It wasperhaps oneof the first plans ina long time that she had truly agreed to.
AverbyVillage wassimilar toStonehelminthe way that it was quaint, unobtrusive, anda far cry fromLondon’s bustling streets. Sibylimmediatelyloved it for its wornpathways, small bridges that arched over canals, and the ever-present vendors calling out their wares.
“It is strange,” she commented as they strode through the village. “Londonis always selling something or other, and so do these villages, but the atmosphere is so different. In London,I feelpressuredto stop and buy something. Here, I feelinvitedto.Like Icansimply walk past the florist without feeling the need to stop. I cansmell the bakery or watch a jeweler display anew ring without feeling the obligation to buy.”
“That is why I oftenprefer these places over the city,” Gabriel muttered. “Nobody is demanding the attentionof aduke. They donot feel entitled to it, whereas the people in Londondo. Speaking of the bakery, I did promiseNicholasI would bring him his favorite pastry. Come on.”
He led her into a small, woodenbuilding filled with the scent offreshly-bakedbread. A short, thinwomanwas sliding a tray of custard-filled tarts onto a shelf, her cheeks flushed with the heat.Whenshe looked up, her eyebrows rose a little before she dipped into a curtsy.
“Are we so recognizable?” Sibyl whispered as they approached the counter.
Gabriel smiled a little. “I am,but I have frequented this place oftenenough.”
“It is the Helm!”theshort woman gasped, her back bowing evenfurther. “The Helm and his…Helmess?”
“I donot think that is a word,” Gabriel mused, his tone light so that she didnot take offense. “This is Her Grace, the Duchess ofStonehelm. Duchess, this isMaria,Averby’sbest baker.”
“So many times, and yet everybody is still surprised by your presence?”
“I have a reputation,” he said, shrugging. “Maria, I shall take three of your well-lovedraspberry-filled croissants.”
Sibyl blinked at the order.
Gabriel’s and his friend’s favorite pastries are… raspberry croissants?
She didnot want tojudge, but the thought was so funny that shecouldn’thelp but giggle. Gabriel justnarrowed his eyes at her without malice.
Sibyl stifled her giggles, leaning in. “WhatistheHelm?”
Suddenly, Gabriel became interested inthe loaves ondisplay inthe woodenboxes along the counter, pointedly ignoring her. Sibyl only let him because she knew she could askNicholas,and the two of them could tease him, most likely.
She bit her lip, keeping her thoughts to herself, waiting until Gabriel washandedthe three bags with the pastries. He cleared his throat whenhe faced her, urging her out of the bakery.
Yet it happened againwhenthey walked along the main road. People called outthe Helm, and the modiste, whom they visited becauseSibyl idly mentioned a dress that was more suited to her country life, also addressed him as such.
Gabrieldidn’tseem to mind the lack of respect that came with thenickname, but Sibyl’s curiosity only grew.
By the time they made it toAverbyHall, Sibyl was more thanexcited about their dinner with Nicholas.
They were immediately shown into a grand drawing room, where Nicholas was already waiting, two wine glasses in hand.
He turned to face them with a wide smile onhis face. “Ah! They have finally graced my humble abode. The Duke and Duchess ofStonehelm.”
“Or the Helm,” Sibyl quipped.
Nicholasgrinned, but Gabriel shot him a warning look. “Not a word,Nic.”
“Oh, I havemanywords.” Nicholaslaughed. “This is going to be a very funevening, indeed.”
Wine glasses inhand, the three of them moved to the dining hall,whereNicholasand Gabriel both moved to pull out a chair for Sibyl, before Gabriel growled his friend away.
Nicholas laughed again. “Excuse me for trying to be a good host.”
“You canbe a good host inother ways,” Gabriel shot back.
Sibyl took a seat, biting her lip, and thenGabriel satnext to her, whileNichoals lounged at the head of thetable, watching the two of them.
“Things have changed with you both,” henoted.
