"Then fight for it." Boggins insisted. "And know that you will not be fighting alone. Whatever Lady Blackmore threatens, whatever obstacles she places in your path, you have allies, Your Grace. You have people who believe in you. Don't forget that."
"If I may, Your Grace." Boggins settled into a chair across from him, a liberty he rarely took, but one that Frederick was grateful for tonight. "Lady Blackmore's power is not absolute. Indeed, she has connections, and indeed she can cause trouble. But you have something she doesn't."
"What?"
"The title. The lands. The income. You are the Duke of Corvenwell, not her. She can threaten and bluster, but in the end, she cannot force you to do anything. The only power she has is the power you give her."
"She can hurt Lydia."
"She can try. But Miss Fletcher has survived worse than aristocratic disapproval. And she has something Lady Blackmore hasn't accounted for; a village that loves her. A community that will protect her." Boggins' voice was quiet but firm. "If you abandon Miss Fletcher now, you prove Lady Blackmore right. You prove that dukes cannot be trusted, that love across class lines is impossible, and that duty always trumps desire. But if you stand firm, if you fight for what you want, you prove something else entirely."
"What?"
"That you're not your father. That you're capable of choosing happiness over propriety. That you're the kind of man who keeps his promises, even when keeping them is hard."
"You really believe I can do this?"
"I believe you already have, Your Grace. You just need to believe it yourself."
Frederick finished his brandy. Set down the glass and straightened his spine.
"I need to tell Lydia. About my aunt, about the threat, about everything. She deserves to know what she's facing."
"That would be wise. When will you go?"
"Tomorrow morning. First thing." He paused. "Unless... Do you think I should go tonight?"
"I think that would cause a scandal even by your recent standards. A duke, visiting a young woman's home after midnight?" Boggins raised an eyebrow. "Best to wait for daylight. Whatever Lady Blackmore is planning, she won't act immediately. You have time."
"You're right. Of course you're right." Frederick stood, suddenly restless. "I won't be able to sleep."
"Then don't sleep. Pace. Think. Plan. But try to rest at some point; you'll need your wits about you for what's coming."
"What's coming?"
"I don't know, Your Grace. But I suspect it will be considerably more challenging than dinner with a blacksmith." Boggins rose and moved toward the door. "Goodnight, Your Grace. And for what it's worth…I'm proud of you. For not surrendering. For choosing to fight."
"I haven't won anything yet."
"No. But you've decided to try. That's more than most people ever manage."
He left, and Frederick was alone with his thoughts and his fears and the crumpled letter that still sat on the table, unopened and unwanted.
He stared at the letter for a long moment. Veronica Ashby. He didn't know her, he had never met her, he had no idea what she looked like or thought about or dreamed of. To his aunt, she was a solution to a problem—a suitable match, a respectable alliance, a way to preserve everything the Hawthornes had built.
To Frederick, she was a cage.
He picked up the letter, turned it over in his hands. He could open it. He could read about this woman he was supposed to marry, learn her virtues and accomplishments, and try to imagine a future with her. It was what his aunt wanted. It was what society expected. It was what every duke before him had done; married for position, for alliance, for the continuation of the line.
But he wasn't every duke before him. He was Frederick. And Frederick didn't want Veronica Ashby.
He wanted Lydia.
He threw the letter into the fire.
The paper caught immediately, curling and blackening at the edges before bursting into bright flame. He watched it burn, watched his aunt's carefully cultivated plans turn to ash, and felt something shift in his chest. Not resolution, exactly. Notcourage. But a kind of clarity that had been missing for so long, he had forgotten what it felt like.
He would not marry Veronica Ashby. He would not let his aunt dictate his future. He would not become his father, choosing duty over love, propriety over happiness, the approval of a society that had never cared about him as a person.
