Page 1 of One Duke of a Time (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #37)

T he Montague townhouse in London buzzed with genteel chaos. Housemaids moved swiftly through the corridors, brass polished to a shine, and the scent of lavender filled the air. Miss Lydia Montague, however, was far from calm.

"A stipulation? From Aunt Eugenia!" She waved the solicitor's letter in the air. "A blasted stipulation? As though I were some frail ninny who cannot travel without a chaperone!"

Lady Honora, her elder sister by twelve years, sighed from the chaise. "It is not uncommon, Lydia. Inheritances often come with conditions."

"Conditions," Lydia snapped, pacing the drawing room, her crimson skirts swaying, "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 in her hand, as her gaze drifted toward the tall windows.

A vivid memory surfaced—a younger Lydia, no more than ten, sitting cross-legged beneath a lilac tree while Aunt Eugenia spun tales of pirates and daring lady adventurers.

The scent of ginger biscuits, the rustle of chickens in the grass, and Aunt Eugenia’s laughter flooded back with warmth.

She had only visited a handful of times, but those moments had left 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 thought of being bound by rules, expectations, or even well-meaning ghosts. Yet, Aunt Eugenia’s letter tugged at something beneath her bravado.

Lydia halted before the fireplace, the letter clenched in her gloved hand.

"Aunt Eugenia left me an estate, Honora.

An actual estate. With a proper roof and a dowry sum that would make even your husband raise an eyebrow.

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, an unrepentant rogue."

The name hung in the air.

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, lacking any reverence.

"But he is positively dour. Is he not the one who stared down the Prince Regent at some affair?"

"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 with him."

Lydia lifted her chin. "I shall be perfectly safe." She did not entirely believe it—not about the road, and certainly not about him, but she would never admit it .

Honora raised an eyebrow. "From him, perhaps. But what of yourself?"

Lydia did not answer.

Two days later, the Montague butler announced, "His Grace, the Duke of Hasting."

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 how much starch a man like the duke poured into his spine before breakfast.

Maximilian Ashcombe did not disappoint—he entered tall and brooding, dressed in deep navy riding clothes tailored to perfection. His boots gleamed. His cravat was immaculate. And his expression, when he saw her, hovered between mild annoyance and visible restraint.

Lydia smiled sweetly and offered a curtsy. "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 floral upholstery, her sister's needlework, the framed sketch of a dog that had died three years ago. "I can see that."

She moved forward, the feather in her hair bobbing. "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." He smelled faintly of bay rum and leather.

His eyes narrowed a fraction.

Honora cleared her throat from her spot 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 an errand."

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.

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?

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, though I suspect she believes we are going on a seaside holiday rather than a legal expedition. She packed three trunks of shawls and a taxidermied squirrel, so I fear the worst."

His sigh was audible.

They stared at one another across the room, the air 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 or diversion."

She tilted her head. "That is a shame. I excel at both."

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 and 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.

She once prevailed upon me to help with a difficulty at her property in Devonshire.

It seems I have not escaped her errands even now.

She was adored by many, including my grandmother.

It is part of the reason I agreed to this.

It felt right to honor her wishes. But make no mistake, 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.

"Of what?" She notched her chin.

His gaze dropped to her lips before returning 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 as if summoning patience, then cast a wary glance toward the hallway. "This is going to be a very long trip," he muttered.

"Touché." She laughed, her voice rich with mischief.

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 began with a little defiance. Lydia smiled at the memory.

“Until morning, Miss Montague,” he said.

“Do try not to be scandalized, Your Grace,” she returned.