"I'm not fidgeting. I'm... adjusting."
"You've adjusted your cuffs seven times in the last three minutes. That's fidgeting."
Frederick dropped his hands to his sides with the air of a man caught in an embarrassing act. They were standing in the small parlour of the blacksmith's cottage, a room Lydia had hastily tidied that afternoon, though it still bore the comfortable clutter of a home actually lived in, waiting for Thomas to finish getting ready.
"I'm nervous," Frederick admitted. "Is that so strange?"
"You're a duke. You've addressed the House of Lords. You've dined with princes and negotiated with foreign dignitaries." Lydia straightened his cravat, which had somehow become askew despite his adjustments. "And you're nervous about going to a village public house?"
"The House of Lords doesn't care whether I'm a decent person. They care whether I vote the right way on the corn laws." He caught her hands as she finished with the cravat. "The people at theCrossed Keyswill be judging me. Really judging me. Whether I'm worthy of you."
"You're worthy."
"You're biased."
"Hopelessly." She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek. "But I'm also right."
Thomas appeared in the doorway, dressed in his Sunday best; a coat that was fifteen years old but meticulously maintained, and a waistcoat that had belonged to his brother. He looked between them with an expression that mixed resignation with something softer.
"If you're quite finished," he said. "The public house won't stay open all night."
"We're ready." Lydia smoothed down her dress one final time. The deep blue wool, her best, the one she saved for Christmas and special occasions. Tonight felt like both.
They walked through the village as the sun set, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. It was the golden hour, when everything seemed softer, more forgiving. A good omen, perhaps. Or perhaps just good timing.
The Crossed Keys sat at the heart of Ashwick, a building that had been serving ale since before the first Hawthorne set foot in the county. Its sign, two keys crossed over a crown, creaked gently in the evening breeze. Through the windows, Lydia could see the warm glow of candlelight, the shadows of people moving inside.
Her people. Her neighbours. The men and women who had watched her grow from a grief-stricken orphan into the woman she was today.
And now she was about to walk in with the Duke of Corvenwell on her arm.
"Ready?" Frederick asked.
"No." She squared her shoulders. "But let's do it anyway."
***
The door swung open, and the warmth of the public house rushed out to meet them; the smell of wood smoke and ale and something savoury cooking in the kitchen. For a moment, everything was normal; the crackle of the fire, the murmur of conversation, the comfortable sounds of an ordinary evening.
Someone looked up, and that was enough because then everyone looked up.
The silence spread like ripples in a pond, starting at the door and washing outward until the entire room had gone quiet. Lydia felt the weight of it; dozens of eyes turning toward them, conversations dying mid-sentence, tankards pausing halfway to lips.
She had expected this and had prepared herself for it. But preparation and reality were different things, and the reality was that she had never felt so exposed in her life.
Frederick’s arm was steady under her hand. His face was calm, composed; the mask of a duke, perfected over thirty years of practice. But she could feel the tension in his muscles, the slight tremor that betrayed his nerves.
He was terrified. He was doing it anyway.
That, more than anything else, gave her courage.
"Your Grace." Mr Holloway materialised from behind the bar, his voice carefully neutral. He was a man in his sixties, weathered by decades of work, with the particular diplomacy of someone who had learned to serve all comers without offending. "Miss Fletcher. Mr. Fletcher. Welcome."
"Thank you, Mr Holloway." Frederick’s voice was steady. "Three ales, if you please."
"Of course, Your Grace. I'll bring them to your table."
"We'll collect them at the bar, if that's acceptable. I'd hate to put you to extra trouble."
