And the whispers began.
Fiona could not hear the words, but she did not need to. She saw them in the expressions, in the pointing fingers, in the way doors opened as curiosity drew people into the street.
Christian’s arm had gone rigid beneath her hand. His pace faltered.
She could feel him wanting to retreat, to turn around, to flee back to the carriage.
“Keep walking,” she murmured. “Look straight ahead. You are a duke. They are your tenants. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“They are staring.”
“Let them stare. Staring is not cruelty.”
They reached the baker’s shop. Fiona pushed open the door, the small bell chiming overhead, and drew Christian inside.
The shop was warm and fragrant, filled with the smell of fresh bread and honeyed pastries. A plump woman in a flour-dusted apron stood behind the counter, her face frozen in astonishment.
“Good morning,” Fiona said brightly. “We should like to purchase some bread, if you please. And perhaps a pastry or two.”
The woman did not move. Her eyes were fixed on Christian—on his face, on the birthmark visible above his collar.
“Madam?” Fiona prompted gently.
The woman blinked, returning to herself.
“I—yes—of course—” She fumbled behind the counter, producing a loaf of bread with trembling hands. “This is fresh, baked this morning—”
“Excellent. We shall take two loaves. And what are those?” Fiona pointed to a tray near the window.
“H-honey cakes. My grandmother’s recipe.”
“They look delicious. We shall take half a dozen.”
The transaction was completed in awkward silence. The woman wrapped their purchases in brown paper, her hands still shaking, and named a price that was almost certainly too low.
Fiona paid without comment, adding a few extra coins that made the woman’s eyes widen.
“Thank you,” Fiona said warmly. “You have a lovely shop. You must be very proud of it.”
“I—thank you, miss—ma’am—Your Grace—” The woman faltered over the proper address.
Fiona smiled gently. “Miss, if you please—for the present, at least. We shall return; these honey cakes seem excellent.”
She took Christian’s arm and led him out of the shop.
***
“That was a disaster,” Christian said as soon as they were outside.
“That was a beginning.” Fiona steered him down the street toward the next shop. “She was startled. She’ll recover. And now she has a story to tell—how the Duke himself came into her shop and bought bread like an ordinary man.”
“She was terrified of me.”
“She was surprised by you. There is a difference.” Fiona paused and turned to face him. “Christian, listen to me. You have been a ghost to these people for years. A rumour, a shadow, a name whispered in fear. They are not going to grow accustomed to your presence in a single morning. But that does not mean they never will.”
“And in the meantime? I am to endure their stares and whispers?”
“You are to show them that you are a man, not a monster. That takes time. It takes repeated encounters. It takes—”
