It wasn't much. It wasn't enough. But it was a start.
***
Lydia had been watching.
She hadn't meant to; she had told herself quite firmly that she was not going to spend the entire fair tracking the duke's movements like some sort of aristocracy-obsessed hawk. But he was difficult to miss, in his too-fine coat and his too-shiny boots, moving through the crowd with the careful uncertainty of a man navigating foreign territory.
She had watched him fail. She had seen the candle seller's expression, the pie man's confusion, the child's tears. She had felt each small disaster as if it were happening to her, wincing internally at every misstep.
And then she had watched him succeed.
The children around his carriage. The gentle way he'd explained about the horses. His actual smile when Molly had grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the pie stall. The transformation in his face when he'd tasted the gooseberry pie, as if he'd discovered something precious and unexpected.
He was trying. Actually trying, just like he'd said he would.
She was moving toward him before she'd consciously decided to, weaving through the crowd with the ease of someone who had navigated this fair her entire life.
"Your Grace appears to be acquiring pastry."
Frederick turned. His expression when he saw her, the surprise, the relief, the warmth that softened his usually stern features, made something flutter in Lydia's chest that she firmly ignored.
"Miss Fletcher." He shifted the pies in his arms, nearly dropping one. "I was hoping I might see you."
"You have gooseberry on your chin."
"I…..What?" His free hand went to his face, encountered the evidence of his pie enthusiasm, and he flushed in a way that was entirely too endearing. "I apologise. I was…"
"Enjoying yourself?"
"Yes, actually." He sounded surprised by his own admission. "More than I expected to. Although I've also managed to offend approximately half the village, so perhaps'enjoying'is too strong a word."
"I saw." She couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips. "The candle incident was particularly memorable."
"Was it that bad?"
"Let's just say that Mrs. Thompson will be dining out on that story for weeks."
He winced. "I was trying to be complimentary. About the wicks."
"I gathered. But you might want to avoid mentioning wicks to her in the future. Or candles in general. Or light sources of any kind."
"Noted." He looked down at his armful of pies, then back at her. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to.......I know I said I would try to manage on my own, but I find myself somewhat out of my depth, and…"
"Would I like to show you around the fair?"
"Yes. If you wouldn't mind."
Lydia should have said no. She should have maintained a proper distance, protected her reputation, and avoided giving the village gossip any more fuel than they already had. But he was standing there with pies in his arms and gooseberries on his chin and an expression of such hopeful uncertainty that she couldn't bring herself to refuse.
"You'll need to do something about those pies first."
"Ah. Yes. I hadn't quite thought through the logistics of carrying four whole pies around a village fair."
"You could give them away."
"Give them away?"
"To people. As you pass them. It might help with the whole…" she gestured vaguely, "being less intimidating thing."
