Page 14 of One Duke of a Time (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #37)

T he carriage jolted over the rough lane, its lacquer catching weak sunlight in flashes.

Lydia pressed her face to the glass, watching the forest pass by.

Beside her, Maximilian sat with composure, though the muscle in his jaw tensed with every bump of the wheels.

The countess had chosen not to accompany them, proclaiming a headache even as she requested music.

Lydia would expect nothing less and admired the dowager for her fortitude in ignoring the rules.

She sighed as the lane narrowed, then turned into a muddy track, bordered by bramble and the remnants of better roads. At last, the trees fell away, revealing a glen with the estate at its center. It was stone, slate, and shuttered windows turned against the morning. And it was hers.

The carriage slowed. The wrought-iron gates stood ajar, not wide enough to welcome, not closed enough to deny. One post leaned, its stone undermined by moss and dandelions. Rust and lichen mottled the ironwork, the crest at the top nearly erased by time.

Lydia shivered with anticipation. “We are here,” she whispered.

Maximilian leaned forward, his gaze scanning the drive. “It is not what I expected. Not what it once was.”

She studied him, searching for any hint of derision but found only surprise. His eyes were clear in the pale light.

“What did you expect?” she asked.

He offered no answer, only gestured for the driver to continue. Gravel shifted under the wheels until the path collapsed, exposing a tangle of roots. The carriage halted.

Maximilian stepped out, boots sinking into moss, and offered his hand. Lydia took it, feeling warmth and restraint in equal measure. His hand lingered at her waist longer than usual, and her breath hitched. Whether from the cold or proximity, she could not tell.

They stood side by side, surveying the manor.

It loomed larger than her childhood memory allowed. Its wings stretched wide, as though trying to embrace them. High windows caught the light. The stone was pitted, ivy rampant, the roof patched and covered in lichen. Gargoyles crowded the gutters, some leering, others blending into the stone.

No smoke. No sound. No sign of life.

Lydia’s crimson cloak flared as she advanced, bright against the gray. Her gloved fingers traced the cold iron gate, pausing over the half-buried crest and motto dulled by time. Maximilian followed, his shoulders squared as if entering hostile ground.

The courtyard lay in ruin, flagstones upturned and a fountain choked with leaves and dirty water. Lydia turned slowly, her boots sinking into thick mud. “It is beautiful,” she said.

Maximilian raised an eyebrow but remained silent.

“You do not see it?”

“I see something,” he replied.

She laughed, startling magpies from the gutter. “You lack imagination.”

“On the contrary. I have too much. ”

Thirteen moss-slick steps led them to the double doors. They were iron-banded and slightly ajar. Lydia pressed her palm against the wood—cold and almost humming. She glanced back.

Maximilian scanned the windows, his brow furrowed and eyes peering.

“Expecting an ambush?” she teased.

“I have learned to expect nothing and fear everything.”

“Then you will be splendid company in a haunted house.”

She nudged the door, which creaked open to a breath of ancient cold. Dust motes danced in a shaft of light from above.

Lydia stepped inside first.

The hall soared, its ceiling lost in shadow. Marble floors cracked like a broken map. A cobwebbed chandelier sagged over a threadbare rug. Portraits lined the walls—Montagues rendered in oils faded to a single shade of disapproval.

Lydia studied one. A young woman in family crimson, the pigment leached to a dull red. “Better this,” she said, “than oblivion.”

They moved on, their steps echoing. Furniture loomed beneath sheets, and fireplaces stood fossilized with ash. Lydia uncovered a piano and struck a key. She grinned. Maximilian only watched, an unguarded expression on his face.

The dining hall lay unused, the library heavy with mildew and leather. Lydia read titles aloud, amused by the mix of histories and banned philosophies. “A collector,” Maximilian said.

“A thief,” Lydia corrected. “But with taste.”

The house seemed to warm as they explored, light breaking through the clouds. Upstairs, dust thickened, and the air was dense. Lydia paused at a window. The carriage below glimmered with dew. Beyond, the woods pressed close.

Maximilian lingered by the balustrade. She asked, “Are you afraid?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But only for you.”

Her smile remained as she took his hand. Together, they advanced down the hall. At its end, double doors barred their way. Lydia shoved them open, splintering the lock with the full force of her weight.

Inside lay her aunt’s study. The desk was strewn with papers, scales balanced with coins and weights. Notes and maps covered the walls. Lady Eugenia’s portrait dominated, her eyes bright with intelligence yet edged with severity .

Lydia touched everything: the desk, the books, the portrait frame. “She was here until the end.”

Maximilian lingered in the doorway, uncertainty on his face. “She would have approved of who you are now,” he said quietly. “You are both impossible.”

Lydia laughed, bright as morning. “Then I have a legacy.”

They stood together in the study, the house creaking around them, the future waiting beyond. For the first time, Lydia felt she belonged not to a place or a name, but to a moment that was entirely hers.

“Shall we?” she asked.

He offered his arm. She took it.

The doors swung shut behind them, hinting at more to come.

The grand entrance hall echoed with the symmetry of a cathedral—and the chill that came with it. The door closed quietly, sealing Lydia and Maximilian in a silence so complete it felt suffocating.

Lydia stepped forward into a pool of light spilling from the high windows.

Her boots rang on the marble, the sounds bouncing like an unfinished musical.

For a moment, she hesitated, then tilted her head as if listening for a cue before climbing the central staircase, gloved hands gliding along the banister, leaving streaks in the dust. She took satisfaction in the record of her passage, proof of her existence here.

Maximilian followed carefully, a sentinel shadowing her every step. More observer than companion, he guarded against danger and the tremor in her resolve.

At the landing, the hallway branched. Lydia chose left, following a faded scarlet runner through a gallery of mirrors and portraits.

The mirrors, clouded with age, reflected her in a dozen variations—heiress, orphan, trespasser.

She paused, traced her outline in the glass, then swept her palm across it, leaving a mark that vanished as the dust resettled.

The first door opened onto the dining room. A long table bore candlesticks melted with age, surrounded by ornate chairs. Indigo porcelain vases stood at the center, their flowers long since crumbled to dust. The air carried a hint of old blooms, with something wild beneath.

Lydia circled, pausing at the head of the table where a single chair stood askew. She imagined her aunt there, eyebrow arched in judgment or approval. Impulsively, she sank into the chair, which sighed under her weight .

Maximilian strode closer, surveying the table. He hefted a candlestick, tested its weight, and replaced it with care.

“You could host a parliament in here,” he said.

“Or a trial,” Lydia shot back. “They are not so different.”

He studied her, noting the curve of her shoulders and the set of her jaw. “You would enjoy the jury.”

“I would prefer the defense,” she replied, a grin breaking through. “Or the prosecution, if I had cause.”

Their banter loosened the tension. Maximilian leaned against the mantel, content to watch her claim the room.

Lydia moved on to the music room, where a faint draft stirred the heavy curtains.

A pianoforte lay under a dust cloth. She pulled it back, coughing as dust swirled, then pressed a single key.

The note rang out, true yet fleeting, as if the walls had forgotten the sound of music.

A violin case opened to reveal an intact instrument, one string curled loose.

She cradled it for a moment before laying it gently down.

“She played?” Maximilian asked.

“Obscenely well,” Lydia said. “But only when drunk or furious. ”

He smiled, surprised. “A woman after your own heart.”

“She was a hellion,” Lydia replied, a reluctant fondness creeping into her voice. “A magnificent one who loved me dearly.”

They wandered through a cramped study filled with ceramic animals and journals, a morning room washed in pale light and dry ferns, and a nursery that was oddly free of dust.

At last, they reached the library.

The oak doors swung wide, releasing air preserved like amber. Shelves groaned under the weight of leather, cloth, and gilded spines. Sunlight fractured through warped panes, spilling bands across the floor. At the far end, two navy silk chairs framed a table, staged as if awaiting players.

Lydia spun slowly, awe softening her features. She pulled a book at random, its pages thick with annotations—some in her aunt’s hand, others frantic and unfamiliar.

Maximilian stepped further into the room. He paused at the window, then looked at Lydia, as if to anchor her to reality.

She drifted to a portrait. Men in rows, one woman, dark-haired, eyes sharp as glass. The tilt of her mouth, the stubborn brow—it was Lydia, centuries removed. She touched the painted cheek.

“She could be your twin,” Maximilian murmured.

Lydia shook her head. “She is braver. See how she challenges the painter?”

“You do the same,” he said.

She laughed, softer now. “Perhaps. I have had better teachers.”

They stood in silence. For once, lineage felt like a challenge rather than a burden.

Lydia lifted a book and read aloud: “There is no truth but what we choose to believe.” She met Maximilian’s gaze and found not judgment but admiration.

“Do you believe you belong here?” he asked.

She closed the book. “I do now.”

The library dimmed as daylight faded, shadows stretching across shelves and rugs. Lydia wandered its aisles, her boots soft against the boards, the quiet broken only by the sigh of old leather.

In the far corner, a writing desk stood slightly askew.

Scuffed and ink-stained, it held a certain pride.

Lydia tugged at the drawers: quills worn to nubs, receipts foxed with age—nothing more.

The lowest drawer exhaled varnish and a hint of violets.

Odd—the side panel’s grain didn’t match.

She pressed along the seam and felt a click. Her pulse quickened. A hidden catch.

The panel yielded, revealing a slim portfolio tied with a crimson ribbon. Lydia held it cautiously, then untied the bow and drew out the contents.

Maximilian’s shadow filled the doorway. “Find something?” he asked, crossing swiftly to stand close enough that his presence warmed her spine.

She lifted the folder, excitement sparking in her eyes. “A cache of letters.”

She read the first letter aloud:

My dearest L

She hesitated, glancing at him. His raised brow urged her on. The handwriting was unmistakably her aunt’s.

Evidence is power. They will try to frighten you. Never forget you are a Montague.

Lydia swallowed and reached for another. Addressed ‘The Lady of the House,’ the words pressed into the page:

Your cousin has been here. The sealed rooms hold what he fears most. Do not trust the solicitor—he is a pawn. The true will lies where only boldness may find it. Trust only yourself and the one you love.

She looked up. Maximilian’s expression revealed nothing, but she sensed his mind arranging pieces like chessmen.

A final letter, wax-sealed in blue, lay waiting. She broke it open:

The debts are not just coin but spirit. The truth of the inheritance rests in the east wing. Take the key and trust no kin.

Lydia exhaled as if the air were dangerous. Maximilian’s hand settled on her shoulder, steady and reassuring. “You have your answer.”

“Part of it,” she murmured. “The rest waits in the east wing.”

She slid the papers back and shut the compartment with a decisive click. Dusk pressed against the windows, and inside, the air felt tighter, secrets multiplying in the dark.

“Will you come with me?” she asked.

Maximilian did not answer as he offered his arm. She took it, her pulse quickening beneath his sleeve.

They stepped into the corridor, doors closing behind them. Shadows stretched ahead toward the forbidden wing. Lydia felt a tremor in her legs, but also his quiet strength beside her.

At the threshold, she laid her hand on the knob.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Not at all,” she said as she tried the knob. It did not open.

"Let me."

Lydia stepped back, and Maximilian kicked the door. It groaned open, revealing darkness and the scent of violets.

Together, they entered.