Frederick was aware that he was staring. He was aware that staring was inappropriate, that his behaviour was alreadyunusual enough to generate household gossip for weeks, that he should say something formal and dismissive and get this over with before he made an even larger fool of himself.
He couldn't seem to stop looking at her.
She was different in this light; softer, somehow, without the forge fire behind her. Her dress was simple blue cotton, clean but clearly mended in places. Her hair was pinned more carefully than it had been yesterday, though wisps still escaped around her face in a way that suggested she had better things to do than fuss with her appearance. There was no soot on her face today, as well.
He found himself almost missing it.
"Your Grace," she said finally, and her voice was exactly as he thought it would be—clear and direct and utterly unimpressed by his title. "I wasn't expecting.......The housekeeper usually handles..."
"I am aware of what is usual." He moved toward the table where the hinges lay, grateful for the excuse to look at something other than her. "I wished to inspect the work personally."
"It's good work."
"I will be the judge of that."
He picked up one of the hinges, turning it over in his hands. The metalwork was excellent; he could see that at a glance. Smooth joins, balanced weight, the kind of craftsmanship that spoke of years of experience and genuine skill. His father would have found something to criticise anyway, some tiny flaw to justify rejection, because that was what Hawthornes did. They found fault. They demanded better. They never, ever admitted that something was simplygood.
"Your uncle's work?" he asked.
"Mostly. I helped with some of the finishing."
"You work at the forge?"
She lifted her chin slightly, as if expecting criticism. "I do."
"That is..." He searched for the right word. "Unusual."
"Is it?"
"For a woman. Yes."
"I wasn't aware that iron cared about the gender of the hands that shaped it."
Despite himself, Frederick felt the corner of his mouth twitch. It wasn't quite a smile; he wasn't sure he remembered how to smile, but it was closer than he had come in months. "I imagine it doesn't."
She was staring at him now. Not with the hostility he had expected, or the deference he was accustomed to, but with that same assessing look from yesterday. As if she were trying to solve a puzzle and finding the pieces didn't fit.
"Your Grace," she said slowly, "why am I here?"
"You are delivering ironwork. I believe we established that."
"I mean, in this room, alone. With you." She didn't look away, and she didn't flinch from the directness of the question. "This isn't normal. Dukes don't inspect hinges personally. Dukes don't dismiss their housekeepers to speak with blacksmiths' nieces in private. So why…"
"You looked at me."
The words came out before he could stop them, and Frederick had the distinct sensation of having stepped off a cliff into empty air. Too late to take it back. Too late to pretend he hadn't said it. All he could do was fall.
"Yesterday," he continued, because silence would be worse, "when my carriage passed through the village. Everyone else turned away. Or glared. Or mocked. But you looked at me."
She was very still now. "That bothered you?"
"No. That's the problem." He set down the hinge, suddenly unable to bear its weight. "It didn't bother me at all. It felt... I don't know. I don't have words for what it felt like."
"Like being seen?"
He looked at her sharply. "Yes. How did you…"
"Because that's what I saw." Her voice was quiet, careful, as if she were handling something fragile. "Everyone else sees the duke. The title. The carriage and the clothes and all the... trappings. But you…"
