Page 16 of One Duke of a Time (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #37)

T he first morning belonged to the dust. When Lydia turned on her pillow, motes drifted across the square of sunlight on the coverlet. The sight was steadying—evidence that both she and the room had survived the night and that the bed was now hers.

She lay still, counting her breaths, and wondered if she had always been this tired or if, now that the journey was over, her body was simply admitting it.

The chamber, originally designed for some ancestor’s lady, was high and echoing.

Lydia tried to picture her aunt sitting upright in the faded damask, challenging the world.

Instead, Lydia sprawled. Yesterday’s clothes lay where they had fallen: boots half under the settee, stays at the bed’s foot, stockings balled beside a guttered candle.

On the desk, the codicil waited under her aunt's diary and letters.

She rolled onto her back and winced at a bruise she did not remember earning—likely from a collision with the study furniture in her retreat. No matter. She smiled at the ceiling, then rose to ready herself for the day.

Lydia stretched, her joints cracking. Her yellow dressing gown, too cheerful for her mood, hung over the footboard. She shrugged into it and crossed the cold floor to throw open the curtains. Melted frost framed finger tracks on the glass. She traced one and leaned her forehead against the pane.

Maximilian appeared in the lower garden.

He paced the cracked flagstones, his hair catching the sun as he turned at the gap where the conservatory had collapsed and the roses had made their last stand.

His coat was a sober blue, untrimmed. In the morning light, he looked every inch the duke.

Her heart tugged, and she sighed, regretting how things between them had been snuffed out.

What occupied him? Did he think of her? Of what they had shared? Perhaps he sought escape?

She ran her fingers through her hair, grimaced at the knots, and left it as it was.

It was only Maximilian. He had seen worse.

A tremor shook her hand— not from illness, just the aftershock of too much effort and too little certainty.

She gripped the sill until her hand steadied. It took longer than she liked.

Still, it was just a hand, and a small tremor at that. She flexed her palm and looked back to the garden.

He had stopped. One foot on a cracked stone, the other angled to leave. His head tipped up. Had he sensed her? He often did.

She pressed her open palm to the glass. He did not move. He only stared toward the horizon, shoulders squared, profile sharply outlined against the ruin.

It comforted her more than she wanted to admit. He was a fixed point. If she allowed it, he was on her side despite it all.

She turned from the window and set herself to order. The codicil folded to fit the breast pocket of her gown. The bed was straightened with brisk, efficient movements that kept her from crawling back beneath the coverlet.

In the mirror, her face was pale but clear-eyed; the blue seemed too bright in the morning light. With her wild hair and yellow gown, she looked ready to frighten the day before it frightened her. The thought pleased her .

No breakfast awaited, for there were no staff. The house was so quiet she could hear a faint drip in the next room. She considered the kitchen and decided against meeting ghosts—hers or anyone else’s.

She sat at the edge of the bed, drew her knees up, and allowed herself a moment of stillness. The quiet comforted her, even edged as it was with the threat of being alone forever.

She let the ache come: Maximilian’s hand on her wrist, his fierce loyalty, her aunt’s voice in the diary. The letters. When it swelled, she rose and faced the window once more.

He was gone.

She closed her eyes against the sorrow flooding her.

Not gone. He was merely out of sight.

She would find him. He would return, or she would go down to the garden, and the next phase would begin—peace or a renewal of hostilities. She was ready for either.

She smoothed her gown, checked her pockets, and approached the door. Her hand hovered over the knob as she took a deep breath. She closed her fist, then opened the door .

Squaring her shoulders, she let the yellow silk catch the light and stepped into the corridor.

The dining room was colder and larger than her bedchamber—clean in the way neglect makes a room tidy.

Lydia paused on the threshold. An absurd twelve-foot table held a single plate and mug at one end, a deliberate slight to its original purpose.

Maximilian occupied the chair beside them, positioned a precise inch from the edge, hands folded in a way that was both civil and lethal.

Breakfast waited beside a basket they had brought from the inn. Two rough heels of bread, a quarter wheel of cheese beading in the chill, and a tin coffee pot that might have seen the Peninsula. No flowers. No silver. The hearth was cold. In all that gray, Lydia’s yellow gown stood out.

She sat without invitation. Maximilian poured coffee. She warmed her fingers on the mug, set it down, and broke the silence.

“Does the house frighten you?”

He glanced at her, then at the barren table between them. “I have fought in three wars, Miss Montague. Houses, like people, grow dangerous when neglected.”

“Then I shall keep this one in constant terror. ”

This drew a real smile, quick and bright. “Will you stay?”

She cut a sliver of cheese and balanced it on the bread. “Of course. I did not come to slink back to town with a basket of regrets.”

“Some would call that prudent.”

“Some are cowards.” She ate and ticked items off on her fingers. “Staff. A proper cook. Garden repairs. The roof leaks. The west stairs are a hazard. And the library... do not laugh... requires order. I will make it work. I will bring it back to a state of glory.”

He did not laugh. “You mean to live here alone.”

“Being alone does not frighten me, Maximilian. It allows freedom in a world that tries to deny it.”

His eyes lifted and slid away. “You need not do it alone.”

She regarded him over her cup. “Do you volunteer, Your Grace?”

He opened his hands, unsure. “I do not know what I am to you.”

“Nor do I,” she said gently. She paused, then added, “Let us begin with breakfast. If that does not kill us, nothing will.”

They ate in silence. The bread was sour, the cheese sharp, and by Lydia’s third sip, the coffee tasted bitter. She drank anyway .

“So,” she asked, “what is next?”

“Inventory. You must establish your claim with the magistrate. There are lingering debts—small, but not invisible. And you need staff.”

“You found the accounting ledgers?"

"Early this morning in what must have been the steward's bedchamber," he said.

A flicker at the window drew her eye. A carriage pulled up the drive in unfamiliar livery.

Maximilian followed her gaze. “Expecting callers?”

“No.” Her hands stilled.

The bell groaned rather than rang. Maximilian rose, brisk but unhurried. Lydia stood with him, her pulse quickening.

Boots thudded in the entry—too many, too heavy. Then a voice, loud and unwelcome, echoed against the marble.

“Montague! Is there no one to receive a guest in this place?”

The sound jolted her. Lydia steadied herself against the table as the intruder strode into the room.

He smelled of horse and rain. Two men followed—silent, expressionless—there to fill space while Edmund spoke. His hair was slicked back, and stubble roughened his jaw. When his pale eyes found Lydia, they brightened with pleasure.

“Montague,” he said, without a bow.

She did not rise. Maximilian stood behind her, quiet and steady.

“Cousin,” she replied, with all due disgust.

Edmund’s mouth curled toward Maximilian. “Scandalously keeping house with the Duke, I see.”

Maximilian remained silent, his hands resting on the back of Lydia’s chair.

Edmund slapped a sheaf of papers onto the table, scattering crumbs. “I have the right of it. The estate, the house—promised to me by Lady Eugenia. Dress your lies as you like, but your time here is limited. You are a fraud and a thief.”

Lydia leaned back, folding her arms. “The codicil bears her hand and seal. The magistrate has seen it. She changed her mind about you, Edmund.”

He drew breath to roar, but Maximilian’s voice cut in first, soft and precise. “Miss Montague is mistress here. You will address her as such.”

Edmund ignored him. “The will is a fiction. My solicitors are gathering proof. Within the week, every judge will know your trick.” His gaze swept the room.

“The staff will not return for you. The tenants will not pay. You might have held on for a day or two, but I am here now. I mean to have what is mine.”

Lydia’s pulse hammered, but her hands remained steady. She smiled. “You might have brought a scrap of decency. Instead, you bring henchmen and slander. Is that the Southgate way?”

One of the men shifted. Edmund flicked a finger. “Careful, cousin. Your footing is precarious enough.”

Maximilian stepped forward, placing himself between them. “You will raise neither voice nor hand in this house. Unless you wish to lose the latter.”

Edmund forced a brittle laugh. “A good champion, Montague. Does he fetch as well as?—”

Lydia sensed Maximilian tense. She spoke first. “I fight my own battles. I answer to no one here. Since you have arrived, let us settle this.”

She stood. Edmund blinked.

She produced the codicil and held it up. “Lady Eugenia’s last will. You know her hand. If you wish to contest it, do so in court. Until then, you are not welcome.”

Edmund stepped closer, his face reddening. “Liar. My mother warned me about you and how?—”

“And yet I am in her house, at her table, by her command,” Lydia said. “Ask yourself why she preferred me.”

He gritted his teeth. “You will be gone by next week. If not, I will see you thrown out, along with your”—his gaze shifted to Maximilian—“companion.”

Maximilian’s reply was sharp. “Miss Montague will remain as long as she pleases. Lay a finger on her, and you will be shoveling pig offal on your father’s land before the season turns.”

Lydia had never heard him speak so coldly. Something in her tightened, then eased.

Edmund went rigid, recalculating between them. “Very well. Do not say you were not warned. The law is on my side.” He snatched up the papers, crumpling the top, and turned.

Lydia followed him to the door, stopping out of reach. “You always underestimated me, Edmund. It is what every man who loses has in common.”

He opened his mouth, found nothing, and stormed out. Boots echoed down the marble. Silence fell.

Lydia remained where she was, the codicil in hand, her heartbeat loud in her ears. She sensed Maximilian move before his hand touched her shoulder. She startled, then let out a breath that nearly turned into laughter.

“I thought I might be sick,” she said. “I was not.”

His smile lit up his gaze. “You were magnificent.”

She rolled her eyes but did not pull away. “He will be back. They always are.”

“I will be here,” Maximilian said, giving one firm squeeze before releasing her.

She looked up, expecting distance. There was none, only admiration and something that looked like hope.

“Thank you,” she said. “For not letting him?—”

“You did it yourself,” he said. “I was only a witness.”

Her smile was not victory, but it was hers. She tucked the codicil into her bodice and drew a steadying breath.

“More coffee?” she asked, half in jest.

“Only if you join me.”

They returned to the long, crumb-littered table and sat at one end, close enough to touch.