"Your cravat is crooked and you have the general air of someone who's been overthinking everything for the past hour."
"How can you possibly know all that?"
"The cravat is obvious and the overthinking is just your general state of being."
Grimsby made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh. "Mrs. Whitby has Your Grace's measure quite precisely."
"Thank you, Grimsby. Your support is, as always, overwhelming."
Marianne stepped into the room, moving with the confidence of someone who'd decided something important and wasn't going to waste time with preliminaries. "Right, we're fixing this. Grimsby, is there a simple cravat without any pretensions?"
"Several, madam. His Grace rejected them all as either too simple or not simple enough."
"Of course he did." She moved to Alaric, reaching up to undo the crooked cravat with businesslike efficiency. "Hold still."
"I can tie my own cravat."
"Clearly you can't, not tonight anyway. You're nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"You're terrified. The whole village is going to be watching you, judging whether the Duke of Wexmere can actually be part of things or whether you're just playing at it."
"That's... actually accurate."
"I know. That's why I came to get you." Her hands were gentle as she retied the cravat with simple efficiency, nothing fancy, just clean lines that somehow looked better than all his elaborate attempts. "There. You look like yourself."
"Do I? Because I'm not entirely sure who that is anymore."
"You're the man who worked until his hands bled fixing my roof. You're the duke who listened to three hours of village complaints without once looking bored. You're the fool who fell in love with a baker and had to learn to make gingerbread to prove it."
"I haven't made gingerbread yet."
"You will. It's tradition. Everyone who's truly part of the village makes gingerbread for New Year's luck."
"And if I fail spectacularly?"
"Then you'll fit right in. Half the village fails spectacularly every year. Mr. Ironwell once made gingerbread so hard it broke a tooth. His own tooth."
"That's oddly comforting."
"Come on," she said, stepping back but not before her hands lingered just a moment on his chest, smoothing the fabric of his waistcoat in a gesture that was almost tender. "The bonfire's been lit, Thomas's already started three different betting pools about us, and Mrs. Morrison is practically vibrating with matchmaking energy."
"About us?"
"Oh yes. The current bets include whether we'll dance together, whether you'll make some sort of declaration, and whether I'll throw something at you before the night ends."
"What are the odds on that last one?"
"Depressingly high in favor of violence."
"And what do you think?"
"I think," she said, moving toward the door, "that the village is about to be surprised."
"In what way?"
She looked back at him with a smile that made his heart do something complicated and possibly medically concerning in his chest. "You'll see."
