for scandalous."
"You're going to cause a riot."
"I'm going to cause gossip. There's a difference. Riots involve property damage. Gossip just involves property speculation."
"What kind of property speculation?"
"About whether I'll be moving into the hall or you'll be moving into the bakery."
"Marianne!"
"What? They're going to talk anyway. Might as well give them something interesting to discuss."
They made their way through the crowd, Marianne still holding his arm, her chin raised in challenge to anyone who might comment.
People greeted them with varying degrees of warmth—some still suspicious of Alaric, others seemingly delighted by this development, and Thomas practically bouncing with excitement.
"You came together!" he announced loudly enough for half the square to hear. "I win five shillings from Jimmy Patterson!"
"Thomas," his mother scolded, "it's not polite to bet on people's romantic situations."
"It's not romance, it's economics. I'm investing in probable outcomes."
"That's a very sophisticated way of describing gossip gambling."
"I prefer entrepreneurial speculation."
Mrs. Morrison appeared as if summoned by the mere thought of matchmaking, her face bright with delighted triumph. "Your Grace! Mrs. Whitby! How wonderful to see you together! And actually together-together, not just accidentally-in-the-same-place together!"
"We're attending a village celebration," Marianne said mildly. "Everyone's together."
"Yes, but you're together-together. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"You're holding his arm."
"It's icy. I didn't want him to fall. He has a terrible history with gravity."
"That's very considerate of you."
"I'm a considerate person."
"You once threw a rolling pin at Mr. Martin."
"He said my sourdough was dense. Violence was justified."
"And what would justify you holding the duke's arm?"
"The prevention of aristocratic injury. Can't have him falling and breaking something important. Who would sign all those papers he's been signing to fix the village?"
"I could sign with my left hand if necessary," Alaric offered.
"See? He's already planning for injury. Clearly he needs supervision."
The conversation might have continued in this vein indefinitely, but the vicar appeared, looking harried.
"Your Grace! Wonderful! We need someone tall. A torch fixed on top of the bonfire structure is crooked and Thomas's father is afraid of heights since the tree incident."
"I'll help," Alaric offered immediately.
"So will I," Marianne added, which caused another ripple of interested murmuring from the observers.
They spent the next hour helping with various celebration preparations, working side by side with an ease that felt both new and familiar.
Marianne had released his arm to work, but she stayed close, their hands occasionally brushing as they passed tools or materials, each touch sending little shocks of awareness through him.
"You're staring," she murmured at one point, not looking at him as she arranged wooden tables for the food.
"I'm admiring your table arrangement technique."
"I'm literally just putting tables in a line."
"But you're doing it with such precision and grace."
"That might be the worst compliment I've ever received."
"I could try for worse if you'd like."
"Please don't. Your compliments are already painfully awkward."
"That's part of my charm."
"You think you have charm?"
"I have something. You're still here, aren't you?"
She looked at him then and something in her expression shifted from jesting to something softer, more serious. "Yes, I'm still here."
"Even though I'm terrible at compliments?"
"Even though you're terrible at most things involving human interaction."
"That seems harsh."
"You literally hid behind a newspaper to avoid talking to people."
"That was strategic avoidance, not poor human interaction."
"That's the same thing."
"It's really not."
"It really is."
They were standing closer now, having somehow drifted together while bantering, and Alaric was very aware that people were watching them with the intensity of scientists observing a rare phenomenon.
"Marianne," he said quietly, "everyone's staring."
"I know."
"Doesn't it bother you?"
"It did. This morning, it would have mortified me. But then I spent all day thinking about what you said last night."
"What did I say?"
"That you have nothing but time. That you'll prove yourself every day in small ways until I believe you."
"I meant it."
"I know. That's why I'm here, holding your arm in public and causing enough gossip to fuel village conversation until spring."
"Is that the only reason?"
"No," she said simply, and then, before he could ask what the other reasons might be, Mrs. Morrison's voice rang out across the square.
"Gingerbread time! Everyone who's participating, to the bakery! We have two hours until midnight!"
"That's our cue," Marianne said, taking his arm again with a naturalness that made his chest tight. "Ready to prove you belong here?"
"By making gingerbread?"
"By participating in ridiculous traditions with good humor and bad baking skills."
"I've been practicing."
"Have you?"
"No, but I thought it might make you feel better about what's about to happen."
"Which is?"
"Complete disaster, probably."
"Definitely. But at least it'll be entertaining disaster."
The bakery was already crowded with villagers when they arrived, every available surface covered with bowls and ingredients and the controlled chaos of communal baking.
Marianne had to release his arm to navigate the crowd, but she caught his hand instead, pulling him through the press of people with casual intimacy that had several women exchanging significant looks.
"Here," Marianne said, guiding him toward a worktable tucked near the back of the crowded bakery.
“This is traditionally the least desirable station—too close to the oven, perpetually too warm, and cursed with uneven heat. But it has one advantage: fewer witnesses when you inevitably create something unspeakable.”
“Your confidence in my abilities is overwhelming,” Alaric replied dryly.
“I have perfect confidence in you,” she returned sweetly. “Perfect confidence that you will somehow turn flour, sugar, and spice into a form of chaos hitherto unknown to mankind.”
“That was one time.”
“Three,” she corrected. “You have failed spectacularly at baking in my presence on three separate occasions.”
“Third time’s the charm?”
“Fourth time’s another disaster...but we shall see.”
She began gathering the ingredients with quick, practiced movements.
There was a grace in the way she worked; fluid, efficient, assured.
She measured by sight, by instinct, by the subtle understanding that came only from a thousand repetitions.
Alaric found himself watching her hands, the sure flex of her fingers as she scooped flour, the deft wrist turn as she cracked an egg.
“You’re staring again,” she said, not looking up.
“I’m learning through observation.”
“You’re memorizing my hands.”
“Your hands are very memorable.”
“That’s an extraordinarily odd compliment.”
“Would you prefer an ordinary one?”
“I’d prefer you actually assist rather than standing there as though the flour might attack.”
“The flour and I have a complicated history.”
“The flour is innocent,” she said crisply. “You’re the one who turned it into a weapon.”
“That was accidental weaponization.”
“There is no such thing.”
“There is when I’m involved.”
Her laugh, bright and quick, filled the warm air between them. He hadn’t realized until that sound how long he’d gone without hearing it, how much lighter the world became when she let herself laugh.
“Very well,” she said, moving beside him. “Let us try again—properly this time.”
Unlike before, she didn’t stand at a distance issuing instructions.
She came close, close enough for him to feel the brush of her sleeve against his arm.
Her hand covered his as she guided it into the bowl.
“Feel how it comes together,” she murmured, her breath stirring the curls near his temple. “Not too firm. Just enough to bind.”
He swallowed. “This feels different from before.”
“The dough?”
“Everything. You. This. Us.”
Her hands stilled, though she didn’t move away. “It is different.”
“How?”
“I spent the entire day telling the dough about you.”
He turned his head slightly. “You talked to the dough about me?”
“It listens better than most men,” she said with a faint smile.
“And what did you tell it?”
“That I’m tired of being angry,” she said softly. “That anger is exhausting. And that you…”
“I what?”
She turned to face him fully. Flour dusted her dress, her hair, even her cheek, and in the flickering light she looked both ridiculous and radiant. “You’re worth the risk.”
The noise of the room seemed to fade—the chatter, the clatter of bowls, even the hiss of the oven. There was only Marianne, close enough that he could see the minute tremor in her breath, and the unfamiliar, fragile hope curling between them.
“Marianne...”
She broke the spell with a brisk smile. “We should roll the dough before it grows too warm.”
They worked side by side, their movements gradually falling into rhythm.
Conversation around them ebbed and flowed, laughter echoed, and yet they found a quiet sort of harmony within the bustle.
Their shoulders brushed occasionally; their hands reached for the same rolling pin more than once. Each accidental touch felt deliberate.
“You’re improving,” Marianne observed at last, eyeing his fifth reasonably shaped gingerbread man.
“I told you I’d been practicing.”
“When, precisely?”
“In my head.”
“Mental baking does not count.”
“It’s theoretical baking.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now. I’m pioneering it.”
“You’re pioneering new ways to avoid admitting you have no idea what you’re doing.”
“That too.”
She laughed again, and on a reckless impulse, he flicked a little flour toward her. Just enough to dust her nose.
“Did you just assault me with baking ingredients?” she demanded, eyes narrowing in mock outrage.
“It was a defensive flour deployment.”
“Defensive against what?”
“Your brutally accurate assessment of my competence.”
“That’s not how defense works.”
“It’s how my defence works.”
Her eyes glinted. She reached for the flour tin, fingers closing around a generous handful.
“Marianne, no,” he warned. “We are in public. The entire village is here.”
“You started it.”
“I was illustrating a point.”
“What point?”
“I’ve forgotten, but it was an excellent one.”
“Your point,” she said, her tone prim as a governess, “is that you are a child who throws flour when losing an argument.”
“I was not losing. I was conducting a strategic retreat.”
“Into flour warfare?”
“Tactical flour warfare.”
And then she simply threw the flour at him.