The thought filled her with equal parts of hope and terror.
What if he was going to denounce her? Publicly declare that she had led him on, toyed with his affections, and rejected him cruelly? It would be no more than she deserved, after the things she had said to him.
Or what if…
She didn't let herself finish the thought. She didn't let herself hope.
Reverend Clarke was speaking about love. Of course he was. The reading was from—Love is patient, love is kind—and Lydia wanted to laugh at the cosmic irony of it all. Here she was,having destroyed love out of fear, listening to a sermon about love's virtues.
Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
She had believed she was being loving when she walked away. She had convinced herself that letting go was the ultimate act of love; giving Frederick back his future, even at the cost of her own happiness.
But listening to the familiar words now, she wondered if she had understood love at all.
Love never ends.
Maybe that was true. Maybe love didn't end; it just transformed, became something different. The love she felt for Frederick hadn't disappeared when she walked out of his study. It had become sharper, more painful, a constant ache in her chest.
That wasn't the ending of love. That was love in agony.
The service ended. Reverend Clarke pronounced the final blessing, and the congregation began to stir.
Then Frederick stood up.
"If I may," he said.
His voice carried clearly through the stone church, silencing the rustling of bodies and the murmur of conversation. Every eye turned to him.
Reverend Clarke looked uncertain. "Your Grace?"
"I apologise for the irregularity, Reverend. But I have something I need to say. Something that can't wait." Frederick’s voice was steady, but Lydia could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands were clenched at his sides. "I'm asking for a few minutes of the congregation's time."
The reverend glanced around the church, clearly torn between propriety and curiosity. "I... suppose, given the circumstances..."
"Thank you." Frederick moved out of his pew and walked to the front of the church, turning to face the assembled villagers. His eyes swept the room, taking in every face, every expression of confusion or concern or barely concealed excitement.
And then his gaze found Lydia.
"Most of you know me," he began. "Or you think you do. You know that I'm the Duke of Corvenwell. That I live in the manor on the hill. That I've spent the last years being exactly what you'd expect a duke to be; distant, cold, utterly disconnected from the life of this village."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the congregation. Frederick waited for them to subside.
"What you may not know is why. Why I kept myself apart. Why I never attended church, never visited the public house, never made any effort to be part of this community." He paused. "It wasn't because I thought I was better than you. It was because I was afraid."
More murmurs, these ones confused. Dukes weren't supposed to admit to fear. It wasn't done.
"I was raised to believe that emotion was weakness. That wanting things was beneath my station. My father taught me to be cold, to be controlled, to never let anyone see what I was feeling." Frederick’s voice roughened. "He taught me that love was a liability. A distraction from duty. Something to be avoided at all costs."
Lydia felt tears burning in her eyes. She blinked them back fiercely, not wanting to miss a word.
"I believed him. For thirty years, I believed him. I built walls around my heart so high that no one could scale them. I went through the motions of living without actually being alive." Frederick’s eyes found hers again. "And then I met someone who made me want to tear those walls down."
The church had gone utterly silent. Everyone was holding their breath.
"You all know who I'm talking about. Lydia Fletcher. The blacksmith's niece." Frederick’s voice softened. "The woman who looked at me and saw something worth knowing. Who challenged me, pushed me, and demanded that I become better than I was. Who showed me that the coldness I'd been taught wasn't strength; it was cowardice."
Emotion swelled in Lydia’s breast, and she put her hand to her mouth, determined it should not betray her.
