Chapter 13 #2
"I'm returning to London tomorrow. But I'll be back in one week.
By then, I expect you to have come to your senses.
To have ended this ill-advised liaison and agreed to at least meet Veronica Ashby.
" Her eyes met his, hard and determined.
"If you haven't... I will be forced to take steps to protect this family's reputation. Steps you will not enjoy."
"What does that mean?"
"It means that I have resources you cannot imagine, connections, influence.
The ability to make life very difficult for people who get in my way.
" She paused, letting the implication sink in.
"I don't want to hurt anyone. But I will do what is necessary to prevent you from destroying everything your ancestors built. "
"You're threatening me."
"I'm warning you. There's a difference." Helena moved toward the door, then paused with her hand on the frame. "One week, Frederick. Think carefully about what you want. And about what you're willing to sacrifice to get it."
She left without saying goodbye.
Frederick stood alone in the drawing room, the letter crumpled in his fist, and tried to remember how to breathe.
***
Boggins found him there an hour later, still staring into the fire.
"Your Grace. Shall I bring anything? Tea? Something stronger?"
"Brandy. The good stuff."
Boggins disappeared and returned with a glass and a decanter. He poured a generous measure and handed it to Frederick without comment.
"She's going to ruin her," Frederick said, after he'd taken a long sip. "If I don't do what she wants, she'll find a way to hurt Lydia. To hurt her family. Her reputation."
"Lady Blackmore is formidable. But she is not omnipotent."
"She has connections everywhere, money and influence. She could make life impossible for the Fletchers without ever lifting a finger herself; just a word in the right ear, a rumour started in the right drawing room." Frederick set down his glass with intensity. "I can't let that happen."
"Then what will you do?"
"I don't know. I don't…" He pressed his hands to his face, suddenly exhausted. "An hour ago, I was in a garden with Lydia, and everything seemed possible. Now it all seems impossible."
"May I speak freely, Your Grace?"
"You always speak freely. It's one of your few flaws."
"I prefer to think of it as a service." The valet's voice softened. "This is not the first time a duke has been pressured to abandon someone he loved. It will not be the last. History is full of such stories; some ending in tragedy, some in triumph, many in something in between."
"That's not particularly comforting."
"I'm not trying to comfort you. I'm trying to remind you that you are not the first person to face this choice.
Others have stood where you stand. Some have chosen duty.
Some have chosen love. And while I cannot tell you which choice is right, that is for you to decide, I can tell you this: the men who chose duty often spent the rest of their lives regretting it.
The men who chose love, even when that love cost them everything, rarely expressed the same regret. "
"How do you know this?"
"I read, Your Grace. I observe. I have spent many years watching aristocrats make decisions about their futures, and I have noticed certain patterns.
" Boggins paused. "Your father chose duty.
He married your mother because it was expected, managed his estate because it was required, and lived his entire life according to rules he never questioned.
And he died alone, even though he was surrounded by people at that dinner table, because no one mourned him except out of obligation. "
"You think I should choose differently."
"I think you have already chosen differently.
The question is whether you will have the courage to follow through.
" Boggins met his eyes. "You love Miss Fletcher.
That much is obvious to anyone with eyes to see.
The question is whether you love her enough to fight for her.
To stand against your family, your class, your entire world if necessary. "
"And if I do? What then?"
"Then you will face consequences. Some of them painful.
Some of them permanent. You may lose friends, allies, and social standing.
You may become a scandal, a cautionary tale, an outcast from the world you were born into.
" Boggins' voice was gentle but unflinching.
"But you will also have something your father never had. Something most dukes never have."
"What's that?"
"A life worth living. A partner who knows you and loves you anyway. A home that is warm because it is filled with love, not cold because it is filled with obligation." He paused. "Is that worth fighting for?"
Frederick thought about Lydia. About the way she looked at him like he was a person instead of a position.
About the warmth in her voice when she said his name, the fire in her eyes when she challenged him to be better than he was.
About the future, he could see when he was with her—not the empty, echoing halls of the manor, but something smaller and warmer and infinitely more alive.
"Yes," he said. "It's worth everything."
"Then fight for it." Boggins insisted. "And know that you will not be fighting alone. Whatever Lady Blackmore threatens, whatever obstacles she places in your path, you have allies, Your Grace. You have people who believe in you. Don't forget that."
"If I may, Your Grace." Boggins settled into a chair across from him, a liberty he rarely took, but one that Frederick was grateful for tonight. "Lady Blackmore's power is not absolute. Indeed, she has connections, and indeed she can cause trouble. But you have something she doesn't."
"What?"
"The title. The lands. The income. You are the Duke of Corvenwell, not her. She can threaten and bluster, but in the end, she cannot force you to do anything. The only power she has is the power you give her."
"She can hurt Lydia."
"She can try. But Miss Fletcher has survived worse than aristocratic disapproval.
And she has something Lady Blackmore hasn't accounted for; a village that loves her.
A community that will protect her." Boggins' voice was quiet but firm.
"If you abandon Miss Fletcher now, you prove Lady Blackmore right.
You prove that dukes cannot be trusted, that love across class lines is impossible, and that duty always trumps desire.
But if you stand firm, if you fight for what you want, you prove something else entirely. "
"What?"
"That you're not your father. That you're capable of choosing happiness over propriety. That you're the kind of man who keeps his promises, even when keeping them is hard."
"You really believe I can do this?"
"I believe you already have, Your Grace. You just need to believe it yourself."
Frederick finished his brandy. Set down the glass and straightened his spine.
"I need to tell Lydia. About my aunt, about the threat, about everything. She deserves to know what she's facing."
"That would be wise. When will you go?"
"Tomorrow morning. First thing." He paused. "Unless... Do you think I should go tonight?"
"I think that would cause a scandal even by your recent standards. A duke, visiting a young woman's home after midnight?" Boggins raised an eyebrow. "Best to wait for daylight. Whatever Lady Blackmore is planning, she won't act immediately. You have time."
"You're right. Of course you're right." Frederick stood, suddenly restless. "I won't be able to sleep."
"Then don't sleep. Pace. Think. Plan. But try to rest at some point; you'll need your wits about you for what's coming."
"What's coming?"
"I don't know, Your Grace. But I suspect it will be considerably more challenging than dinner with a blacksmith." Boggins rose and moved toward the door. "Goodnight, Your Grace. And for what it's worth…I'm proud of you. For not surrendering. For choosing to fight."
"I haven't won anything yet."
"No. But you've decided to try. That's more than most people ever manage."
He left, and Frederick was alone with his thoughts and his fears and the crumpled letter that still sat on the table, unopened and unwanted.
He stared at the letter for a long moment.
Veronica Ashby. He didn't know her, he had never met her, he had no idea what she looked like or thought about or dreamed of.
To his aunt, she was a solution to a problem—a suitable match, a respectable alliance, a way to preserve everything the Hawthornes had built.
To Frederick, she was a cage.
He picked up the letter, turned it over in his hands.
He could open it. He could read about this woman he was supposed to marry, learn her virtues and accomplishments, and try to imagine a future with her.
It was what his aunt wanted. It was what society expected.
It was what every duke before him had done; married for position, for alliance, for the continuation of the line.
But he wasn't every duke before him. He was Frederick. And Frederick didn't want Veronica Ashby.
He wanted Lydia.
He threw the letter into the fire.
The paper caught immediately, curling and blackening at the edges before bursting into bright flame.
He watched it burn, watched his aunt's carefully cultivated plans turn to ash, and felt something shift in his chest. Not resolution, exactly.
Not courage. But a kind of clarity that had been missing for so long, he had forgotten what it felt like.
He would not marry Veronica Ashby. He would not let his aunt dictate his future. He would not become his father, choosing duty over love, propriety over happiness, the approval of a society that had never cared about him as a person.
He would choose Lydia. Whatever that cost. Whatever battles he had to fight.
The question was how.