"Besides the fact that they're currently holding approximately a pound of mud each?"
He looked down. She was right; his boots were disasters, caked with earth and probably ruined beyond repair. Boggins would be devastated.
"They seemed appropriate this morning."
"For a formal dinner, perhaps. For a village fair, you want something you can actually walk in."
"You could help me choose." The words were out before he could stop them. "I mean…Not that I expect…I only thought…"
"Yes."
He blinked. "Yes?"
"If you're going to be attending village fairs, you should probably own at least one pair of practical shoes. I can help you find some."
It was such a small offer. Such a domestic one. The kind of thing friends did for each other, the kind of casual intimacy that Frederick had only ever observed from a distance.
"I would like that," he said, and meant it more than he had ever meant anything.
The evening deepened. The bonfire was lit, casting dancing shadows across the green. The music shifted to something slower, more intimate. Couples began to drift together, swaying in the firelight.
Frederick was acutely aware of Lydia beside him; the warmth of her presence, the occasional brush of her shoulder against his arm. He wanted to ask her to dance. He wanted to puthis arms around her and join the swaying couples and pretend, just for a moment, that he was someone who belonged here.
But he couldn't. Not yet. Not without proving that he could show up again and again, that this wasn't a moment of weakness or curiosity but the beginning of something real.
"I should go," he said, though every part of him wanted to stay.
Lydia nodded, not surprised. "The carriage has been waiting."
"Yes. And I've taken enough of your time."
"It wasn't taking. It was sharing." She turned to face him, her features soft in the firelight. "Thank you for coming. For trying. For…" she hesitated. "For being different from what I expected."
"Thank you for showing me what I was missing."
They stood there for a moment, the fire crackling behind them, the music playing, the village alive with celebration all around. Frederick was acutely aware of everything—the warmth of the flames on his back, the scent of wood smoke and autumn, the way the firelight caught in Lydia's hair and made it glow like copper.
"May I ask you something?" He said.
"You seem to be making a habit of that."
"Yes, well." He took a breath. "Would it be.....I wondered if perhaps in the future, not now, obviously, but at some point, that would be convenient for you…"
"Frederick."
He stopped. She had said his name. Not "Your Grace," not "the duke," butFrederick, and the sound of it on her lips made something flutter in his chest.
"Yes?"
"You're rambling."
"I am. I apologise. I'm not very good at this part."
"What part?"
"The part where I ask if I might see you again. Not at a fair, though I would come to another fair, I would come to every fair if you wanted me to, but somewhere else. Somewhere we could talk without half the village watching."
Lydia was quiet for a long moment. The firelight played across her features, and Frederick couldn't read her expression, and he couldn't tell if she was trying to find a way to refuse politely or if she was simply considering his words.
