Chapter 4
Morning came eventually, as it always did, and with it the relentless machinery of a ducal household grinding into motion.
Frederick had slept poorly, as expected.
His dreams had been fragmented things; glimpses of forge fire and village lights, his father's voice echoing from somewhere distant, the strange sensation of walking through mud without minding it.
He woke feeling more tired than when he had gone to bed, which was becoming something of a pattern.
He took breakfast alone in the small dining room, the one that only seated twelve, which felt almost intimate compared to the formal hall.
The morning light streamed through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air like tiny ballroom guests who had stayed too long at the gathering.
The breakfast itself was impeccable, as always.
Eggs prepared exactly as he preferred. Toast at the precise shade of golden.
Coffee strong enough to resurrect the dead, which felt appropriate given how Frederick felt.
The kitchen staff had been with the family for decades; they knew his preferences better than he knew them himself.
He wondered, not for the first time, whether any of them actually liked him. Whether they prepared his food with care because they cared, or simply because precision was their job and they took pride in their work, regardless of who consumed the results.
Probably the latter. Almost certainly the latter.
Boggins stood at attention near the sideboard, his face betraying nothing of their conversation the night before. He looked exactly as he always looked; immaculate, unreadable, faintly disapproving of the universe in general and his employer in particular.
"Your Grace's schedule for the day," he said, producing a small notebook from somewhere in his impeccable person.
"The steward requests a meeting regarding the eastern tenant cottages; apparently, several roofs require attention before autumn.
The solicitor has sent papers requiring signature, something to do with the Yorkshire property.
And the household accounts need review."
"Is that all?"
"There is also the matter of the ironwork delivery from the village forge. Expected sometime this afternoon."
Frederick's hand paused infinitesimally in the act of lifting his teacup. "The forge."
"Indeed, Your Grace. New hinges and hardware for the east wing. The commission was placed some weeks ago." Boggins' expression remained perfectly neutral. "I believe the blacksmith's niece will be making the delivery. Miss Fletcher, I understand her name to be. As you already might know. "
"You understand a great deal, Boggins."
"I endeavour to keep informed, Your Grace."
Frederick set down his teacup with careful precision. "I will receive the delivery personally."
"Your Grace?" Now, a flicker of something which seemed like surprise crossed the valet's features. "That is......Unusual. Typically, such matters are handled by…"
"I am aware of what is typical. I wish to inspect the work myself."
"Of course, Your Grace."
Frederick returned to his breakfast, his face composed, his mind racing.
He was not going to see her again. That was not why he was doing this.
He was simply taking a personal interest in the quality of work being done for his household, which was exactly what a responsible landowner should do.
There was nothing unusual about it. Nothing suggested he had spent half the night thinking about a village girl who had looked at him like he was worth looking at.
Boggins, wisely, said nothing.
But as he withdrew to make the necessary arrangements, Frederick could have sworn he heard the valet murmur something under his breath.
It sounded suspiciously like: "Interesting, indeed."
***
Back in Ashwick, Lydia was beginning her day with significantly less internal turmoil, if only because she had firmly decided not to think about dukes, carriages, or the precise shade of grey-blue that certain aristocratic eyes might theoretically be.
The forge was already hot when she arrived, her uncle having risen before dawn as usual.
The rhythmic clang of hammer on metal was as familiar as her own heartbeat; the sound she had grown up with, the sound that meant safety and home and all the things she had been too young to appreciate before her parents were gone.
"The hinges are finished," Thomas said without preamble, nodding toward a wrapped bundle on the workbench. "Quality work, if I say so myself. Even that impossible beast at the manor shouldn't find fault."
"Language, Uncle Thomas."
"What? He is a beast. And he is a…"
"I know what he is. You don't need to say it."
Her uncle paused, studying her face in the orange light of the forge fire. "You're not still thinking about yesterday, are you? What you said at the public house?"
Lydia picked up the bundle, testing its weight. Good solid ironwork, she could tell. Her uncle's best craftsmanship, reserved for clients who paid premium prices. "I said I was sorry."
"You said the words. But I know you, girl. When you get an idea in your head…"
"I don't have any ideas." She met his gaze squarely. "I was being foolish. The village is right. The duke is exactly what he appears to be, and I was making something out of nothing because…I don't know. Because I was tired. Because the day was strange. It won't happen again."
Thomas's expression softened. "You're a good girl, Lyddie. Soft heart, though. Softer than this world deserves."
"Maybe."
"Definitely." He turned back to his work, dismissing her with the particular abruptness of a man who had never learned to linger over emotional moments. "Take the main road. It should get you there and back before the afternoon rain."
Lydia shouldered the bundle and set off.
The walk to Corvenwell Manor was familiar; she had made it before, delivering commissioned work, collecting payment, doing the small transactions that kept the forge solvent and the manor functional.
The road wound through fields and woodland, climbing gradually toward the estate that crowned the highest hill in the region like a cold stone crown.
The house itself came into view about a mile from the village, and no matter how many times Lydia saw it, it still struck her as excessive.
Not beautiful, exactly; there was too much of it for beauty, too many windows and wings and extensions added by generations of Hawthornes who apparently believed that more was always better.
But impressive, certainly. The kind of place that made ordinary houses look like children's toys.
She thought of Mrs Holloway's description: a dining room for forty, all the chairs empty. A duke eating alone in that vast, echoing space. Standards so impossibly high that even candle wicks weren't safe from rejection.
Be careful, Mrs Holloway had said. Don't let him make you feel small.
Lydia straightened her spine and kept walking.
***
The servant who met her at the kitchen entrance was briskly efficient, the sort of woman who had clearly been dealing with deliveries her entire career and had no patience for anyone who slowed down her carefully orchestrated schedule.
"Forge work? This way. The housekeeper will inspect it."
Lydia followed her through corridors that seemed designed to intimidate; high ceilings, cold stone floors, portraits of Hawthornes glaring down from the walls like a jury of the perpetually disappointed.
The housekeeper, when they reached her, was a thin woman with sharp eyes and the particular manner of someone who had achieved their position through sheer force of will and intended to keep it the same way.
"Set it there," she said, pointing to a table. "I'll examine the work and send word to your uncle about payment."
"Of course." Lydia unwrapped the bundle, revealing the hinges in their careful arrangement. They gleamed in the light from the windows; good work, solid work, the kind of work that would last generations if properly maintained. "I can explain the specifications if…"
"That won't be necessary."
"But there's a particular treatment my uncle used on the…"
"I said that won't be necessary."
Lydia bit back her response. This was fine. This was normal. Servants of great houses didn't have time for explanations from village blacksmiths' nieces. She would leave the work, return home, and never think about this place again.
Except that at precisely that moment, a door opened somewhere behind her, and a voice she recognised, a voice that had said nothing in her presence but somehow still echoed in her memory, said:
"Mrs Patterson. I believe I expressed an interest in inspecting this delivery personally."
Lydia turned.
He was standing in the doorway. The Duke of Corvenwell. Dressed in clothing that probably cost more than her uncle earned in a year, his posture as rigidly correct as it had been in the carriage, his face arranged in that same expression of careful neutrality.
But his eyes…
His eyes, when they met hers, held that same flicker she remembered. They held recognition and interest. Something that looked almost like relief, as if he had been hoping she would be the one to come and hadn't dared admit it even to himself.
"Your Grace," the housekeeper said, and Lydia heard the surprise in her voice. This was not, apparently, typical behaviour. "Of course. I was simply…"
"That will be all, Mrs Patterson. I wish to speak with Miss Fletcher alone."
The housekeeper's expression cycled through several emotions too quickly to identify before settling on professional blankness. "As Your Grace wishes."
She withdrew, and the door closed behind her.
And Lydia found herself alone with the Duke of Corvenwell, with nothing between them but air and ironwork and the dangerous, impossible possibility that everything she had thought she knew about him might be wrong.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.