"Your agreement sounds like disagreement again and please stop calling meYour Grace."
"Years of practice, Your…… Mr. Fletcher."
Back in his room, Alaric stood at the window, looking out at the village square. Someone, probably Marianne, had organized the cleaning up of the day's decorating debris. The tree stood tall and straight, its star catching the moonlight when the clouds parted. It was, he had to admit, rather beautiful.
Not that he was developing sentiment about Christmas decorations. He was simply observing. Scientifically. Neutrally.
Below, he could see a figure moving through the square—Marianne, heading back to the bakery, her shawl pulled tight against the cold. She paused beneath the tree, looking up at the star, and even from this distance, he could see her smile.
He stepped back from the window before she could look up and see him watching like some sort of Gothic novel hero...or villain, depending on one's perspective.
"Would Your Grace like me to prepare your things for tomorrow?" Grimsby asked.
"Tomorrow?"
"I believe Mrs. Morrison mentioned something about garland hanging. Repeatedly. With increasing volume."
"Oh my goodness."
"I could tell her you are indisposed."
"No. If I'm supposed to be the steward, I should participate."
"You are taking this charade very seriously."
"I always take my charades seriously, Grimsby."
"Of course, Your Grace. Though this particular charade seems to involve more widows than usual."
"There's one widow."
"One widow who Your Grace spent the evening observing 'scientifically.'"
"I observe everyone scientifically."
"Your Grace has never observed me scientifically."
"That's because you're not..." Alaric stopped.
"Not what, Your Grace?"
"Not requiring observation."
"How reassuring."
"Go to bed, Grimsby."
"Very good, Your Grace. Try not to observe anything too scientifically before morning."
After Grimsby left, Alaric sat at the small writing desk, intending to review the ledgers he'd brought. Instead, he found himself thinking about coffee-colored eyes and flour-dusted hands and laughter that cut through cold air like warmth.
This was ridiculous. He was the Duke of Wexmere. He had responsibilities, duties, a life in London that made sense. He did not develop... whatever this was... for provincial bakers who organized Christmas fairs and argued with dough.
And yet.
He opened the first ledger, determined to focus on numbers and facts and things that could be properly categorized and filed. But the numbers kept blurring into images of Marianne standing beneath the star, smiling at something that had nothing to do with him but that he somehow wanted to be part of.
"This," he said to the empty room, "is what comes of leaving London in December."
