"I'm not nervous. I'm simply ensuring I'm properly dressed for a village bonfire, which requires a different level of formality than London events, being neither too elevated which would seem condescending, nor too casual which would seem dismissive, but rather striking exactly the right note of respectful participation without aristocratic pretension."
"Of course, Your Grace. And this has nothing to do with the fact that Mrs. Whitby specifically invited you to attend and you've been preparing for this evening with the intensity of a military campaign."
"I've done nothing of the sort."
"Your Grace has changed clothes three times, practiced casual conversation starters with Thomas Ironwell for an hour, and is currently destroying what was a perfectly serviceable cravat."
"The cravat was already substandard."
"The cravat was perfect until Your Grace decided it needed to be exactly the right shade of informal formality, whatever that means."
"It means," Alaric said, giving up on the cravat entirely and starting over with a fresh one, "that this is my first village event as myself, not as Mr. Fletcher, and the entire village will be watching to see if I'm sincere about staying and being part of this community."
"And Mrs. Whitby will be watching to see if Your Grace is sincere about other things entirely."
"That too."
"Might I suggest, Your Grace, that sincerity is better demonstrated through action than through perfectly tied neckwear?"
"You might suggest it, but I'm still going to ensure the neckwear is perfect as well."
"Very good, Your Grace. Though perhaps I should mention that the celebration began twenty minutes ago and Your Grace's absence is probably being noted with increasing speculation."
Alaric froze mid-knot. "Twenty minutes ago? Why didn't you say something?"
"I've been trying to, Your Grace, but you were engaged in what appeared to be a philosophical debate with your wardrobe about the metaphysical implications of button choices."
"That's an exaggeration."
"Your Grace literally asked the waistcoat if it conveyed 'approachable authority with undertones of romantic possibility.'"
"I was thinking out loud."
"Your Grace was having a conversation with clothing. That transcends thinking out loud and enters the realm of concerning behaviour."
Alaric abandoned the cravat entirely, leaving it slightly crooked in a way that probably achieved the casual formality he'd been attempting to manufacture. "How do I look?"
"Like a duke pretending to be a common man, pretending to be comfortable, pretending to be himself."
"That's unnecessarily complicated."
"Your Grace's emotional state is unnecessarily complicated. The clothing is merely reflecting its wearer."
Before Alaric could defend his perfectly reasonable emotional complications, there was a knock at the door.
Grimsby opened the door to reveal Marianne Whitby, dressed in her best winter dress of deep blue wool that made her eyes even more dangerous than usual, her hair pinned up in a way that was already showing signs of rebellion against its constraints, and an expression that suggested she was both amused and exasperated in equal measure.
"You're late," she said without preamble, looking past Grimsby to where Alaric stood frozen in surprise.
"You came to fetch me?"
"The entire village is waiting to see if you'll actually show up or if you'll flee to London after all. Mrs. Morrison has started a betting pool on how long you'll last before making an excuse to leave. Currently, the odds favor you lasting less than an hour."
"That's insulting."
"That's realistic, based on historical precedent. Are you coming or are you going to continue whatever sartorial crisis you're clearly having?"
"I'm not having a sartorial crisis."
