"Because you said trust goes both ways. Because I can't expect them to know me if I don't show up. Because…" He met her eyes directly. "Because you'll be there, and that would give me strength because I shall feel that at least one personseesme. And you're the first person in the years that I have been a duke who has looked at me like I might be worth knowing."
The silence stretched between them, heavy with implications.
"That's a lot of pressure to put on someone," Lydia said finally.
"I know."
"I'm not promising anything. If you come to the fair and make everyone miserable, I won't defend you."
"Fair enough."
"And I'm not…" She took a breath. "Whatever you think might happen…I'm a blacksmith's niece. You're a duke. I shall not be able to defend you, and that doesn't change just because we had one strange conversation in a room full of hinges."
"I know," Frederick said again. And he did know. He knew all the reasons this was impossible, inappropriate, and doomed to failure. He knew his father would be furious at the very idea of the Duke of Corvenwell seeking guidance from a village girl with soot-stained hands and too much honesty.
But his father was dead. And Frederick was tired of being above.
"Come to the fair," Lydia said finally. "Not for me but for yourself. See if you can learn to be human in public for an afternoon. If you can manage that…" She shrugged. "Maybe we'll talk again."
"Maybe?"
"I don't make promises I'm not sure I can keep." She moved toward the door, then paused. "The ironwork is good. Your housekeeper will try to find fault, because that's her job, but shewon't succeed. My uncle is the best blacksmith in the county, and I'm…"
"The best finisher?"
She smiled. "Learning. But getting better."
"I believe you."
The words came out more sincere than he had intended. More personal. But Lydia didn't flinch from them, just nodded once and reached for the door handle.
"Three weeks," she said. "The fair starts at noon. Wear something that can survive mud."
"I don't own anything that can survive mud."
"Then buy something. Or borrow something. Or…" Her smile turned mischievous. "Learn to tolerate being dirty. It won't kill you."
"You seem very certain of that."
"I am." She opened the door. "Goodbye, Your Grace."
"Frederick," he corrected, but she was already gone.
***
Frederick stood in the empty room for a long time after she left, staring at the hinges on the table.
They really did an excellent job. His father would have rejected them anyway; he would have found some microscopic flaw, some excuse to assert dominance over the craftsman who had made them. That was the Hawthorne way.
But his father was dead, and Frederick was tired, and somewhere in his chest, in the place where he kept everything that hurt, a small crack had begun to form.
He picked up one of the hinges again, turning it over in his hands. He thought about the hours of work that had gone into it; the heating and the hammering, the careful shaping, the attention to detail. He thought about Lydia's hands, strong andcapable, learning this craft in a world that told her that women could not do it.
She had told him to buy something that could survive mud, and she had laughed at his stone face. She had called him Frederick, like it were the most natural thing in the world, like titles were optional between them.
No one had ever treated him that way. Not the people who wanted his favour. Not the servants who feared his displeasure. Not even Boggins, who came closest to honesty but still maintained the careful distance of employee to employer.
Lydia had just talked to him like he was a person, not a title.
