"Then tell them the truth. Tell them you were with me."
She laughed, surprised. "Just like that?"
"Just like that. I told you…I want to do this properly. Not hiding, not making excuses. If we're going to see where this leads, we should do it openly."
"The village will have opinions."
"The village already has opinions. They might as well have accurate ones."
Lydia studied him for a long moment; really studied him, with those clear eyes that seemed to see everything he tried to hide. Then, slowly, she smiled.
"You really are different, aren't you? From what everyone says."
"I'm trying to be. I don't know if I'm succeeding, but I'm trying."
"That's all any of us can do." She squeezed his hand once, then released it. "Come along. The rain is easing. We should return before my uncle dispatches a search party."
They rose, brushing dirt and dust from their still-damp clothes. The fire had burned down to ash. The storm had moved on, leaving the world clean and fresh and new.
At the cottage door, Frederick paused.
"Lydia."
She turned, silhouetted against the grey light filtering through the doorway.
"Thank you," he said. "For the fire. For listening. For…" He stopped, overwhelmed by everything he wanted to express and couldn't. "For being here."
"Where else would I be?" She smiled, and it lit up the dim interior of the cottage. "Come on, Your Grace. Let's get you home before you catch a cold. I didn't spend an hour teaching you about fire-lighting just to have you die of fever."
She stepped out into the rain-washed world, and Frederick followed, feeling for all the world like he was stepping into a new life entirely.
Chapter 11
The walk back to the village was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. They walked side by side, close enough that their shoulders occasionally brushed, through a landscape transformed by the storm. Everything looked cleaner, somehow. Sharper. More real.
They reached the edge of the village just as the sun broke through the clouds, painting everything in shades of gold and amber.
"I should leave you here," Frederick said, though everything in him wanted to walk her all the way home. "If you're going to tell people the truth about where you were, you should probably be the one to tell them. Not have me looming behind you like some kind of ducal shadow."
Lydia nodded, though she didn't immediately move to leave. "When will I see you again?"
The question, so simple, so direct, made something bloom in his chest.
"When would you like to?"
"Soon. But not as an errand, and not in secret." She met his eyes steadily. "If we're doing this, we're doing it properly. You said that yourself."
"I did. I meant it."
"Then come to dinner. At my uncle's house. Tomorrow night, if you're free."
It was a remarkable invitation. A blacksmith inviting a duke to dinner was not merely unconventional; it was the kind of thing that would set tongues wagging for months. But Lydia didn't seem to care, and Frederick found that he didn't either.
"I would be honoured," he said, and meant every word.
"Six o'clock. Don't be late, and don't bring anything ostentatious. My uncle doesn't trust gifts that come wrapped in silk."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
