Page 24 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

“That was good thinking,” he said simply.

Selina inclined her head, warmth spreading through her at this small acknowledgment. “Thank you.”

By late afternoon, their combined efforts had succeeded. The hastily dug diversion channel drew enough water from the river to reduce pressure on the damaged dam. The village carpenter had reinforced the weakest sections with timber bracing, and hundreds of sandbags now shored up the structure.

The Duke stood with Mr. Johnson, discussing permanent repairs, when a young woman approached Selina.

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but the village would be honored if you and His Grace would join us at the barn for a small celebration. Nothing fancy, just a bit of thanks for saving our homes.”

The Duke shook his head. “That’s not necessary. We should return to the house. Her Grace is tired.”

Before he could continue, Selina smiled at the young woman. “We would be delighted to join you, wouldn’t we, Your Grace?”

Caught off guard, the Duke could only give a stiff nod. The young woman beamed and hurried off to spread the news.

“That was presumptuous,” the Duke murmured as they followed the growing crowd toward the village square.

“It would be rude to refuse,” Selina replied. “Besides, I’ve worked all day in mud and haven’t complained once. Surely you can manage an hour of socializing.”

A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve surprised me today.”

“I’m full of surprises, Your Grace. Perhaps if you took the time, you’d have noticed it earlier.”

The barn near the village square had been hastily decorated with lanterns and wildflowers. Trestle tables held simple fare—bread, cheese, cold meats, and ale. A fiddler played in one corner, though no one was dancing yet.

The villagers greeted them with genuine warmth, offering thanks and small toasts. Selina accepted a cup of cider, sipping appreciatively as she observed the gathering. For all its simplicity, there was an honest joy here that surpassed many grand London affairs she had attended.

An elderly man approached, leaning on a gnarled cane. “Your Graces, this celebration serves a dual purpose. We’re not only giving thanks for saving the village but also welcoming new life among us.”

“New life?” the Duke asked.

“Aye, Your Grace. Farmer Gibbons’ mare foaled this morning, right during our troubles. A fine filly and the first birth in the village since your return. It’s an old custom here that the first foal born after a new marriage must be named by the lord and lady of the manor.”

The Duke frowned. “I don’t recall such a tradition.”

“It dates back to your grandfather’s time, Your Grace. Brings luck, they say.”

The old man gestured, and a young stable boy led forward a wobbly-legged foal, its coat still damp from birth. The tiny creature shied at the crowd, pressing against its mother’s flank.

“We’d be honored if you’d name her,” the old man continued. “And tie this ribbon in her mane.” He held out a length of blue silk. “Together, mind. Both your hands.”

Rowan’s reluctance was clear, but the villagers watched expectantly. After a moment’s hesitation, he took one end of the ribbon, gesturing for Selina to take the other.

They approached the foal together. The tiny horse regarded them with liquid eyes, nostrils flaring.

“Gently now,” the stable boy advised. “She’s skittish.”

Selina spoke softly to the creature, stroking its neck as the Duke held the ribbon ready. When the foal calmed, they tied the ribbon together, their fingers brushing. Selina felt a jolt at the contact, a warmth that rushed up her arm.

The Duke’s eyes met hers briefly, and she wondered if he had felt it too.

“What will you name her, Your Graces?” the old man prompted.

The Duke gestured to Selina. “My wife should have the honor.”

The villagers murmured approvingly at this gallantry. Selina studied the foal, noting its proud bearing despite its newborn wobble.

“Boudica,” she declared. “After the warrior queen.”

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