She lifted her head, and with her shifting, the cocoon of warmth broke. A gust of early spring air nipped at his bare skin.
She let out a squeal and quickly reached for her shift. “I hate how fast it happens,” she said, teeth chattering. “One moment you’re wrapped in heaven, the next you’re freezing your toes off.”
Nic helped her pull the garment over her head, laughing quietly as he rubbed warmth into her arms. “Someday soon, Biscuit, we won’t have to sneak out here like fugitives. We’ll have a bed, a hearth, a home.”
She smiled, gathering her dress and untangling the layers. “And Dolly will have her own rug.”
“Only if she learns not to steal my socks.”
Helen grinned and plucked one such sock from beneath the dog’s massive paw. “Found one.”
As she dressed, her motions slowed, and a whisper of tension began to gather in her shoulders. She sat near the edge of the platform, combing out her hair with her fingers. “Next week is my father’s birthday,” she said, voice careful. “There’s a dinner planned. Big one. Extended family. Friends. Everyone will be there.”
Nic made a show of smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt, avoiding her gaze. He remembered too well the last time he’d dined with her family—the crisp linens on the table, the chandelier flickering above, the polished cutlery that felt too heavy in his hands.
It had been early in their courtship, and Helen had beamed with pride the entire evening, chattering about his building designs, his swordsmanship, his quick wit. She had meant to lift him up in front of her father—but it had only made the difference between their worlds more glaring.
Steward Jacob had regarded him coolly across the table, his expression unreadable but not unkind—worse, it was indifferent. He had asked polite questions in a voice so formal it might as well have been addressed to a tradesman delivering timber. Not once did he meet Nic’s eyes for long. And when Helen gushed about Nic’s talent, the steward merely nodded, as if being “clever with his hands” were a curiosity, not a virtue.
Later, when Helen had stepped away to help her mother, Nic had found himself alone with Jacob by the hearth. The steward had studied him in silence, then gestured toward a painting above the mantle—some ancestral portrait of a long-dead lord in brocade.
“That waistcoat of yours,” Jacob said, his voice light but deliberate, “reminds me of acostumefrom a harvest play we once hosted. Quite spirited.”
Nic had smiled politely, not sure how to respond. But the message had been clear.
He didn’t belong there.
“I want you to come,” Helen said, her voice gentler now. “You’ll be expected, Nic.”
He didn’t answer right away. He focused on buttoning his shirt, though his hands moved slower than usual.
“You want me to sit across the table from the man who looks at me like I tracked mud into his parlor?”
Helen turned to face him fully, eyes narrowed. “He doesn’t hate you.”
“No,” Nic said. “But he doesn’t think I’m good enough for you.”
She exhaled sharply, clearly frustrated but trying not to show it. “You’re not giving him a chance to think otherwise.”
Nic slipped on his waistcoat without meeting her eyes. “I’ll be working. Long days right now. Tight schedule.”
“Nic.”
He paused, and in the stillness, the unspoken words between them swelled like a rising tide.
“If you don’t come, they’ll think you’re avoiding them,” she said. “That you’re not serious about me.”
He looked up then, the weight behind his ribs tightening. “That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not,” she said, rising to her feet, her loose curls tumbling down her back. “But it’s true. If you want a future with me, they need to see who you are.”
“I want a future with you,” he said quickly, too quickly. “But you know what your father sees when he looks at me? A boy withsawdust on his sleeves. A builder’s son who doesn’t belong at his table.”
Helen crossed to him and placed her hands on his chest. “You do belong. You belong with me. And he will see that if you let him. Just... please. Come. Sit beside me. Be yourself.”
Nic stared at her—at her fire, her stubborn faith in him. He hated how much he wanted to believe it.
He sighed and shoved a hand through his wayward locks. “Did your father actually invite me?”
