Probably the latter. Almost certainly the latter.
Boggins stood at attention near the sideboard, his face betraying nothing of their conversation the night before. He looked exactly as he always looked; immaculate, unreadable, faintly disapproving of the universe in general and his employer in particular.
"Your Grace's schedule for the day," he said, producing a small notebook from somewhere in his impeccable person. "The steward requests a meeting regarding the eastern tenant cottages; apparently, several roofs require attention before autumn. The solicitor has sent papers requiring signature, something to do with the Yorkshire property. And the household accounts need review."
"Is that all?"
"There is also the matter of the ironwork delivery from the village forge. Expected sometime this afternoon."
Frederick's hand paused infinitesimally in the act of lifting his teacup. "The forge."
"Indeed, Your Grace. New hinges and hardware for the east wing. The commission was placed some weeks ago." Boggins' expression remained perfectly neutral. "I believe the blacksmith's niece will be making the delivery. Miss Fletcher, I understand her name to be. As you already might know. "
"You understand a great deal, Boggins."
"I endeavour to keep informed, Your Grace."
Frederick set down his teacup with careful precision. "I will receive the delivery personally."
"Your Grace?" Now, a flicker of something which seemed like surprise crossed the valet's features. "That is......Unusual. Typically, such matters are handled by…"
"I am aware of what is typical. I wish to inspect the work myself."
"Of course, Your Grace."
Frederick returned to his breakfast, his face composed, his mind racing.
He was not going to see her again. That was not why he was doing this. He was simply taking a personal interest in the quality of work being done for his household, which was exactly what a responsible landowner should do. There was nothingunusual about it. Nothing suggested he had spent half the night thinking about a village girl who had looked at him like he was worth looking at.
Boggins, wisely, said nothing.
But as he withdrew to make the necessary arrangements, Frederick could have sworn he heard the valet murmur something under his breath.
It sounded suspiciously like: "Interesting, indeed."
***
Back in Ashwick, Lydia was beginning her day with significantly less internal turmoil, if only because she had firmly decided not to think about dukes, carriages, or the precise shade of grey-blue that certain aristocratic eyes might theoretically be.
The forge was already hot when she arrived, her uncle having risen before dawn as usual. The rhythmic clang of hammer on metal was as familiar as her own heartbeat; the sound she had grown up with, the sound that meant safety and home and all the things she had been too young to appreciate before her parents were gone.
"The hinges are finished," Thomas said without preamble, nodding toward a wrapped bundle on the workbench. "Quality work, if I say so myself. Even that impossible beast at the manor shouldn't find fault."
"Language, Uncle Thomas."
"What? He is a beast. And he is a…"
"I know what he is. You don't need to say it."
Her uncle paused, studying her face in the orange light of the forge fire. "You're not still thinking about yesterday, are you? What you said at the public house?"
Lydia picked up the bundle, testing its weight. Good solid ironwork, she could tell. Her uncle's best craftsmanship,reserved for clients who paid premium prices. "I said I was sorry."
"You said the words. But I know you, girl. When you get an idea in your head…"
"I don't have any ideas." She met his gaze squarely. "I was being foolish. The village is right. The duke is exactly what he appears to be, and I was making something out of nothing because…I don't know. Because I was tired. Because the day was strange. It won't happen again."
Thomas's expression softened. "You're a good girl, Lyddie. Soft heart, though. Softer than this world deserves."
