Silence followed.
Then, from somewhere among the watching villagers, a woman’s voice broke in:
“Oh, for goodness sake, Henry. His Grace apologised. More than your father ever did for all the money he borrowed and never repaid.”
A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the gathered crowd.
The tension eased—not entirely, but enough.
Henry scratched the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable now that the moment had shifted.
“Well,” he muttered at last, “an apology’s something, I suppose. “More than the old duke ever gave anyone.”
“It is a beginning,” Christian said. “Perhaps, in time, I can offer more than words.”
Henry gave a reluctant nod, then turned and walked away, disappearing into the inn at the end of the street.
Fiona released a breath she had not realised she was holding.
“That,” she said quietly, “was not a disaster.”
“It felt like one.”
“It was a confrontation. A difficult one. But you bore it well.” She gave his arm a reassuring pressure. “You apologised for something that was not your fault. You asked for a chance rather than demanding respect. That matters, Christian. It will be remembered.”
He glanced around at the villagers still watching from windows and doorways. A few met his gaze; most looked away. But the expressions he saw were no longer only fear. There was curiosity now—and perhaps the beginning of reconsideration.
“May we go home now?” he asked.
“Soon.” Fiona began walking again, drawing him gently along beside her. “First, I should like to look in at the church. And then the blacksmith—I have questions about repairing the fountain.”
“Fiona—”
“We agreed upon an hour. It has not yet been an hour.” She looked up at him with a faint smile. “And besides, you have already faced the worst of it. Everything else must surely be easier.”
He sighed, but allowed her to lead him onward.
***
The blacksmith’s wife proved the greatest surprise of the morning.
She was a small, sturdy woman with iron-grey hair and sharp, intelligent eyes, and when they entered the smithy to inquire about repairs, she regarded Christian with none of the unease they had encountered elsewhere.
“So you’re His Grace,” she said, wiping her hands upon her apron before giving a small, respectful bob of her head. “The Duke of Thornwick.”
“I am.”
“They call you the Beast,” she added after a moment.
“They do.”
“Hm.” She regarded him briefly, then lowered her gaze again. “Begging Your Grace’s pardon, but you do not look much like a beast to me.”
Christian blinked.
“I—that is—”
“My sister had a mark upon her face,” the woman continued simply. “Not so large as Your Grace’s, but plain enough. She spent her whole life hiding herself away, convinced she was something dreadful to behold.”
