"It seemed apt." Lydia smiled slightly. "He's not cold, Mrs Wrightly. He's scared. There's a difference."
"I know the difference, child. I've been watching people for sixty-three years." Mrs Wrightly was quiet for a moment. "I may have been wrong about him."
Lydia looked up sharply. "What?"
"Don't make me repeat it. I'm old and set in my ways, and admitting error is uncomfortable." Mrs Wrightly's mouth twitched. "But I saw him with young Molly. The way he looked at her—like he didn't know children could be friendly. Like he'd never experienced kindness from a stranger before." She shook her head. "Whatever else he is, he's not untouchable. Not anymore."
Lydia thought about the duke's face when he'd tasted the gooseberry pie. The wonder in his eyes, as if he'd discovered something extraordinary. The way he'd looked when she'd told him about her parents, about the village that had saved her; he seemed hungry, almost, for the kind of love she described.
"No," she agreed. "Not anymore."
"You're being careful, aren't you? With whatever this is?"
"There isn'ta whatever this is. He's a duke. I'm a blacksmith's niece."
"That's not an answer."
Lydia sighed. "I'm being as careful as I can. But..." She looked at the fire again, at the dancers, at the village that hadraised her and loved her and given her everything she had. "But some things are worth being careful about. And some things are worth the risk."
"And which is this?"
"I don't know yet. That's why I'm being careful."
Mrs Wrightly studied her for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, she patted Lydia's hand.
"Your mother said something similar once. About your father." She smiled, small and sad. "She wasn't wrong. Just be sure you know what you're risking. A heart is a difficult thing to repair once it's been broken."
"You think he'll break my heart?"
"I think all love has the potential for heartbreak. That's what makes it worth something; the risk. The vulnerability. The willingness to let someone close enough to hurt you." Mrs Wrightly rose, her joints creaking in protest. "But I also think that a man who looks at a child the way he looked at Molly, who takes off his fine coat to wrap around a shivering boy, who says 'I'm sorry' like he actually means it; that's not a man who breaks hearts on purpose. That's a man who's learning to have one."
She walked away, leaving Lydia alone with the fire and her thoughts and the memory of a duke who had looked at her like she was the most important person in the world.
It was probably nothing. It was probably foolish. It was probably the beginning of heartbreak.
But as Lydia watched the flames dance and the stars emerge overhead, she found that she didn't regret any of it. Not the conversation in the manor. Not the afternoon at the fair. Not the way he'd said her name or the way he'd looked at her or the way his hand had felt when she'd taken it.
Frederick Hawthorne had come to the Harvest Fair. He had tried. He had stumbled and recovered and tried again. Andsomewhere in the process, he had become something more than a cold duke on a hill.
He had become a possibility.
Chapter 9
"You're staring at that note like it's going to bite you."
Lydia looked up from the paper in her hands; fine paper, cream-colored, with handwriting that was elegant but slightly unsteady, as if the writer had been nervous. She had been staring at it for the better part of ten minutes, reading and rereading the same few lines.
Miss Fletcher,
I hope this letter finds you well. I write to inquire whether your kind offer regarding boots might still stand. If so, I would be honoured to call upon you at your convenience.
Frederick.
Not"His Grace the Duke of Corvenwell." Not even "F. Hawthorne." Just Frederick. As if they were friends. As if the rules that governed their respective worlds had somehow ceased to apply.
"It's from the duke," she said, though her uncle clearly already knew that. The messenger who had delivered it, a young footman in Corvenwell livery, had caused quite a stir in the village.
"I gathered." Thomas set down his hammer and crossed to where she stood by the forge door. "What does he want?"
