Chapter 14
Fourteen
“You are not actually going to try the wheelbarrow race, are you?” Eliza asked, squinting at the heap of chaos assembling near the pond’s edge.
August feigned offense as he steered her off the main thoroughfare, expertly navigating a knot of toddlers and a dog that looked as though it had never known a leash. “My dear, if you have never seen the Duke of Wildmoore in a wheelbarrow, you have not lived.”
“I was under the impression that the wheelbarrow was, by definition, for objects and not for persons.” She kept pace with him, a neat two steps behind, though when they reached the fence line she forged ahead as if she owned the field.
“That is a common misconception.” He grinned at her sidelong. “The real trick is getting the person out of the wheelbarrow without causing a scandal or a lawsuit.”
“Is that the voice of experience, My Lord?”
He was about to answer when a high, delighted shriek split the air. Down by the duck pond, three children—two with identical braids and one missing a shoe—had managed to upend a fourth into a drift of mud.
August pointed. “Observe: natural selection at work.”
Eliza smothered a smile. “You are terrible.”
“Terribly accurate.” He looked around then leaned closer. “Would you like to see who wins the wheelbarrow race? I have money on the Sykes twins, but the younger one cheats.”
“I would, but only if you explain the rules as we go. I have never attended a country fair,” she admitted.
He stopped walking, genuinely caught off guard. “Never?”
She shook her head. “Not unless you count the harvest festivals in town, but those were more about voting and less about sport.”
“Then it is my solemn duty to provide the full experience,” he announced, and offered his arm as if escorting her into a ballroom, not a field of trampling boots and hay.
They circled the pond, passing a ring of baking contests and a man painted entirely blue who was singing patriotic songs in the village dialect.
August greeted everyone by name, swapping greetings and minor insults, and Eliza noted each with a slight inclination of her head, as if filing the data for later strategic deployment.
He found himself pointing out every tenant, every minor eccentric, and offering up stories he usually kept for after-dinner whiskey. “That’s Mrs. Bramley—she once chased a fox from her henhouse with nothing but a broom and her nightcap still on.”
“Did she succeed?” Eliza asked.
“She did. The fox is still in therapy.”
She laughed—really laughed, not the cool chuckle she reserved for London acquaintances. It made something in his chest rearrange itself, and for a moment, he almost missed the next hazard: a ginger-haired boy with a tray of biscuits and a single front tooth.
“Would you like a biscuit, M’Lord?” The boy thrust the tray upward, nearly toppling the entire batch.
August bowed slightly. “Only if you baked them yourself, William.”
“I did! But Mamma says they are not fit for the judges.” He looked at the ground. “Too much…” He scrunched his face. “Everything.”
“They cannot be worse than the Sykes twins’ biscuits from last year. Their secret ingredient was pipe tobacco,” August confided.
Eliza accepted a biscuit and bit down. For a moment, her expression did not change. Then she swallowed—audibly. “That is… robust,” she said and turned to August, daring him to follow suit.
He did. The taste was like an assault, and he had to will his features into neutrality. “Excellent depth of flavor,” he said, but even William looked skeptical.
Eliza’s mouth twitched. “The second note is… overwhelming.”
“Is it cinnamon?” August guessed.
“Mustard powder,” William declared, pleased.
Eliza blinked. “That would explain it.”
They handed back the empty napkin, and August slipped the boy a shilling. William vanished, trailing crumbs.
They walked on, past a coconut shy and a display of prize turnips, and everywhere they went, people greeted them as if they were minor deities.
Eliza accepted it. She stooped to admire a hand-carved whistle at a toy stall, tried a skein of yarn at the spinner’s tent, and was promptly recruited by Dorothy to judge the “Best Jam” contest.
He watched her work the crowd, marveling at her ability to remember names and preferences after a single introduction.
When Mrs. Warburton presented her with a jar of rhubarb preserve, Eliza not only praised the flavor, but she also referenced the woman’s daughter’s recent marriage, earning a blush and a grateful curtsy.
She was, in every way, a marchioness, but she made it seem accidental.
His sisters were stationed at the fortune-teller’s tent, casting lots and causing mischief. He saw June arguing with the fortune-teller, demanding a second reading on the basis that the first was “clearly a fraud.” Dorothy was nearby, cradling a bundle of scones as if it were a newborn.
Albert, true to form, had planted himself at the center of the green, using his cane as a prop to direct the ebb and flow of passersby. He looked five years younger than he had the previous week, a king in exile finding himself back among his subjects.
August waved to him, and Albert managed a salute with the cane. “You’re not embarrassing yourself, I hope?” the old man called, loud enough for half the village to hear.
“Never!” August shouted back. “Eliza is keeping me in line.”
Albert laughed then summoned Dorothy for a scone. The Duke looked entirely at peace, and August felt a pang of envy for the simple satisfaction in his father’s face.
A tug on his arm brought him back. Eliza had found a ring-toss game, and without ceremony, she challenged him to a contest.
“Are you any good at this?” she asked, lining up her first throw.
He watched her: sleeve rolled back, eyes narrowed, a smudge of flour still at her wrist from the earlier jam judging.
“I am excellent at losing,” he replied.
She missed the first two then, after a moment’s analysis, adjusted her stance and landed the next three in a row.
He tried, of course, and failed spectacularly. “Do you plan to lord this victory over me?”
“I plan to savor it,” she replied, accepting the prize—an inelegant but charming painted duck—from the attendant.
She cradled the duck as they walked. “Did you ever attend these as a child?”
He nodded. “Every summer. Sometimes my father would race me to the pond, but he always let me win.”
“Do you let yourself win now?” she asked, curious but not unkind.
He considered. “I suppose I prefer not to compete at all.”
“That sounds lonely,” she observed, almost under her breath.
He shot her a look, but she was watching a trio of girls practice a country dance at the edge of the green.
They walked in companionable silence for a while. The sun was low, and the air tasted of grass and woodsmoke.
“You seem happier here,” she observed.
He stopped. “You say that as if it is surprising.”
She shrugged, and the movement made her seem smaller, less formidable. “I am still learning what surprises you.”
He wanted to say something clever, but the words caught in his throat. He found himself staring at her, really staring, and seeing not the meticulous marchioness but a woman who had braved a room full of strangers with her chin up and her wit unsheathed.
She held his gaze, and for the first time, he wondered if she saw through him entirely.
“Would you like a lemonade?” he asked, desperate to redirect the moment.
“I would,” she said, smiling.
He bought two lemonades, and for the price of an extra coin, he procured a sugar twist from the vendor. They wandered toward the edge of the fair, past a cluster of musicians tuning fiddles and a knot of children rolling hoops along the path.
August felt oddly content, as if someone had replaced the bones inside him with something softer and less likely to break.
He noticed the way her hair caught the afternoon light, how the tips glowed against her neck. He noticed the smudge of berry jam at her cuff and the slight wince when she laughed too hard at his jokes.
She was, he realized, the first person in years he wanted to impress, not for the sake of reputation but for the pure, simple pleasure of making her smile.
They circled back to the pond where the wheelbarrow race was just finishing. A pair of boys crossed the line first, but the real entertainment was the aftermath: toppled children, grass stains, and a burly farmer who’d lost his boots in the mud.
Eliza clapped and cheered with everyone else then leaned into him. “You were right. The Sykes twins cheat.”
He grinned. “I am never wrong about village politics.”
They lingered at the pond’s edge, sipping the lemonades.
August looked over at Albert, who was laughing with Dorothy and holding court for an audience of local farmers.
He looked at Eliza, who was absentmindedly spinning the painted duck by its string.
He looked at himself, or rather, inward, and found that he did not miss the city or the parties or even the sense of constant purpose.
What he felt was worse: contentment.
It should have made him uneasy.
He was unprepared for the sudden, insistent want that came with the thought of more days like this—more fairs, more laughter, more Eliza. It was the sort of desire that did not announce itself but simply settled in, solid and unyielding.
He wanted to stay here, in this exact spot, forever. It was a thoroughly unducal sentiment.
He turned to Eliza, only to find her watching him, a question in her eyes.
“What is it?” she asked, voice quiet.
He tried to assemble a joke, but nothing would come. “Nothing,” he said and shook his head. “Only that I am glad you are here.”
She smiled at him, and the world tipped just a fraction.
For the first time in his life, he wondered if he was not so much the master of his fate as its most eager victim.
He would have to think about that later.
For now, there was another wheelbarrow race about to start, and Eliza had already taken his hand, pulling him along toward the noise and the crowd.
He went, willingly, and the feeling stayed with him for the rest of the afternoon and well into the night.
Eliza relished the quiet as she settled in her private sitting room with her slippers kicked off and a stack of novels arranged on the end table. The day’s laughter still clung to her, a pleasant ache in her cheeks and arms. She was sun-tired, jam-stained, and for once, entirely at peace.
She allowed herself the luxury of collapsing into the overstuffed armchair by the hearth. Dorothy had insisted on lighting every available candle, so the room glowed with an improbable, golden warmth. Eliza propped a foot on the low table, surveying the battered row of books.
She selected the oldest, its spine cracked and patched with glue, and was halfway through the first page when the door creaked open.
August filled the threshold, his coat off and hair a little disordered, an object draped across his arm.
“You seem determined to leave a trail of possessions across the county,” he said, holding up her shawl.
Eliza felt the now-familiar flutter at the base of her throat. “Oh, it is my shawl. I was wondering where it had gone.”
“It was last seen attempting to strangle a turnip at the fair,” he replied, entering the room and shutting the door behind him.
She snorted. “That turnip started it.”
He leaned against the sideboard, arms crossed, the shawl dangling in accusation. “Would you mind leaving a slipper next? Tradition demands it.”
She tried not to smile. “Will you search for the owner?”
He looked her over—slippers abandoned, hair undone, the smallest hint of flour at her cuff. “I would scour the kingdom to find you.”
For one improbable second, the air in the room changed. Eliza was keenly aware of her bare foot on the table, the way the candlelight softened every surface, and the distance (not much) between her and the man who had spent the afternoon making her laugh.
August’s eyes did something strange then: they dropped to her mouth then back up, as if rehearsing a question he did not intend to ask.
“Would you like your shawl?” he said, softer.
“I suppose I must reclaim it,” she replied. She rose to meet him, catching her balance on the table edge.
He stepped forward, holding the shawl between them, but he did not immediately hand it over. Instead, he looked at her—really looked—and she felt the shock of it, as if no one had ever seen her so clearly before.
She reached for the shawl, but he did not let go, and their hands closed over it at the same time. The contact was so brief it was almost nothing, yet it thundered in her chest.
He said, “You made quite an impression today.”
She smiled, fighting to keep her voice even. “That is what jam contests are for, I believe.”
He let go, but his hand hovered for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. “The entire village is convinced you could run Wildmoore singlehanded.”
“Perhaps I shall if you tire of it,” she replied, pulling the shawl around her shoulders. “It seems manageable.”
“You are dangerous,” he said.
“I am a model of moderation,” she replied.
He shook his head, moving past her to stand nearer the hearth. “You are not what I expected, Eliza.”
“Nor are you,” she said, quietly.
The words hung between them, weighted and real.
He turned, and in the play of candlelight, she saw something unguarded in his face—something she might have called longing if she dared.
She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but he beat her to it.
“I do not mean to intrude,” he said, a shade too quickly. “I only wished to return this and thank you for… today.”
She shook her head. “You are not intruding.”
He nodded, uncertain. “I should—”
She did not know if he meant to leave or to close the gap between them. She hoped for both and neither.
August cleared his throat. “I have the accounts to finish before supper. If you need anything—”
She felt her lips curve in spite of herself. “I have my shawl now. All is well.”
“Very well,” he said, but he lingered, hand on the door. He looked at her once more, and this time, there was no mask at all.
Then he was gone, the latch clicking shut behind him.
Eliza stared at the door, then down at the shawl in her hands. Her pulse hammered. She had never felt so much from so little, and it frightened her. As she sat, she raised her fingers to brush her lips, realizing she had wanted desperately for him to kiss her.
She wondered how long it would be before she saw him again and why it mattered so much.