He would choose Lydia. Whatever that cost. Whatever battles he had to fight.
The question was how.
He moved to his desk, pulled out paper and ink, and began to write. Not a letter to his aunt; he had nothing more to say to her that wouldn't make things worse. Not a letter to Lydia; that news needed to be delivered in person, with all the care and honesty it deserved. No, this was something else.
A list of assets. Of allies. Of ammunition.
He had the title. That was his first advantage. His aunt could threaten and bluster, but she could not take away what was his by birthright. The lands, the income, the social standing that came with being a duke; all of that was his, regardless of whom he married.
He had the manor. The estate. The tenants who depended on him. If he were a good landlord, and he was becoming one, slowly, learning what that meant, they would stand by him. They had nothing to gain from his aunt's schemes.
He had Boggins. Loyal, wise, unfailingly honest Boggins, who had watched over him for years and knew every secret he possessed. Boggins would not betray him, no matter what pressure was applied.
And he had Ashwick.
This was the asset his aunt hadn't accounted for. The village that had begun to accept him, grudgingly and slowly, but accept him nonetheless. The community that loved Lydia and would protect her. The people who had seen him at the fair, at thedinner, in the street, and were beginning to believe that perhaps he wasn't the cold, remote figure they had always assumed.
If his aunt tried to hurt Lydia, tried to damage her reputation, her family, her livelihood, she would have to go through the village first. And villages, Frederick was learning, could be remarkably stubborn when they chose to be.
He wrote for an hour, filling page after page with plans and contingencies and strategies. Some were practical; letters he would write, allies he would contact, legal protections he would put in place. Some were emotional; things he wanted to say to Lydia, promises he wanted to make, futures he wanted to build.
By the time he finished, the fire had burned low, and the first grey light of dawn was beginning to show at the windows.
He had not slept. He was exhausted. And he had never felt more certain of anything in his life.
Tomorrow, today, now, he would go to Lydia. Tell her everything. Let her decide if she still wanted to be part of this fight.
And if she did, if she chose him, knowing the cost, then they would face it together.
Just as he had promised.
***
In the village, news travelled fast; it always did, but tonight it travelled faster than usual.
"There was a carriage at the manor. A London carriage."
"Whose?"
"I don't know. But it had a crest on the door. Fancy. The kind of crest that means old money and older grudges."
"Probably someone coming to talk sense into the duke."
"Or to drag him back to London."
"Or to make trouble for the Fletcher girl."
This last suggestion caused a ripple of unease to pass through the assembled drinkers at theCrossed Keys. Whatever their opinions about the duke and his unconventional courtship, Lydia was one of theirs. And in Ashwick, that meant something.
"If anyone comes here making trouble for Lydia," said Robert the carpenter, who had been among the most sceptical of the duke's intentions, "they'll find we're not as easy to push around as they might think."
"What are you going to do, Robert? Hit them with a hammer?"
"If I have to."
There was laughter at this, but underneath it, a current of genuine resolve. The village had been watching the strange romance unfold between their blacksmith's niece and the duke from the manor, and while opinions remained divided, one thing was clear: no outsider was going to come here and hurt one of their own.
Not without a fight.
