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Page 22 of Duke of no Return (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #23)

CHAPTER 1

ONE DUKE OF A TIME

T he Montague townhouse in London was, as always, a flurry of genteel chaos. Housemaids flitted like shadows through the corridors, brass polished to a high gleam, and the scent of lavender polish hung in the air like a promise of civility. Miss Lydia Montague, however, was anything but civil at the moment.

“A stipulation? From Aunt Eugenia!” she repeated, her voice a crescendo of disbelief. She waved the solicitor’s letter through the air. “A blasted stipulation? As though I were some frail ninny who cannot travel without a chaperone!”

Lady Honora Montague, her elder sister by twelve years and current self-appointed moral compass of the family, sighed dramatically from the chaise. “It is not uncommon, Lydia. Inheritances often come with conditions.”

“Conditions,” Lydia snapped, pacing the drawing room with the full theatrical flair of her crimson skirts, “are for horses and debts, not for women with perfectly functional intellects.”

Honora winced. “Do stop waving that about. You are wrinkling it.”

She paused, the letter trembling slightly in her hand, as her gaze drifted toward the tall windows. A vivid image rose unbidden—a younger Lydia, no more than ten, sitting cross-legged beneath a lilac tree while Aunt Eugenia told her outlandish tales about pirates and daring lady adventurers. The scent of ginger biscuits, the rustle of chickens in the grass, the crackling sound of Aunt Eugenia’s laugh—it all flooded back with surprising warmth. She had only visited a handful of times, but they had made an impression. The idea that this same woman had now left her a legacy—complete with strings—felt like a final nudge from beyond the grave.

She hated the idea of being tethered—to rules, expectations, or even well-meaning ghosts. And yet, Aunt Eugenia’s letter tugged at something tender beneath her bravado. Was this legacy meant to be a gift or a final, loving leash?

Lydia came to an abrupt halt before the fireplace, the letter clenched in her gloved hand. “The woman left me an estate, Honora. An actual estate. With a proper roof and a dowry sum that would make even your husband raise a brow. And yet, I cannot claim it unless I am escorted to Devonshire like a wayward governess.”

“At least it is not father escorting you,” Honora muttered, lifting her teacup.

Lydia narrowed her eyes. “No. Instead, I am to be accompanied by Maximilian Ashcombe, Duke of Hasting, and, if the tales are true, unrepentant rogue.”

The name fell into the room like a weight.

Honora’s spoon paused mid-stir. “The Duke of Hasting? The one with the jawline that could fell a lady at thirty paces?”

“Yes, that one,” Lydia said with a distinct lack of reverence.

“But he is positively dour. Is he not the one who stared down the Prince Regent at some affair or another?”

“Stared down, insulted, and left with his cravat untouched,” Lydia replied. “He is also reputed to have the charm of a wet boot and the temperament of a lion with a toothache.”

“And yet,” Honora said, setting down her tea, “you are to spend several days traveling alone with him.”

Lydia lifted her chin. “I shall be perfectly safe.”

“From him, perhaps. But what of yourself?”

Lydia did not answer.

Two days later, the Montague butler intoned in his most reverent voice, “His Grace, the Duke of Hasting.”

The drawing room stilled. Lydia rose from the window seat where she had been pretending to read. In truth, she had spent the better part of the morning picturing just how much starch a man like the duke poured into his spine before breakfast.

Maximilian Ashcombe did not disappoint—he entered like the final chapter of a gothic novel—tall, brooding, and dressed as if his coat had been tailored by the archangel of austerity himself.

He was unreasonably tall and dressed in deep navy riding clothes tailored with such precision it seemed his shoulders had been measured with divine instruments. His boots gleamed. His cravat was mathematically perfect. And his expression, when he set eyes on her, hovered between mild annoyance and visible restraint.

Lydia smiled sweetly. “Your Grace.”

Maximilian bowed. “Miss Montague.”

“How dutiful of you to arrive precisely on time.”

“I find punctuality preferable to dramatics.”

“Pity,” she murmured. “We do dramatics so well in this house.”

He glanced at the overstuffed drawing room—the riot of floral upholstery, her sister’s needlework monstrosities, the framed sketch of a dog that had died three years ago.

“I can see that.”

She moved forward, the feather in her hat bobbing like a defiant sentinel. “Will you sit? Or would you rather stand and glower a bit longer?”

“Standing suits me,” he replied.

She offered a slow smile. “How fortunate. I do adore a man who knows his strengths.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

Honora cleared her throat from her perch near the fireplace. “Would you care for refreshment, Your Grace?”

Maximilian inclined his head. “Thank you, no. I am only here to collect Miss Montague and begin our journey.”

Lydia folded her arms. “So it is true, then. You view this as a collection.”

He met her gaze squarely. “Do you not?”

His calm demeanor irked her, as if he were already resigned to suffering her company rather than curious about it. A flicker of annoyance sparked in her chest—was he truly so unmoved? She wondered, not for the first time, what he really thought of her. Was she merely an obligation, an inconvenience to be endured? Or was there something else behind that maddeningly impassive expression—a grudging curiosity, perhaps, or the beginning of reluctant intrigue?

She arched a brow. “I see it as a grand adventure, of course. But then, I have imagination.”

“And trunks, I presume.”

“Five. Possibly six. And a hatbox. And the Dowager Countess of Marchweather, who has decided to accompany us as chaperone, though I strongly suspect she believes we are going on a seaside holiday rather than a legal expedition. She packed three trunks of shawls and a preserved squirrel, so I fear the worst.”

His sigh was audible.

They stared at one another across the room, the air crackling not with hostility but something sharper—more charged. He took a step forward, and she did not back away.

“Miss Montague,” he said in a voice carved from the same marble as his cheekbones, “I understand you dislike the terms of this journey. I assure you, I do as well. But I have no intention of being waylaid by frivolity, theatrics, or diversion.”

She tilted her head. “That is a shame. I excel at all three.”

His mouth twitched. “Of course you do.”

She took a step closer, the tips of her boots nearly brushing his. “Are you going to try to manage me, Your Grace?”

He paused. Then, with an air of dry amusement, he said, “Miss Montague, attempting to manage you would be the height of arrogance. I knew your aunt well—she had the same fire, the same disregard for rules. My grandmother adored her. It is part of the reason I agreed to this, I suppose. It felt... right to honor her wishes. I intend only to endure you.”

She grinned. “You will be wearied beyond endurance, then.”

Their eyes locked, and something shifted. He reached for her gloved wrist—not forcefully, but instinctively, as she swayed slightly closer to him.

“Careful,” he murmured, noting how easily her presence unraveled his carefully composed restraint. In that moment, a flicker of something familiar danced behind her eyes—so like Eugenia’s mischievous spark—that it caught him off guard.

“Of what?”

His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before snapping back to her eyes. “Of proving me wrong.”

She did not move. Scarcely breathed.

A heartbeat passed. Then two.

Lydia slowly extracted her wrist from his grasp. “I am packed,” she said lightly. “We shall leave in the morning, yes?”

He nodded once.

She flashed him a smile as sharp as a duelist’s blade. “I do hope you are not easily scandalized, Your Grace.”

He looked heavenward for patience, then cast a wary glance in the direction of the hallway. “This is going to be a very long trip,” he muttered, already picturing the mountain of trunks, an eccentric chaperone with a penchant for long ago deceased squirrel, and a companion who wielded wit like a rapier.

She was not what he expected. Too bright, too vivid. Like someone had spilled color onto a gray-scale page—and Maximilian had never particularly liked surprises. Yet, here he was.

“Touché.” She laughed, her voice rich with promise.

She did not know what lay ahead—but she was not afraid of where the road might lead. Aunt Eugenia had once told her, with a wink and a sip of brandy, that the best journeys were the ones that began with a little defiance. Lydia smiled at the memory. This journey, she sensed, would be exactly that.

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