Chapter 12 #4
"Even if it means all of that. Even if it means everything.
" He took her other hand, holding both of hers in both of his.
"I can't promise that everything will be easy, or that the world will accept us, or that we won't face opposition from every direction.
But I can promise you that I shall not let you face it alone. Whatever comes, we face it together."
"And I shall not retreat," he said.
Lydia was quiet for a long moment. Then she leaned in and kissed him.
It was brief, barely a brush of lips, but it sent lightning through his entire body. She pulled back before he could respond, her cheeks flushed.
"I've wanted to do that since the cottage," she admitted.
"I've wanted you to do that since the cottage."
"Then why didn't you?"
"Because I wanted to earn it first. Earn the right to..." He gestured vaguely. "This. Whatever this is."
"And have you? Earned it?"
He thought about the question. He thought about everything he'd done since that first day at the fair; the attempts, the failures, the small victories. The dinner tonight, and Thomas' grudging acceptance. The way Lydia looked at him now, like he was someone worth looking at.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "But I'm going to keep trying until I do."
She kissed him again, longer this time, sweeter, and when she pulled back, she was smiling.
"Come on. My uncle will be timing us with a pocket watch if we stay out much longer."
They walked back to the house hand in hand, and Frederick felt, for perhaps the first time in his life, like he belonged somewhere.
At the door, Thomas was waiting—not with disapproval, but with the quiet acceptance of a man who had seen what he needed to see.
"Thank you for dinner," Frederick said. "It was more than I deserved."
"It was exactly what you deserved. What everyone deserves; a meal shared with people who care." Thomas extended his hand again, and Frederick shook it. "You're not what I expected, Your Grace. I'm glad to be wrong."
"Does this mean I have your blessing?"
"It means you have my tolerance. Blessing comes later, if at all." But there was warmth in his voice that hadn't been there at the start of the evening. "Take care of her. Or you shall answer to me."
"I will. I promise."
Lydia walked him to the gate, her hand still warm in his. The village was quiet around them, most households already asleep, but Frederick had the distinct feeling that eyes were watching from behind darkened windows.
"I should go," he said, though every fibre of his being wanted to stay.
"You should." But she didn't let go of his hand.
"I shall come back tomorrow. If that's acceptable."
"It's more than acceptable." She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek; a soft, brief touch that somehow felt more intimate than the kiss in the garden. "Goodnight, Frederick."
"Goodnight, Lydia."
He made himself let go of her hand; he made himself walk away, and he did not look back, because he knew that if he looked back, he would never leave.
It was a feeling he would remember later, when everything fell apart.
***
The walk home was colder than the walk there, but Frederick barely noticed. His mind was too full of Lydia.
He had just passed the old oak tree at the edge of the village when he saw the lights.
The manor was ablaze with them; every window on the ground floor lit up, as if for a gathering or a crisis. That was wrong. He hadn't ordered any lights. Mrs Patterson, his housekeeper, was frugal to a fault; she would never waste candles on empty rooms.
Something was happening.
He walked faster, his boots crunching on the gravel drive. As he got closer, he could see movement in the windows; figures passing back and forth, servants bustling with unusual urgency. And there, in front of the main entrance, a carriage.
Not his carriage. This one was smaller, more elegant, with a crest on the door that he recognised even in the dim light.
His aunt's crest.
Lady Helena Blackmore was here.
Frederick felt his stomach drop. His aunt never visited without warning. Never travelled this far from London without a pressing reason. For her to be here, now, on this night of all nights...
She knew. Somehow, she knew.
He broke into a run, his earlier peace shattered, his heart pounding with a fear he couldn't quite name. Because he knew, with sudden, terrible certainty, that whatever was waiting for him inside that house was going to change everything.
And he was not wrong.
The front door opened before he reached it, and Boggins appeared, his face carefully blank in the way that meant something was very wrong.
"Your Grace. Lady Blackmore arrived approximately two hours ago. She has been waiting in the drawing room. I offered to send word, but she insisted on waiting for your return."
"Did she say why she's here?"
"She did not, Your Grace. But I believe I can infer."
"As can I."
Frederick took a breath, straightened his spine and reminded himself that he was not the frightened boy who used to hide from his father's disapproval. He was the Duke of Corvenwell, who answered to no one.
Except, of course, he did. They all answered to someone, in the end.