Epilogue #2
Sarah had the grace to look momentarily embarrassed, but recovered quickly. "I think the Duke of Wexmere has obligations to his position."
"His obligation is to be happy."
"Happiness is temporary. Duty is forever."
"How sad for you, to believe that."
"How naive of you to believe otherwise. You think this will last? You in his world?"
"I think I don't need to be in his world. He's choosing to be in mine."
"A duke can't live in a bakery."
"No, but a man can. And Alaric is a man before he's a duke."
"That's where you're wrong. He's a duke first, last, always. It's in his blood, his bones, his very nature. You can dress yourself in silk and jewels, but you'll never be more than a baker playing at being a lady."
Marianne felt the words hit like physical blows, but she kept her chin high. "You're right. I am a baker. I create things, nurture things, feed people. What do you do, Lady Sarah, besides exist decoratively and wait for a title to marry you?"
Sarah's face flushed with anger. "How dare you?"
"I dare because I have nothing to lose. If Alaric chooses duty over love, then he's not the man I thought he was. But if he chooses love, and he has chosen love, then your perfect pedigree and pretty face mean nothing."
"We'll see," Sarah said coldly. "The evening is young."
She swept away, leaving Marianne shaking with anger and hurt. The worst part was the grain of truth in Sarah's words. Could Alaric really give up all this for a life in Hollingford?
"There you are." Alaric appeared, immediately noticing her distress. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Just... it's a lot."
"Someone said something. Who was it?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It does if it upset you. Was it Sarah?"
Marianne's silence was answer enough.
"What did she say?"
"Nothing that wasn't true."
"Marianne..."
"Can we just... not? Not here?"
He studied her face, then nodded. "Come with me."
He led her through the ballroom, out onto a terrace that overlooked the garden. It was cold, but the fresh air was a relief after the overwhelming heat of the ballroom.
"Better?" he asked, wrapping his jacket around her shoulders.
"Yes."
"Now tell me what she said."
"That you're a duke first, last, always. That I'll never be more than a baker playing at being a lady."
"She's wrong."
"Is she? Look at this place, Alaric. This is your world...the grandeur, the tradition, the expectations. Can you really give it up for a bakery in Hollingford?"
"I'm not giving anything up. I'm choosing something better."
"Your aunt, society, everyone expects..."
"I don't care what they expect."
"You say that now, but..."
He kissed her, cutting off her protests and not caring if anyone saw them. When they pulled apart, he kept her close.
"Listen to me. Really listen. I have spent my entire adult life meeting their expectations. I was miserable. Then you crashed into my life with pies and flour and suddenly I was alive. Really alive. Do you think I'd trade that for their approval?"
"But your duty..."
"My duty is to be a good landlord to my tenants, a responsible member of Parliament when necessary, and a good man. None of that requires me to live up to society's expectations of what a duke should be."
"They'll make your life difficult."
"Let them try. I have something they don't."
"What?"
"You."
Before Marianne could respond, Lady Bethany appeared in the doorway. "There you are. It's time for the dinner. Come, you're seated at my table."
The dining room was another exercise in overwhelming grandeur. The table settings were indeed complex—multiple forks, spoons, glasses. Marianne felt panic rising.
"Just follow my lead," Alaric murmured, seated beside her.
The dinner was a careful dance of conversation and cutlery.
Marianne watched Alaric, mimicking his choices, managing to get through the first courses without disaster.
The conversation was equally challenging—politics she didn't understand, gossip about people she didn't know, references to events she'd never attended.
But then Lord Browne mentioned something about grain prices, and Marianne found herself contributing.
She knew about grain; prices, quality, the impact of weather on harvests.
Soon she was in a genuine discussion with several lords about agricultural matters, her practical knowledge surprising them.
"You actually understand farming," Lord Rhodes (Alaric's uncle) said with delight. "Do you know how rare that is at these tables?"
"I understand bread," Marianne said simply. "And bread starts with grain."
"Practical knowledge," he approved. "Bethany, I like her."
"I haven't decided yet," Lady Bethany said, but there was something softer in her expression.
As the evening progressed, Marianne began to relax slightly.
Indeed, some people were horrible, but others were kind.
The Drummond twins were hilarious, constantly confusing people by switching seats.
Lady Carmichael, the gossip, was actually warm and funny.
Even some of the younger ladies, once away from Sarah's influence, were friendly.
"You're enjoying yourself," Alaric observed as they returned to the ballroom.
"I'm surviving."
"You're conquering."
"I'm faking very well."
"No, you're being yourself, and they're responding to it. Look...even Aunt Bethany is almost smiling."
It was time for the final dance of the evening—traditionally, partners for this dance were significant. Alaric bowed to Marianne.
"May I have this honour?"
"Always," she replied.
As they took their position, Marianne became aware that the floor was surprisingly empty. Most couples were standing on the sides, watching.
"Why aren't they dancing?" she whispered.
"Because we are," Alaric replied. "This is their way of acknowledging us. Acknowledging you."
"That's terrifying."
"That's acceptance."
The music began—another waltz, slow and romantic. Alaric held her close, probably closer than strictly proper, but Marianne didn't care. They moved together perfectly, everything else fading away.
"I love you," he said quietly, for her ears only.
"Even after I insulted multiple peers and discussed grain prices at dinner?"
"Especially then."
"I love you too. Even if you are insufferably noble about everything."
"I'm only noble about you."
"That's the insufferable part."
They smiled at each other, and Marianne heard sighs from some of the watching ladies. Let them watch. Let them see that their perfect duke has chosen a baker and is happy about it.
As the dance ended, Lady Bethany approached. "Well," she said, studying them both. "This is unexpected."
"Aunt Bethany..." Alaric began.
"You love her."
"Completely."
"And you, girl? You love him?"
"More than bread," Marianne said, which made Alaric laugh.
"That's saying something," he told his aunt. "She really loves bread."
Lady Bethany looked between them for a long moment. "You know society will gossip."
"Let them," Alaric said.
"Your life will be more difficult."
"It will be more real."
"And you, girl—Mrs. Whitby. Can you handle this world?"
"No," Marianne said honestly. "But I can handle him. And together we can handle anything."
Lady Bethany nodded slowly. "The wedding will be in London."
"The wedding will be in Hollingford," Alaric corrected.
"That's not how ducal weddings work."
"It's how our wedding will work."
They stared at each other, aunt and nephew, wills clashing. Then Lady Bethany smiled, a real smile that transformed her face.
"Your mother would have loved her," she said simply. "She has spine."
"The best spine," Alaric agreed.
"Don't let society break it."
"Never."
As they prepared to leave, Sarah made one last attempt. She approached as they waited for their carriage, beautiful and desperate.
"Alaric, please reconsider. We're perfect for each other."
"No, Sarah. We're perfect on paper. Marianne and I are perfect in reality."
"She'll never fit in."
"Then I'll fit into her world instead."
"You can't mean that."
"I've never meant anything more."
Sarah looked at Marianne with pure hatred. "This isn't over."
"Yes," Marianne said firmly. "It is. You had your chance...years of chances, from what I understand. You never wanted him, just his title. I want the man who burns bread and falls off ladders and throws flour when frustrated."
"I threw flour once!" Alaric protested. "Why does everyone fixate on that?"
"It was memorable," Marianne said, taking his arm. "Good evening, Lady Sarah."
They left Sarah standing in the cold, furious and defeated.
In the carriage, Marianne finally let herself relax completely, sagging against Alaric.
"That was exhausting."
"That was brilliant. You were brilliant. You conquered London society in one evening."
"I survived London society. There's a difference."
"You made Lord Browne think about something other than roses. That's a miracle."
"I like Lord Browne. He's passionate about something real."
"Roses are real?"
"More real than most of what we discussed tonight."
"Fair point."
They were quiet for a moment, then Marianne said, "your aunt gave permission."
"She gave acceptance. Even better."
"The wedding really should be in London."
"The wedding will be wherever you want it."
"I want it in Hollingford. With the geese."
"Not the geese."
"Especially the geese. They're part of our story."
"Our story includes too many geese."
"Our story is perfect."
"Even the part where I lied about my identity?"
"Even that. It brought us together."
"You're being very forgiving."
"I'm being very tired. Tomorrow I might go back to throwing things at you."
"I'll look forward to it."
Back at the townhouse, as Marianne prepared for bed, with the help of a maid, which was strange and uncomfortable, she reflected on the evening.
It hadn't been perfect. There had been cutting remarks, social pitfalls, moments of pure terror.
But she'd survived. More than survived—she'd shown them all that she wasn't intimidated.
A knock at her door interrupted her thoughts. "Come in."
It was Alaric, still in his evening clothes but disheveled, cravat undone.
"You shouldn't be here," she said, though she didn't really mean it.
"I needed to see you. To make sure you were all right."
"I'm all right. Better than all right. I faced your world and didn't run screaming."
"You faced my world and conquered it."
"With help."
"We all need help. That's why we have partners."
"Is that what we are? Partners?"
"Partners, future spouses, co-conspirators in the great flour war."
"There was one flour incident!"
"It will live in infamy."
He crossed to her, taking her hands. "Thank you. For coming, for facing them, for being yourself despite the pressure to be someone else."
"Thank you for standing beside me."
"Always. Forever. Even when you throw things."
"I haven't thrown anything in weeks."
"The night is young."
She laughed, and he kissed her, sweet and deep and full of promise.
"We should go home tomorrow," she said when they pulled apart.
"Back to Hollingford?"
"Back to reality. This was lovely, well, terrifying but lovely, but it's not real life."
"No," he agreed. "Real life is you teaching me to bake while I fail spectacularly."
"You're getting better."
"Liar."
"Optimist."
"I love you," he said suddenly, seriously.
"I love you too. Even in your fancy duke clothes."
"Especially in my fancy duke clothes?"
"No, especially in your flour-covered apron that doesn't fit."
"I knew that apron would win you over eventually."
"It was definitely the apron, not the man wearing it."
"Of course."
“I love you” they said in unison and all the cares of the world drifted from them, light and harmless, as flour once scattered in their happiest play.
The End
Thank you for finishing reading "