Chapter Eighteen
The rain, thankfully, had let up. The ground was sodden, naturally, but the sun had come out, and puddles shimmered like broken mirrors, rainbows glinting in every ripple.
The village fair, held each year in the centre of the town, was already alive with bustle. Stalls and tables crowded the square, wooden planks laid down to form a maze of makeshift pathways. They were treacherous—slick and uneven—and one wrong step would send a person sliding off into the mud.
Neil kept his footing easily, striding the length of the square with his usual purpose, eyes sharp for anything amiss. He expected nothing out of order; Simon had supervised the setting-up.
Emma would be arriving soon and was currently dressing for the day.
Of course, Jenny had been left with her, and Maggie too.
Neil’s chest tightened at the memory of Maggie.
He could not seem to stop recalling how she’d stared up at him, her eyes wide, face shadowed by moonlight.
He recalled the warmth of her skin and how he had almost felt her pulse hammering in the side of her neck.
It had been wrong, of course—thoroughly wrong—to place her in such a position. He cursed himself for seeking her out on the terrace. Had he frightened her? No. Maggie Winter was not easily frightened. But he had, at the very least, made her uncomfortable.
The trouble is, Neil thought moodily, that I forgot I am a duke and she is a governess. I merely felt like a man.
Foolish. Foolish. Foolish.
Of course, Miss Winter was not quite what she seemed—he knew that. A runaway bride, perhaps? A witness to something darker? It didn’t matter. Whatever she was, she could not possibly feel anything for him. A woman in her position would be mad to do so.
I shall leave her alone, Neil promised himself. I shan’t trouble her again.
He distracted himself by inspecting the stalls more closely and stopping more frequently.
Lord and Lady Farendale skittered along behind him, their shoes clumping along the wooden boardwalks.
Lady Constance stood beside him, bedraggled and thoroughly miserable.
They kept their complaints to themselves, for now.
The fair would open officially at noon; it was now a quarter to.
Neil walked past stalls displaying bolts of bright fabric, embroidered handkerchiefs, beaded trinkets, and polished wooden toys.
The air smelled of gingerbread and sugar, spiced apples, and cider—warm, heavy scents that hung beneath the clearer breath of rain.
He paused at a stall of carved wooden ornaments: bracelets, pendants, and small figurines. Behind it sat an elderly woman, more wrinkle than flesh, with a long braid of iron-grey hair. Her face brightened when she saw him.
“Your Grace! What good it does me to see you,” she chirped. “Your father used to admire my work—many years ago now. A fine man, he was.”
Neil smiled. “I remember your stall well, Mrs Beaufort. I wish you luck today.”
“Luck? Don’t need it,” she tittered, holding up a brown, creased palm. “Not when one can read a person’s future right in the hand.”
“Mercy,” Lady Constance muttered—too audibly. She leaned up toward Neil’s ear, voice dripping disdain. “Let us leave this mad old creature to her ramblings.”
Mrs Beaufort’s face changed. She’d heard, of course. Still, she offered a smile, and picked up a neat little bracelet, made of carved wooden beads painted red, secured by an intricately braided piece of twine.
“For you, my lady,” Ann said, offering the bracelet. “It’s said to bring luck.”
Lady Constance drew back her hand. “I’ve no money.”
“It’s a gift,” the older woman offered kindly.
“Oh, goodness,” Constance scoffed, flashing her parents a grin. “I do not want it. Nobody wants it—keep your tat for the country girls and simpletons, won’t you?”
The old woman’s expression cooled. She cradled the bracelet in her palm, then looked up at Neil with a knowing lift of her brow.
To his mortification, he felt himself blush. He could not remember the last time he had done so. The Gambling Devil was not known for embarrassment—yet here he stood, crimson with it.
He turned to Lord Farendale, hoping the man would intervene, but his lordship was too busy eyeing the cider stall. Lady Farendale’s silence was heavy, almost pained.
“Well,” Mrs Beaufort said at last. “I may not have your palm before me, Your Grace, but I can tell you this much—your fortune does not lie with her.”
The words struck like a thrown stone.
Lady Constance gasped, then turned on Neil, eyes blazing. “Did you hear her? The insolence—”
“I did,” Neil said evenly. “And I heard what you said to her.”
“What’s that to do with anything?” Lord Farendale blustered, waddling closer. “Throw this woman out, Your Grace.”
“She ought to be whipped,” Lady Constance hissed.
Neil’s temper snapped taut. “I shall do no such thing. You were discourteous, Lady Constance—unnecessarily so. Mrs Beaufort had every right to defend herself.”
Lady Constance recoiled, eyes widening. She stared up at Neil, as if expecting him to back down, perhaps to smile or say something to soften what he had said. When Neil only stared back, she spun around, facing her father.
“I would like to go home, Papa,” she announced, lower lip quivering.
Lord Farendale puffed himself up like a porcupine. “Of course, my dear. Your Grace, I think we had best—”
“You are going nowhere.”
Neil hadn’t raised his voice, but suddenly it seemed very loud. He was vaguely aware that the chatter and laughter amongst the stalls had faded. Aunt Harriet had appeared from somewhere.
“I—I beg your pardon?” Lord Farendale stammered.
“I am the Duke of Burenwood,” Neil said, his tone quiet and deadly clear. “It is tradition that the duke attends the fair, and his household with him. My aunt invited you here as my guests; that makes you part of my household. Therefore, you will attend.”
Lord Farendale opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
“Surely you can’t mean—” Lady Constance began, her voice breaking into a nervous laugh. “Think of the filth! The impropriety! Papa never lets us—”
“You will all stay,” Neil said, slowly, deliberately. “You will smile. You will be civil to my tenants. And you will not embarrass yourselves—or me—further. If you do, you will learn exactly why they call me the Gambling Devil. Do you understand?”
There was an instant of shocked silence. Then Lord Farendale nodded tightly, swallowing.
“I’ll manage her, your Grace,” he muttered.
Neil turned on his heel and walked away. This time, nobody followed him.
***
By about one o’clock in the afternoon, the fair was bustling with activity.
The makeshift boardwalks were thick with mud, barely indistinguishable from the mud surrounding them.
At least a dozen people slid off the boards and fell flat into the mud, to the hilarity of their companions.
However, at least six or seven of them had been overindulging at the cider stall, which ought to be taken into consideration.
Lord Farendale and his daughter had diligently avoided Neil since their altercation. He was not much surprised. He suspected that they would make their excuses and leave. Frankly, he was relieved. Their presence was cloying, a memory of a world he’d rather leave behind.
Abruptly, he turned a corner and found himself face to face with Maggie, Jenny, and Emma.
“Uncle!” Emma squealed, holding up her arms for a hug. He swept her up, laughing.
“Are you enjoying the fair, my darling?” he asked, grinning.
“She is, very much,” Maggie spoke up, laughing. “She ate quite a bit of marzipan from one of the stalls. I should have stopped her, I think. She’ll never eat her dinner.”
Neil chuckled, tapping the tip of Emma’s nose. “Ah, a small indulgence is permitted at the fair. Have you seen the game stalls? Won anything?”
“No,” Emma sighed. “Jenny wanted to try, but I didn’t want her to spend her ha’penny on me.”
“Very noble,” Neil said. “Fortunately, I have plenty of ha’pennies to waste.”
He carried her toward a shy—a game of throwing stones at glass bottles. The boy at the counter straightened at the sight of him.
“Five throws, Your Grace. Knock down three, and you win sweets. Four, a small prize. Five, one of the toys.”
Neil studied the prizes lined up along the shelf. The sweets were the same kind sold elsewhere—brightly coloured, cloying, and far too sugary. The smaller prizes were marbles and a handful of carved wooden animals. The larger ones were ragdolls, each with its own crooked charm.
Grinning, Neil took up his first stone. Beside him, Emma rose on her tiptoes to peer over the counter. Jenny bent to whisper something in her ear, and Emma gave a small, delighted giggle.
Maggie stood silent, and still he felt her gaze—steady, curious, impossible to ignore.
He threw. One bottle fell, then another, then a third.
“Hooray, Uncle!” Emma squealed, clapping.
Neil smiled tightly, the muscles in his neck taut. Four bottles. One left.
He dared not glance at Maggie. If he did, he would miss.
The fifth bottle clattered to the ground.
“That one!” Emma cried, pointing to a red-haired doll. “Can I have that one?”
Neil nodded, breathless with relief. “That one it is.”
The boy handed it down, and Emma hugged it to her chest.
“Oh, well done, your Grace,” Maggie said, turning a beaming face up at Neil. She smiled so widely that it felt as though his insides were twisting in his stomach. “We could never have won such a gift for her.”
It was as if her eyes drew him in, forbidding him to look away. Neil’s lungs ached, as though he’d been holding his breath for the entire time.
“It was nothing,” he managed. “I only—”
“There you are, Neil.”
The breath rushed out of his body again at the sound of Aunt Harriet’s voice. The happiness faded from Maggie’s face, too. He had not even noticed how happy she was until it disappeared from her eyes. Clearing her throat and ducking her head, Maggie stepped back.
Aunt Harriet stepped forward, a tight smile on her face.
“May I speak with you, Neil? In private,” she added, gazing straight at Maggie.
Maggie nodded, still not meeting anybody’s eyes. Taking Jenny’s hand in one hand and Emma’s in another, the trio hurried along the muddy boards and out of sight.
Neil turned to his aunt, clenching his jaw.
“What is it?”
Aunt Harriet tilted her head. “Can’t you guess? The Fairfaxes are furious. Lord Farendale vows to leave this very night—although I can’t imagine he’ll go through with it. Lady Constance is on the brink of tears, and I suspect a full tantrum is brewing.”
“And what of it?”
“What of it?” She glared up at him. “You had no right to humiliate them like that. No right to threaten them.”
He met her stare evenly. “And you had no right to bring them here without my leave. Let’s not quarrel over rights, Aunt.”
Her mouth tightened. “You think I act to vex you, when all I want is your happiness. I think of your future—of Emma’s future. That child needs a mother, not a rotation of governesses and nursemaids.”
He flinched. “And you imagine Lady Constance would make one?”
“Why not? She was raised for such a life—she knows how to be a duchess. She is not fabulously wealthy but has a modest fortune. She is pretty, well-bred, and charming. Why can you not like her, Neil?”
There was a short silence after this. Neil sighed, raking a hand through his hair.
“I just don’t, Aunt. I am sorry that you have wasted your trouble.”
Aunt Harriet stared up at him, as if waiting for something.
“I shall ask you plain, then,” she said at last. “Do you intend to propose to Lady Constance Fairfax?”
He let out a rattling sigh. “No, Aunt. I do not.”
She pressed her lips together again, forming a bloodless line.
“I see. Well, do you intend to propose to the governess?”
Neil’s head shot up, eyes wide. “What? To Miss Winter?”
“Don’t pretend surprise. I’ve seen how you look at her. Perhaps she doesn’t mean to encourage it—perhaps she’s merely fancied herself in love—but she would not refuse you. You must not make that offer.”
He struggled for words. “I— I—”
Aunt Harriet stepped forward, seizing him by the shoulders.
“The scandal would be insurmountable,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “If you care for Emma, or for me, or even for Miss Winter herself—do not do this. You would ruin her.”
She released him abruptly and swept away, leaving him standing amid the laughter and chatter of the fair—breathless, and for the first time in years, holding something bright and dangerous in his chest.
Hope.