She smiled, that warm, genuine smile that made him forget about everything except how much he wanted to make her smile again, and then she was walking away, her blue dress catching the late afternoon light.
Frederick watched her until she disappeared around a corner, and then he stood there for several more minutes, trying to remember how to make his legs work.
He was having dinner with Lydia Fletcher. At her uncle's house. Tomorrow.
***
Back at the manor, Boggins was waiting.
"Your Grace appears to have been... moistened."
Frederick looked down at himself—at the still-damp coat, the mud-splattered boots, the general air of dishevelment that would have given his father heart palpitations.
"There was a storm," he said.
"Indeed. I noticed. The windows were quite emphatic about it." Boggins was too professional to show surprise, but there was a gleam in his eye that suggested he was cataloguing this moment for future reference. "I trust the boot shopping was successful?"
"The boots shall be ready in a week. I've ordered two pairs."
"Two pairs. For a man who has historically owned no fewer than twelve pairs of boots at any given time, that seems almost restrained."
"These are different. They're for... For practical purposes."
"Practical purposes." Boggins's tone managed to convey both acknowledgement and scepticism. "And would thesepractical purposes include additional visits to the village? Perhaps during times when a certain blacksmith's niece might be available for consultation?"
Frederick felt his face heat, which was ridiculous. He was one and thirty and the master of this house. He should not be blushing like a schoolboy because his valet was jesting with him.
"If you must know," he said with as much dignity as he could muster, "I've been invited to dinner tomorrow. At her uncle's house."
Now Boggins did show surprise; a slight widening of the eyes, a momentary pause in his usual unflappable demeanour.
"The blacksmith's house."
"Yes."
"For dinner."
"Yes."
"You. A duke. Having dinner with a blacksmith and his niece."
"Is there an echo in here, Boggins?"
"Forgive me, Your Grace. I was simply processing. This is an unprecedented development." He paused. "In fact, I believe this may be unprecedented in the entire history of the Hawthorne family. I shall have to consult the archives to be certain, but I suspect we are entering uncharted territory."
"The archives won't help. I very much doubt any previous Duke of Corvenwell ever dined with a blacksmith."
"No, Your Grace. They were far too busy hunting foxes and oppressing peasants to engage in cross-class social activities."
"Boggins!"
"I apologise, Your Grace. That was perhaps uncharitable to your ancestors." He straightened slightly. "Though not, I suspect, entirely inaccurate."
Frederick sighed. "You're enjoying this far too much."
"On the contrary, Your Grace. I am experiencing a complex mixture of emotions, chief among them cautious optimism and mild terror." Boggins began walking toward the stairs, clearly expecting Frederick to follow. "Cautious optimism because this suggests Your Grace may finally be emerging from the emotional permafrost that has characterized your adult life. Mild terror because I have no precedent for preparing a duke to dine with commoners, and I am concerned I may fail you at a crucial moment."
"You've never failed me, Boggins."
