Chapter 14
"You're here early."
Lydia looked up from the forge fire she'd been staring into for the better part of an hour. Frederick stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the grey light of dawn, looking like he hadn't slept any better than she had.
His coat was buttoned wrong, one button off, all the way down, and there was a smudge of something that might have been ink on his cuff.
Small details, but telling ones. The Duke of Corvenwell, who had been trained from birth to maintain impeccable standards, had gotten dressed this morning without really seeing what he was doing.
"I could say the same about you," she said. "It's barely past sunrise."
"I know." He stepped inside, and she could see his face now: the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his hands kept clenching and unclenching at his sides.
"I couldn't stay at the manor. I kept pacing, and Boggins kept looking at me like I was losing my mind, and I just…
" He broke off, shaking his head. "I needed to see you. "
"About your aunt."
He stopped mid-stride. "You know?"
"Molly came to my window last night." Lydia set down the poker she'd been using to stir the coals and turned to face him fully.
"Her mother heard people talking at the Crossed Keys.
A fancy lady from London has come to make you marry someone suitable.
Threats to ruin me, ruin my uncle, ruin anyone who gets in her way. "
"That's... remarkably accurate."
"Village gossip usually is. The details might be wrong, but the shape of the thing tends to be right." She crossed her arms, not in hostility but in something like self-protection. The warmth of the forge at her back was familiar, grounding. "So. What did she say exactly?"
Frederick moved further into the space, his boots echoing on the stone floor.
The forge was small, barely large enough for the fire pit, the anvil, and the workbench where Thomas kept his tools, but it had never felt cramped before.
Now, with Frederick filling the doorway and his presence filling everything else, it felt almost intimate.
"Her name is Lady Helena Blackmore," he said.
"She's my mother's sister. My aunt." He paused by the workbench, running his fingers along the edge of it without really seeing it.
"She arrived while I was at dinner with you and your uncle.
She'd heard rumours about the fair, about the storm, about us, and she came to put a stop to it. "
"How long has she known? About... this?"
"I'm not certain. Weeks, at least. She has people who report to her—servants, acquaintances, I don't know who exactly. But she knew about the harvest fair before I even returned to the manor that day. She knew about the cottage." His mouth twisted. "She seems to know everything."
Lydia felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air. "And what does she want?"
"She wants me to come to my senses. That's how she put it." Frederick finally looked at her directly, and his eyes were fierce with something that might have been fear or might have been determination. "She's given me a week to end whatever this is between us and agree to meet Veronica Ashby."
"Who's Veronica Ashby?"
"Lord Ashby's daughter. Nineteen, well-educated, accomplished, appropriate." The word came out bitter. "My aunt has been cultivating the match for two years, apparently. Waiting for me to show any interest in marriage at all."
Lydia felt something cold settle in her stomach. She knew about arranged marriages; everyone did, but knowing about them in the abstract and having one crash into your life were different things entirely.
"And if you don't? Come to your senses, I mean?"
"She'll take steps." Frederick’s voice was flat, the way it got when he was trying very hard not to feel something. "She didn't specify what, exactly, but the implication was clear enough. She has connections, influence, the ability to make life difficult for anyone who crosses her."
"Difficult how?"
"She could hurt you, Lydia. Your reputation, your uncle's business, your standing in the village.
" He crossed the remaining distance between them, his hands coming up to grip her shoulders—not roughly, but with the kind of intensity that suggested he needed to hold onto something solid.
"She could spread rumours. Turn people against you.
Make it so no one would buy from the forge, no one would speak to you, no one would… "
"I know what she could do." Lydia cut him off, not unkindly. "I've heard stories about what happens when the aristocracy decides to destroy someone common. It's not pretty."
"You're not common."
"To her I am. To everyone in her world, I'm a blacksmith's niece who got ideas above her station." Lydia reached up and touched his face and felt the scratch of stubble against her palm, evidence that he'd been too distracted to shave. "The question is, what do you want to do about it?"
"I want to tell her to leave me alone and never bother me again."
Despite everything, Lydia felt a smile tug at her lips. "That's not very ducal of you."
"No. It's not." He was almost smiling too, now; a fragile thing, but real.
"I burned her letter. The one she brought about Veronica Ashby.
I threw it in the fire and watched it turn to ash, and I felt…
" He broke off, shaking his head. "I felt free.
For the first time in my life, I made a choice that was entirely my own, and it felt right. "
"Frederick…"
"I'm not asking you to decide anything right now.
I'm not asking you to fight my battles or face my aunt or do anything except know the truth.
" He squeezed her shoulders gently, then let his hands drop to take hers instead—both of them, holding them like they were precious.
"I want you. Whatever that costs. Whatever I have to give up.
I want you, and I'm going to keep wanting you whether it's convenient or not. You deserved to know that."
Lydia looked at him and felt her heart crack open in a way that was terrifying and wonderful all at once.
"You're a fool," she said softly.
"Probably."
"Your aunt is a viscountess with connections across England. I'm a blacksmith's niece who can barely read Latin."
"I don't care about Latin." He lifted her hands and kissed her knuckles—first one hand, then the other. "You speak a language I actually want to learn."
"That's…" She felt heat rise to her cheeks. "That's either very romantic or very strange."
"Why can't it be both?"
"You're impossible."
"I'm learning to be." He was definitely smiling now, that rare genuine smile that transformed his face from handsome-but-cold to something warmer, more human. "You're teaching me."
"I'm not teaching you anything. You're just…"
"Being myself. For the first time in all those years." He pulled her closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him even through the layers of clothing between them. "That's your fault. I was perfectly content being miserable before you came along."
"You were never content."
"No. I wasn't. But I was used to it, which is almost the same thing." His forehead came to rest against hers. "What do we do, Lydia? What do we do about my aunt, about her threats, about all of it?"
"We face it together." The words came out steadier than she felt. "Whatever she throws at us, we face it together. That's what you do when you…" She stopped, suddenly aware of what she'd almost said.
"When you what?"
"Nothing."
"Lydia."
"When you care about someone." She pulled back just enough to look at him properly. "When you care about someone, you don't let them fight alone. Even when the fight is terrifying. Even when you're not sure you can win."
"Even when a viscountess is threatening to destroy everything you've built?"
"Even then." She smiled, or tried to. "Although I reserve the right to be absolutely terrified while we're doing it."
"That seems fair."
He kissed her then, softly at first, then with more urgency, like he was trying to communicate something that words couldn't quite capture. She kissed him back with equal intensity, her hands clenching in the fabric of his coat, pulling him closer.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing harder than they should have been.
"Seven days," Frederick said. "We have seven days until her deadline."
"Then we'd better make them count."
The sound of footsteps on the stairs made them spring apart like guilty children. A moment later, Thomas appeared in the doorway, his expression shifting from surprise to resignation to something that might have been amusement.
"Your Grace." His tone was perfectly neutral. "You're here early."
"I'm aware." Frederick had gone slightly pink, which would have been funny under other circumstances. "I came to speak with your niece. About.......A matter of some urgency."
"I gathered that." Thomas moved past them to the forge, checking the fire with the automatic competence of long practice. "Are you planning to stand there all day, or are you going to make yourself useful?"
Frederick blinked. "Useful?"
"This is a working forge, not a parlor. If you're going to take up space, you might as well learn something." Thomas gestured to the tools hanging on the wall. "Grab an apron. The leather one, the others catch fire too easily."
"You want me to... work the forge?"
"I want you to try. Whether you succeed is another matter entirely." Thomas' eyes held a challenge that Lydia recognised; the same look he'd given her when she was twelve and had demanded to learn the trade. "Unless you're too delicate for manual labour?"
Frederick’s jaw tightened. For a moment, Lydia thought he might refuse, might retreat behind the dignity of his title and the distance of his station.
Instead, he shrugged off his coat, handed it to Lydia, and reached for the leather apron.
"Show me what to do."
Thomas' smile was small but genuine. "Good answer."
***