“On the estate. Not on me personally.” His voice was strained. “Most dealings pass through the steward. It is… easier that way.”
“Easier for whom?”
“For everyone,” he said shortly.
She squeezed his hand.
“Well, the estate is you. You are the Duke. Their livelihoods are tied to your prosperity. They have every reason to want to think well of you, Christian.”
“They have every reason to fear me. The mad duke in the castle, who never shows his face, who dismisses servants for speaking out of turn—”
“Have you? Dismissed servants for speaking out of turn?”
He hesitated. “Once. When I was younger. A kitchen maid who screamed when she saw me unexpectedly.” His voice was low with shame. “I was cruel to her. I told her if she couldn’t control herself, she had no place in my household. She left that day.”
“And you’ve regretted it ever since.”
“It does not undo what I did.”
“No. But it shows who you are. Then, you were a wounded boy—not a cruel man.” Her voice softened. “I imagine you have spent years trying to make amends, have you not? Being fair to your staff, paying good wages, looking after your tenants.”
She held his gaze steadily. “The people in that village deserve to see who you have become, Christian. Not the wounded boy. Not the rumours. The real man.”
The carriage began to slow. Through the window, Fiona could see the first buildings appearing—a church steeple, a row of cottages, the hanging sign of what was presumably the village inn.
“We are here,” she said quietly.
Christian’s hand tightened around hers.
“One hour,” he said, more to himself than to her.
***
The village of Thornwick was smaller than Fiona had expected.
A single main street, unpaved but well-maintained, ran between two rows of stone cottages and shops. There was a blacksmith at one end, the inn at the other, and between them a scattering of businesses—a baker, a chandler, and a small shop that appeared to sell both cloth and provisions. The church stood slightly apart, its ancient stone walls speaking to centuries of service.
It was quiet when they stepped from the carriage.
A few people were visible—a woman sweeping the step of a cottage, two men talking outside the blacksmith’s, a child chasing a chicken across the street—but no one was looking their way.
Not yet.
“We might begin with the baker,” Fiona suggested lightly. “I could do with some fresh bread. And I have heard that village bakeries often produce pastries superior to anything one finds in London.”
“You have heard this from whom?”
“From no one. I invented it. But it sounded plausible.” She tugged at his arm. “Come. Let us be ordinary people doing ordinary things.”
They walked down the street arm in arm, Molly following a few paces behind at a respectful distance.
Fiona felt the precise moment when the village noticed them.
It began with the woman sweeping—her broom stopping mid-stroke, her eyes widening. Then the men outside the blacksmith’s turned, their conversation falling abruptly silent. The child abandoned the chicken and stared.
Recognition spread slowly—not of the man himself, perhaps, but of the implication.
The Duke of Thornwick was walking through the village.
