"It's not enough."
"It's a start. That's all any of us can ask for."
Frederick turned her hand over in his, tracing the lines of her palm with his thumb. Her skin was rough in places; callused from the forge, marked by small scars from sparks and hot metal. These were hands that had done real work. Hands that had built things, created things, transformed raw materials into something beautiful and useful.
"Your hands," he said. "They're..."
"Rough. I know. Not like a lady's hands."
"No. They're extraordinary. They tell a story." He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her palm. "Every callus, every scar—they all mean something. They mean you've lived. You've worked. You've made your mark on the world."
"That's a very romantic way of looking at rough hands."
"I'm feeling romantic."
"I noticed." She smiled, and the sight of it made his heart ache. "You're different, you know. From what I expected."
"So people keep telling me."
"I mean it as a compliment. The first time I saw you, I thought you were the coldest person I'd ever encountered. All ice and stone and impenetrable distance."
"And now?"
"Now I think the ice was armour. Protection. A way of surviving a childhood that didn't allow for anything soft." She turned to look at him, her eyes dark in the gathering dusk. "You're not cold, Frederick. You're warm. So warm. You've just been hiding it because no one taught you it was safe to show."
The words landed like a blow; not painful, but profound. Because she was right. She saw him more clearly than anyone ever had.
"How do you do that?" He asked. "See things so clearly?"
"I pay attention. And I've learned that people rarely are what they seem. The gruff ones are often the kindest. The cheerfulones are often the saddest. And the cold ones..." She squeezed his hand. "The cold ones are often just waiting for permission to thaw."
They sat in silence for a while, watching the last of the light fade from the sky. Stars were beginning to appear; faint points of light that grew brighter as the darkness deepened.
"Frederick," Lydia said softly.
"Yes?"
"What happens now?"
It was the question he'd been avoiding. The question that had no easy answer.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I know what I want. I want to keep seeing you. I want to know you better—every part of you, every story, every dream. I want to sit in this garden with you a thousand more times and never run out of things to say."
"But?"
"But I'm a duke. And you're..." He stopped, aware of how the sentence would sound if he finished it.
"A blacksmith's niece. You can say it. It's what I am."
"You're so much more than that. But the world, my world, doesn't see it that way. To them, you're unsuitable. Beneath my station. A scandal waiting to happen."
"And what do they want you to do? Marry some earl's daughter who speaks five languages and has never worked a day in her life?"
"Something like that."
Lydia laughed; a short, sharp sound with no humour in it.
"Then let them want it. You don't have to give them what they want."
