Christmas Day.
A day for miracles, perhaps.
If he was brave enough to believe in them.
If she was generous enough to allow them.
If they were both foolish enough to try.
Chapter 15
"Your Grace appears to have not slept, which would explain why you're sitting at the window staring at the bakery like a Gothic hero contemplating his tragic fate, though I suspect Gothic heroes had better grooming habits and possibly more dignity."
Alaric didn't move from his position at the window where he'd been sitting since returning from the midnight service, watching the bakery where Marianne was undoubtedly not sleeping either. "Gothic heroes also had the advantage of fiction, Grimsby. They could brood dramatically and somehow still win the heroine's heart by chapter's end. Reality appears to be less accommodating."
"Reality does tend to be inconveniently complex, Your Grace. Though I must say, your brooding has achieved remarkable levels of drama. The entire inn's staff is taking bets on whether you'll flee to London before noon or continue your vigil until you waste away from romantic despair."
"What are the odds?"
"Three to one in favor of fleeing, I'm afraid. Though young Thomas Ironwell has placed a significant wager on you staying and, I quote, 'doing something ridiculously grand that either makes everything better or much, much worse.'"
"That child has disturbing insight into my character."
"He also suggested that you might benefit from a wash and change of clothes, as you currently look like, and again I quote, 'a sad duke who's been dragged through a hedge of feelings backward.'"
Alaric finally looked at his reflection in the window and had to admit the boy had a point. His clothes were wrinkled from a night of sitting, his hair was in complete disarray from running his hands through it while thinking, and there was a general air of dishevelment that suggested emotional crisis barely contained by aristocratic breeding.
"The entire village knows, I assume?"
"Oh yes, Your Grace. The news spread with remarkable efficiency. By my count, the story has been told and retold at least forty-seven times since last night, with increasing embellishments. The current version involves you dramatically revealing your identity while fighting off a pack of geese with one hand and declaring your love with the other."
"That's not remotely what happened."
"No, but it's significantly more entertaining than the truth, which is that Lord Dupont has the social awareness of a particularly obtuse brick and destroyed Your Grace's romantic prospects with three words."
"Two words. 'Your Grace.' That's all it took to ruin everything."
"To be fair, Your Grace, the situation was perhaps already somewhat ruined by the foundational lie upon which it was built."
"You're supposed to be supportive, Grimsby."
"I'm supposed to be honest, Your Grace. Support without honesty is not support at all, and you've had quite enough of that in your life."
Before Alaric could argue with this uncomfortable truth, there was a knock at the door—not the tentative knock of someone bringing bad news or the aggressive knock of someone seeking confrontation, but the businesslike knock of someone with a purpose.
Grimsby opened it to reveal Mrs. Whitby senior, dressed in her Christmas best but with an expression that suggested celebration was the furthest thing from her mind.
"Your Grace," she said with formal coldness that was worse than anger. "I've come to discuss practical matters."
"Mrs. Whitby, please, let me explain..."
"There's nothing to explain. You lied to us, we trusted you, and now we all have to live with the consequences. But there are matters that need addressing regardless of personal feelings."
"What matters?"
"The families who've been overpaying rent due to Fletcher's theft. The repairs needed throughout the village that havebeen postponed for lack of funds. The elderly tenants who are choosing between food and heating because their money is not enough. Those matters."
Alaric felt shame wash over him like cold water. While he'd been playing at being Mr. Fletcher, falling for Marianne, and enjoying his temporary escape from responsibility, real people had been suffering from his neglect.
