Page 15 of One Duke of a Time (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #37)

L ydia felt the air shift the instant she crossed the east wing's threshold.

It was colder, sharper, as if the last decade had been sealed there and was only now allowed to escape.

Maximilian entered behind her, his stride slowing.

His instinct for threat was so keen it seemed to seep into her blood.

The hall, narrower than the others, curved like a sickle, lined with a runner once emerald, now the color of wet moss.

Narrow windows admitted slits of late sunlight.

Dust lay on the floorboards, broken only by small paw prints.

Lydia crouched to study one, then rose and brushed her skirt, as if preparing for a larger trespass.

At the end, plain double doors awaited, fitted with a sturdy lock.

From her pocket, she drew the iron key discovered earlier in her aunt’s inkstand.

It seemed ordinary until she noticed the engraving: E.M.

—her initials, but borrowed for another legacy.

She pressed it into the lock. The mechanism protested, then yielded with a shriek that shattered the silence.

Inside, the study was more a vault than a room. Lavender, ink, and Eugenia’s favored sealing wax scented the air. Light sliced in narrow bars, illuminating the desk, shelves, and locked cabinets. Lydia’s breath fogged. Maximilian closed the door with a click that sounded like a safe snapping shut.

“Extraordinary,” she whispered. “It seems frozen in time.”

He said nothing, his gaze sweeping the room before returning to her.

Lydia approached the desk, fingers grazing documents bound in brittle string, annotated in urgent handwriting. A grin tugged at her lips. “She always said a good archive was an act of war.”

Maximilian stood close enough that she felt his presence. She opened the first bundle: receipts, dull yet alive with the estate’s pulse. Beneath them lay letters tied in twine. The moment she slipped the knot, the air shifted .

These were no ledgers. The cramped handwriting addressed them to My dearest cousin . Lydia’s breath caught. She read aloud:

Dearest Eugenia… your solicitor has assured me the transfer can be completed without fuss. I remain in your debt. E.B.

Her gaze snapped to Maximilian. “This looks as if she was leaving everything to Edmund Southgate. I thought she despised him—in the end, she made me her sole heir.”

Maximilian took the letter, studying it carefully. At last, he said, “There may be later correspondence. She was not a woman to act hastily.”

Lydia nodded sharply and turned to the cabinets. The first drawer yielded calfskin ledgers. At the bottom lay a smaller book—a diary, its pages filled with hurried writing. Lydia read:

April 16th. The Montague girl is causing trouble. Typical. I admire her persistence; perhaps it is a virtue.

Her mouth twisted. “She never called me by name.”

“Did she love you?” Maximilian asked quietly.

“Yes,” Lydia admitted. “As one loves a treasure.”

Flipping forward, she read:

June 3rd. Edmund presses for the inheritance. I may deny him, simply to see him angry.

Aug 21. I will leave it all to Lydia. The girl is spirited, very much in my image and will be able to stand up to Edmund. She has steel in her spine.

Lydia brushed a tear from the corner of her eye. With renewed determination, she searched the desk. At last, she found a folded sheet sealed with blue wax. Breaking it, she read:

I, Eugenia Montague, revoke my prior will.

The estate is to be left entirely to Lydia Montague, provided Maximilian, Duke of Hasting, escorts her to Devonshire to claim her right.

Edmund Southgate may have the silverware if he can find it.

The rest is for the girl who has always known how to get what she wants.

Relief washed over her. “This is dated two months before her death. Aunt Eugene had been in London due to her decline but insisted on returning here one last time. She must have written it then. She wanted me to win.”

Maximilian’s grip steadied her. “Then you have.”

They could have left the east wing and been done with it—stepped back into corridors where the air was stale instead of heavy.

But Lydia lingered, circling the study, restless.

The light faded, the stripe of sun across the desk dimming.

A chill settled into the room, as if the house had exhaled and forgotten to breathe.

She touched the codicil once more, then set it aside for the diary. Its cover was brittle, corners softened by decades of handling. Lydia's hands, steadier now, still trembled at the edges of every motion.

The first marked entry:

April 2nd. The lawyer is an idiot. Edmund is worse. He begs for advances as if he has never earned a penny by his own wits. I told him so, though he likely did not understand.

Lydia snorted, the sound echoing off the shelves.

She skimmed forward:

April 28th. Edmund’s debts multiply. I could forgive the losses, but not the company he keeps. This estate will not be a watering hole for men who cannot pay their way. I tell the lawyer: contingency plan. We will see if the boy blinks.

She flipped to the final entry, dated days before Eugenia’s death:

July 6th. Edmund begged again. He promised to change. I laughed. Everything here belongs to the survivor, not the supplicant. He cursed me when I refused. Lydia Montague is the only kind of person who deserves this place.

Lydia read it aloud, her voice cracking once. She closed the diary, her hands trembling.

Maximilian's hand rested on her shoulder before guiding her to the desk. He found a dusty carafe of sherry and a worn tumbler, poured a measure, and offered it to her. Their fingers brushed, heat against cold, lingering for a moment.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“You do not have to keep searching,” he said gently. "You found all you need to defend your inheritance."

“I feel compelled.” Lydia paced, her fingertips gliding over the spines of books as if drawing strength from the leather and paper. The room felt heavy with the weight of wars fought in ink—letters, journals, contracts—each one a weapon or a shield.

In the third cabinet, she found an unsealed letter addressed ‘To the Steward, in Trust.’ It bore Eugenia’s hurried handwriting. Lydia read aloud:

Know that I leave the estate to Lydia not for love, but for respect. I regret not saying it to her face, but she is better with knowledge than sentiment. Edmund is a fool. The staff must make peace with the new order. Be kind to the girl, if you can.

Postscript: If she reads this herself, tell her she was always my favorite, though I would never admit it in life.

Lydia clutched the page to her chest. Maximilian watched in silence, as if the world had narrowed to the span of her grief .

“She wanted certainty,” Lydia said at last. “No softness.”

“She wanted you to be stronger than the house,” Maximilian replied.

“Or just harder to kill.” The weak joke eased the tightness in her throat.

She spread the codicil, letter, and diary on the desk like plans for battle. “Do you think I can be what this place needs?”

“You already are,” he said simply.

This time, her laugh was genuine. She bent to her work, annotating margins and piecing life from ashes. As dusk transformed the room, Maximilian lit a candle. In the warm glow, the study softened into a sanctuary.

At last, Lydia closed the diary, pressing her palm flat against the desk until it left a mark on her skin. “I am ready to go.”

“Very well,” he replied.

She gathered her papers—codicil, letter, diary—and rose, the weight of them heavy in her hands, but they were hers.

They left together, the door shutting behind them with a sound more like a blessing than a verdict.

At the corridor’s bend, Lydia glanced back. No ghosts, only the sharp taste of expectation and the stubborn hope that she might prove equal to it.

Dusk consumed the house room by room, shadows swallowing color. Lydia sat at the desk, the evidence spread before her like a jury waiting for judgment: three letters, two versions of Eugenia’s intentions, and one diary, both damning and forgiving.

She stared until the words blurred and rearranged into verdicts that shifted with every blink.

Maximilian remained, moving through the study with calm. He lit each sconce and mantle candle, coaxing flame from reluctant wicks. The combined glow softened the cabinets and chased back the chill. When the last taper caught, he settled across from her, arms folded and gaze steady.

Only then did she speak. “What if I am wrong? What if it was only a game? What if I am nothing but a thief in her house?”

He folded his hands, calm. “At the risk of sounding like your aunt, you already know the answer.”

She scowled. “You sound more like an advisor than a duke. ”

“An advisor would tell you what to believe. I remind you that you have already chosen.”

Her laugh was bitter. “And what if I chose wrong? What if Edmund deserves it more than I do?”

Maximilian drew the opposite chair and sat close enough for the candlelight to carve his face into lines both stern and beautiful. “Would you be content to yield it if you thought he would use it well?”

She hesitated. “No.”

“Then you know what to do.”

She looked down at her hands, caught in a cycle of guilt and justification. “You make it sound simple.”

“It is, and it is not. The estate is legally yours. You could burn every letter and still prevail. But if you want peace, only you can decide what it means.”

Surprise crossed her face. “You are not going to tell me to play the lady and marry someone with a title?”

He shook his head. “I think you should do whatever you please.”

Her words faltered, taken aback by his honesty. Instead, she laughed, raw and hoarse, filling the room with warmth. “God help me, you mean it.”

“I do.”

Lydia folded the codicil and Eugenia’s letter, her hands steady now. She closed the diary, her thumb trailing along its spine. “I need time. A day, to see what it feels like to stand here as mistress.”

“Take it,” Maximilian said simply.

He extinguished the excess candles, leaving one to burn near her. At the door, he waited until she joined him. She gathered the papers into a single bundle, pressed her fingers to Eugenia’s signature one last time, and then rose.

Exhaustion tugged at her, but it felt like relief. At the doorway, he offered his arm. She declined, choosing to walk alongside him instead, equal and steady.

The last candle cast their shadows long and intertwined across the wall, grounding her. Together, they shut the door, sealing the night behind them.

The corridor lay silent. Lydia exhaled, long and slow. Tomorrow would bring lawyers and perhaps Edmund’s fury. But tonight, she had her answer—and the freedom to choose what came next.