“Publicly?”
“Everyone knows anyway,” Thomas said with a grimace, jerking a thumb toward the growing clusters of whisperers. “Half the village heard ‘Your Grace’ and the other half learned it from Mrs. Morrison before the hour was out. Witnesses make it harder for her to murder you. Also, they’ll see you mean it.”
Alaric stared at the trampled snow, at the scattered feathers and the crushed edge of a garland loop. “And if she won’t listen at all?”
Thomas considered. “Then you keep showing up. Day after day. Fix what Fletcher broke. Pay back what was stolen. Stand in the cold when people are cold. Carry the heavy things. Learn the names of the geese and the names of the people. Prove you’re not just a man who pretended to be someone else for a lark at Christmas.”
“That’s a great deal to do.”
“That’s love. That is what Marianne always says,” Thomas said simply. “And also consequence.” He nudged Alaric’s elbow with an unexpected gentleness. “You really did watch her like she was made of Christmas magic.”
“I didn’t...”
“You really did,” Thomas insisted, without malice. “It was actually kind of embarrassing. But also sweet. In an awkward, duchy way.” He flashed a quick, crooked grin. “If you want her to believe you, stop being awkward and start being brave.”
Alaric let out a slow breath that trembled more than he liked. “Brave,” he repeated.
“Brave,” Thomas affirmed. “Now go wash the flour off your sleeve and think of a gift that proves you were listening. And maybe start practicing the words ‘I’m sorry’ until they sound like you mean them.”
“I do mean them.”
“Good,” Thomas said. “Make sure she hears it.” He pointed toward the church, where the bells were being tested for evening service. “And maybe read at the service. Not like a duke. Like a man who finally knows where he belongs.”
“Where do I belong?” Alaric asked before he could stop himself.
Thomas’s grin widened, fierce and bright. “Right here. If you’re brave enough to stay.”
Chapter 14
Alaric was surprised at how wise Thomas sounded but before he could respond to this assessment, the church bells rang, calling people to the pie judging. He could see Marianne at the tent, determinedly not looking in his direction while organizing the entries with violent efficiency.
"Go judge the pies," Thomas said. "She'll have to be near you for that. Maybe you can start groveling then."
"In front of the entire village?"
"That's probably best, actually. Witnesses make it harder for her to murder you."
"You're not very reassuring."
"I'm not trying to be reassuring. I'm trying to be helpful."
The pie judging was held in the tent that the geese had recently vacated, though evidence of their rampage remained in the form of scattered crumbs and one lingering feather that Admiral Feathers had left like a calling card.
Marianne stood at the judges' table, her expression carved from ice. "Your Grace," she said with cutting formality. "How good of you to still participate in our little village activities."
"Marianne..."
"Mrs. Whitby," she corrected sharply. "We don't know each other well enough for Christian names."
"We know each other very well."
"I thought I knew someone named Edmund Fletcher. I don't know the Duke of Wexmere at all."
"I'm the same person."
"No, you're really not. Mr. Fletcher helped with the fair and baked terrible bread and fought geese. The Duke of Wexmere is someone who hasn't bothered to visit his estate in years."
"Both of those people are me."
