"Of course, Your Grace. And this has nothing to do with the fact that Mrs. Whitby has been organizing fair preparations since dawn and you're concerned about facing her after your intimate evening of brandy and revelations?"
"There was nothing intimate about it. We were simply two people trapped by a storm, making conversation to pass the time."
"Conversation that resulted in Your Grace returning to the inn the next day with an expression I can only describe as besotted bewilderment."
"That's two words, not a description."
"Would Your Grace prefer 'hopelessly enamoured' or 'romantically compromised'?"
"I would prefer silence while I read my newspaper."
"The newspaper from three days ago."
"The news improves with age, like wine."
"Unlike Your Grace's excuses, which remain consistently poor regardless of vintage."
Alaric finally lowered the newspaper to glare at his valet, who was already dressed and looking disapprovingly efficient despite the early hour. Outside, he could hear the sounds of final fair preparations; hammering, calling voices, and what sounded suspiciously like the Christmas geese staging another escape attempt.
"The fair is today," Grimsby observed unnecessarily. "Christmas Eve. The culmination of all the village's preparations, in which Your Grace has become surprisingly involved for someone who claims to despise Christmas."
"I don't despise Christmas. I'm philosophically opposed to its commercial exploitation and enforced joviality."
"And yet Your Grace has spent the last four days helping to prepare for exactly that sort of celebration."
"I was maintaining my role as steward. It would have been suspicious to refuse."
"Of course. And it had nothing to do with a certain widow who makes Your Grace smile in ways I haven't seen since... well, ever, actually."
"You're being dramatic."
"I'm being observant. Your Grace has smiled more in the past four days than in the past four years."
"That's a terrible exaggeration."
"Would Your Grace like me to provide specific examples? There was the smile when Mrs. Whitby corrected your bread-making technique, the smile when she argued with you about garland placement, the smile when she fell on top of you in the snow..."
"That was surprise, not a smile."
"Your Grace was grinning like a schoolboy who'd just discovered Christmas pudding."
"I was injured in the head from the impact."
"Your Grace's head injury lasted through the next three days?"
"Head injuries can have prolonged effects."
"Indeed. They can apparently cause one to spend an entire evening drinking brandy with a widow while sharing deeply personal revelations about one's childhood trauma," Grimsby replied since Alaric had already told him all the details of the night he spent at the bakery.
Alaric stood abruptly, tossing the newspaper aside. "The fair needs preparation. As the estate's representative, I should assist."
"Of course, Your Grace. And which particular preparation requires your assistance? The pie judging you've been conscripted into? The dance platform supervision? Or perhaps the church decoration that Mrs. Whitby specifically requested your help yesterday before you fled like a startled deer?"
"I didn't flee. I made a strategic withdrawal."
"Your Grace literally vaulted over a fence to avoid continuing a conversation with her."
"The fence was the most efficient route back to the inn."
