“We need to gonow,” he repeated, his tone low and urgent, the sort that made people obey without quite knowing why.
But she didn’t move. And Dupont had already spotted them.
“I say!” came the unmistakable booming call that could have carried across a battlefield. “Is that...oh, Heavens,it is!”
Alaric felt the blood drain from his face.
Beside him, Marianne turned, startled. “Mr. Fletcher, why is that man looking at you as though you’ve just risen from the dead?”
“I have no idea,” Alaric said, already scanning for escape routes, though there were none. The crowd was too thick, the square too open. “We should,...focus on the geese.”
“Your Grace!” Lord Dupont bellowed, delight and recognition exploding in his voice. “What on earth are you doing here?”
The two words struck like thunder.
The sound rolled through the square, flattening conversation, laughter, and the distant music of the fair. The hammering stopped, a bell missed its chime, and even the geese paused to stare.
Marianne froze.
Her face turned toward him, searching his features with growing horror. “Your Grace?” she whispered, as if saying it aloud might make it less absurd.
“Marianne,” Alaric began, panic clawing up his throat. “I can explain...”
“Your Grace?” she said again, louder now, incredulous. “As in...Duke?Your Grace as in theDuke of Wexmere?”
“It’s not...”
But her expression shifted mid-sentence, and he saw it happen—the slow, terrible aligning of every truth he’d tried to bury. The fine education, the effortless authority, the uncalloused hands, the way he moved through rooms as thoughhe owned them. Of course she was clever enough to fit it all together.
“You’re the Duke of Wexmere,” she said flatly. It wasn’t a question; it was a verdict.
“Marianne, please...”
“You’ve been lying,” she cut in, her voice trembling between disbelief and fury. “Lying tome,to everyone, all this time.”
“I haven’t...I mean, yes, technically, but...”
“Technically?” she echoed, the word cracking like a whip. “You’ve been pretending to be your own steward while we’ve been...while I’ve been...”
She stopped, apparently unable to articulate exactly what they'd been doing. Which was probably for the best, given their audience. Alaric realized he had just destroyed the only honest thing he’d ever had.
Lord Dupont had reached them now, beaming with oblivious delight. "Wexmere! What a surprise! When your man said you were reviewing the estate, I assumed from London. I never imagined you'd actually come here yourself! Your mother would be so pleased. She always said you should spend Christmas here."
"Dupont," Alaric said desperately, "perhaps we could discuss this..."
"And you've been helping with the fair! How marvelous! Very common touch, very modern. Though why you're dressed like that, I can't imagine. And holding a fishing net? Is this some sort of Christmas tradition I'm unaware of?"
"We were catching geese," Alaric said weakly.
"Catching geese? Whatever for?"
"They're eating the pies."
"My goodness, the nobility really has declined, hasn't it? In my days, dukes didn't chase geese. They had people for that."
"Things change," Alaric said, still watching Marianne, who hadn't moved or spoken since her last outburst.
"Well, yes, I suppose they do. Still, your father would be displeased. A duke catching geese! With a net! At a village fair!"
