Page 11 of One Duke of a Time (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #37)

L ydia awoke to a gnawing need. Not for food, but for air and certainty, for the clear blue sky that usually appeared when she pushed the weight of the world off her chest and sat up in bed.

This morning, however, the inn's ceiling loomed low and close, smelling of musk and ash, with a sharp citrus undertone.

Heat pooled in the hollow of her thighs, spreading wherever the sheets pressed against her skin.

Maximilian’s heavy arm lay across her hip, his hand imprinting her waist, possessive even in sleep.

She barely dared to breathe. Outside, the early sun traced a pale outline on the warped glass, casting the room in silver that made Maximilian’s hair look golden .

His face hovered inches from hers, unguarded, features relaxed in an unusual peace.

It made him seem years younger, stripped of the ducal severity that clung to him like armor.

His mouth, which she had explored not eight hours prior, lay slightly open.

A single blond curl had escaped the cowlick at his temple, curling over his eyebrow.

She slid from the bed with the stealth of a cat, careful not to disturb the arrangement of bodies and sheets.

The shock of the floor hit her—bare boards, cold and unwelcoming.

She shivered, suddenly aware of her nakedness.

Her chemise hung like a tattered flag from the foot of the bed, its shoulder seam ripped clear through.

A quick inventory of bruises revealed one near her throat, more along her hips, and two fresh ones blooming on the inside of her left thigh.

She grinned, touching one with her fingertip.

Lydia padded to the window and leaned her forehead against the glass, watching her breath cloud and dissipate.

The inn’s yard lay still, with only a few pecking chickens and frost clinging to the wheel ruts.

She pressed her palm against the cold surface, grappling with the memories of the night before—her brazen seduction, the way Maximilian had held her .

She found her shift and pulled it over her head. The fabric was torn and carried the mixed scents of them both. Her stays were a lost cause, so she forwent them, draping a blanket over her shoulders and settling at the small table, where remnants of last night’s wine left a purple ring on the wood.

She listened. The inn was quiet; the hour still early enough that the ordinary world had not yet pressed in.

Maximilian did not stir, but she could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing and the occasional shift of weight, as if even in sleep he resisted comfort.

She wondered if he always slept like this or if it was only now, after, with her.

The moment did not last. He woke suddenly, as if a dream had been abruptly severed.

The blue of his eyes was unfocused, then locked onto her, taking in her presence, her state of undress, the bullet scratch on her shoulder, the torn chemise, and the morning light catching the curve of her collarbone.

For a second, he looked lost. Then every feature returned to the lines she knew so well—composed, distant, calculating.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice smoothed to politeness, stripped of the intimacy he had shared with her during the night .

She took her time responding, pouring the dregs of the wine into her cup. It tasted like vinegar and regret. “Did you sleep well?”

He rolled onto his side and sat up, pulling the blanket across his lap with an almost formal motion. “Eventually. I imagine the sheets will require an apology.”

She smiled, though it was not the same smile she had worn in his arms the night before. “The innkeeper is used to worse, I suspect.”

Silence settled between them, the kind that accumulates like fog—hard to see but impossible to ignore.

He stood, naked and proud, like men who have never learned to view their bodies as dangerous.

She allowed herself a fleeting glance at him—his chest, the dusting of hair, the lines of thigh and hip, and the faint red marks she had left with her nails.

He found his shirt on the chair, shrugged it on, and began to dress with efficiency, never glancing her way.

As she picked at the crust of last night’s bread, she watched him.

He buttoned each button slowly, adjusting his cravat with a focus that suggested he believed meticulous control could erase the night before.

Next came his breeches, pulled up and fastened with care.

He slipped on his boots, which had fared the night better than her stays, and sat to tighten them, his jaw clenched.

She wanted to say something—anything—to interrupt his retreat. Instead, she waited until he finished dressing, then asked casually, “Are we to ignore last night?”

His hands stilled. He did not look up. “We should focus on reaching the village by midday,” he replied, as if her question had been about the weather or distance, not about how he had bedded her and then held her in the protective circle of his arms.

She set her cup down, her fingers tense. “You are right,” she said, injecting her words with defiance that cost more than she intended. “It was only an impulse, after all.”

He nodded, perhaps grateful for her complicity in the lie.

They finished dressing in silence, she slower now, letting him wait, allowing him to see how little it mattered to her.

When she pinned up her hair, her fingers trembled so badly that she had to redo it three times, but she refused to let him see her flinch.

She tied her boots with deliberate slowness, then checked her face in the cracked mirror.

When they descended to the common room, it lay empty, save for a scullery maid stacking chairs and the glowing embers in the fireplace.

The countess entered a few moments later, her squirrel in hand, and declared, "she'd had the most fanciful dream.

" Maximilian took the lead, signaling the driver to ready the carriage, then stood by the door, arms folded, every inch the distant guardian.

Lydia trailed behind, her crimson shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, the bruises invisible but lingering in her mind.

The carriage awaited them, the horses restless in the dawn. Maximilian helped her up, his hand hovering just above her skin. She settled against the far window, arranging her skirt with care, her eyes fixed on the countryside that blurred past in a wash of frost and unasked questions.

They remained silent until they reached the next market town, and even then, their conversation was limited to debating the best route onward. Lydia spoke in clipped sentences—substance over style. Maximilian responded similarly, maintaining his distance. The countess had drifted into a deep sleep.

As the carriage jolted over a pothole, she caught him watching her, concern briefly crossing his face before he turned away .

A small smile tugged at her lips, and she looked out the window to hide it from him.

When they stopped for fresh horses, Maximilian was already out, speaking with the stable master before Lydia opened the door. She followed, careful to keep her hands visible, to show that she had not been broken, that she could walk on her own, that nothing had changed.

In the inn’s glass, she saw her flushed cheeks and her eyes searching the horizon, as if every mile could signal the end of the world and its rebirth.

She looked for Maximilian and found him watching her from across the yard. His expression was unreadable, but in the set of his shoulders and the clenching of his hands behind his back, she sensed the truth.

Everything had changed.

Even if neither of them would admit it.

They entered the carriage where the countess had awoken and now chattered about propriety and suffocating rules.

Outside, the countryside unfolded—brittle, bright, and indifferent.

Lydia leaned her head against the glass and closed her eyes, letting the ache of the previous night settle into memory. For a moment, she allowed herself to feel the aftermath of being chosen.

She did not know if she would ever be chosen again.

The journey continued, and with every turn of the wheel, the old world slipped further away.

Lydia pressed her shoulder to the cool glass, watching the landscape blur by—dun fields, stone walls, and sheep that might as well have been painted in place. Her gaze drifted across hedgerows and sullen copses, imagining herself anywhere but inside this carriage with the Duke of Hasting.

Maximilian sat opposite her, bent over a sheaf of papers and a road map that looked worn.

He frowned at it, his thumb tracing the path toward Millbrook as if the route had let him down.

Occasionally, he marked the margin with small, methodical strokes.

Lydia wondered if he was measuring distance or simply keeping his hands busy.

She tucked her feet beneath her skirt, brushing a finger over the bruise at her knee, trying to decide whether she was glad the countess had fallen back to sleep or wished her awake.

The memory of a night that had brought them close only to set them apart lingered.

She looked at his hands—broad, capable, and all over her the previous night.

Her gaze trailed to the cuff of his shirt, now frayed, a tear she knew she had caused.

He must have felt her gaze, for he tugged the sleeve down casually.

A long mile passed, the silence broken only by the axle’s whine and the wheels thudding in the ruts. Lydia counted the flicks of the horses’ ears, Maximilian’s sighs, and the creak of leather when he shifted. The unspoken words pressed heavily.

Her throat was dry. She reached for the flask just as he did, their fingers colliding briefly, his hand covering hers.

The contact surprised her, sending shock, memory, and warning through her.

She drew back but not before catching the flash of emotion in his eyes.

He let her take the flask, then accepted it himself.