Chapter 18
The walk to the village square was both too long and too short. Too long because he could feel Marianne beside him, close enough to touch but not touching, the space between them charged with possibility. Too short because he wasn't nearly ready for the scrutiny of the entire village watching to see what would happen between the duke who'd lied and the widow who'd been betrayed.
The bonfire was massive, flames reaching toward the stars in defiance of the winter cold. The entire village seemed to be there, clustered in groups around braziers for warmth, children running about, adults passing around flasks of something that was definitely not tea despite what they might claim if asked.
Their arrival caused a ripple of attention, conversations pausing, heads turning, everyone suddenly very interested in watching while pretending not to watch.
"They're all staring," Alaric murmured.
"Let them stare," Marianne replied, and then, in a move that caused several audible gasps, she took his arm. Not formally, the way a lady might take a gentleman's arm at a London ball, but casually, possessively, the way a woman might claim a man she'd decided belonged to her.
"Marianne," he said, surprised.
"What? We're neighbours. Neighbours can be friendly."
"This is more than friendly."
"Is it? How unfortunate. I was aiming for scandalous."
"You're going to cause a riot."
"I'm going to cause gossip. There's a difference. Riots involve property damage. Gossip just involves property speculation."
"What kind of property speculation?"
"About whether I'll be moving into the hall or you'll be moving into the bakery."
"Marianne!"
"What? They're going to talk anyway. Might as well give them something interesting to discuss."
They made their way through the crowd, Marianne still holding his arm, her chin raised in challenge to anyone who might comment. People greeted them with varying degrees of warmth—some still suspicious of Alaric, others seemingly delighted by this development, and Thomas practically bouncing with excitement.
"You came together!" he announced loudly enough for half the square to hear. "I win five shillings from Jimmy Patterson!"
"Thomas," his mother scolded, "it's not polite to bet on people's romantic situations."
"It's not romance, it's economics. I'm investing in probable outcomes."
"That's a very sophisticated way of describing gossip gambling."
"I prefer entrepreneurial speculation."
Mrs. Morrison appeared as if summoned by the mere thought of matchmaking, her face bright with delighted triumph. "Your Grace! Mrs. Whitby! How wonderful to see you together! And actually together-together, not just accidentally-in-the-same-place together!"
"We're attending a village celebration," Marianne said mildly. "Everyone's together."
"Yes, but you're together-together. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"You're holding his arm."
"It's icy. I didn't want him to fall. He has a terrible history with gravity."
"That's very considerate of you."
"I'm a considerate person."
