A Walk in Hyde Park

April, 1857

Hyde Park, London 

As Nigel and Mary strolled through Hyde Park, they observed couples engaged in quiet conversation, the crisp London air lending a rosy hue to Mary's cheeks.

Nigel thought she looked breathtakingly beautiful but found himself too shy to tell her.

He had always admired Mary Smith. A striking young lady, she had captivated him since her coming of age, and he had wasted no time in courting her. His hope was to make her his wife, to build a life together filled with love and, perhaps, many children.

Though his duties in Parliament as a duke were tedious, his heart longed for the countryside, for the landowners and farmers who worked his estates. There, amongst the rolling fields, he felt truly at peace.

It was unusual, of course—a titled gentleman preferring the toil of the land to the grandeur of Westminster—but Nigel found deep satisfaction in it.

He glanced at Mary, shaded beneath her pale blue parasol, her matching gown flowing with each step. The sight of her, the warmth of her presence, sent a current of electricity through him.

His gaze drifted from her soft gray eyes to the fullness of her lips. The thought of kissing her—of finally closing the space between them—flitted through his mind.

They had been courting long enough, hadn't they? They were engaged, after all. A small peck, at least, would not be inappropriate. How was it that one woman could be so breathtaking?

And yet, he was utterly tongue-tied around her. She must think him dreadfully dull, for whenever they were alone, he found himself at a loss for words. With her father or brother present, conversation came easily—politics, estate matters, the usual talk of men. But with Mary, his mind stalled.

"What is on your mind, my lord?" she asked, turning from her quiet observation of the ducks gliding along the river.

Nigel cleared his throat, her soft gaze sending another jolt through him. "I was merely admiring the view," he said, then, catching himself, added, "The ducks, I mean."

A faint blush deepened on her cheeks. "I was thinking of feeding them," she admitted, almost shyly.

"Then we shall procure some bread at once," he declared, offering his arm.

She hesitated. "Is it appropriate? I always thought that was something only children did."

"Nonsense," he said with a smile. "I think it would be delightful to feed the ducks with you."

At the vendor’s cart, he placed a shilling down for a loaf. The seller regarded them curiously, as did a few passersby. Mary, seemingly aware of their interest, began to waver.

"Oh, it was just a silly thought, my lord. We don’t have to—"

"Mary," he interrupted gently, "people here are far too concerned with appearances. There is nothing improper about feeding ducks."

Nigel & Mary feed the ducks in London's Hyde Park

With a reassuring smile, he led her to a stone bench along the riverbank. The moment they sat, a parade of ducks emerged from the water, waddling toward them with eager quacks. Mary stifled a giggle, her eyes bright with amusement. Nigel felt lighter than air.

He tore the loaf in half, handing a piece to her. As she began breaking off bits and tossing them to the eager birds, a small crowd gathered behind them. He could sense her discomfort, but he found her delight utterly charming.

"Pay them no mind," he murmured.

She nodded, continuing to scatter crumbs, though her glances toward the onlookers grew more frequent. Nigel watched her, hopeful. Perhaps, when he proposed they move to the countryside after their wedding, she would not object.

The sun shimmered across the pond’s surface, casting golden reflections. The brilliance of it dazzled Nigel’s eyes.

"My lady," he said softly, "allow me to feed them so you may hold your parasol. I should not like you to burn in the sun."

Mary tilted her head up at him, smiling. His heart leaped.

"Thank you, my lord. This was rather fun."

"Please," he murmured, drawing in a quiet breath. "Call me Nigel."

She hesitated, the flush in her cheeks deepening. "Do you think that would be proper, my lord?"

"I believe we have been courting long enough that we may forgo some formalities," he said, a quiet hope threading through his voice.

She looked at him then, truly looked at him, and whispered, "Nigel."

A small shiver passed through her, her gray eyes holding his. He felt his resolve waver. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could attempt that kiss after all.