Page 18 of One Duke of a Time (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #37)
T he transformation began with demolition.
Lydia commanded the main hall, her crimson skirts flaring over her boots as the workmen filed in, hats off and eyes lowered.
A lift of her hand turned the entire group.
She issued orders without mercy. Patch the plaster here.
Tear up the moth-eaten runner. Take an axe to the broken baluster and fetch the cut lumber from the yard.
By noon, dust and lime hung thick, and Lydia’s lungs adjusted, freckles of grit dotting her skin.
She directed, pointed, and questioned everything.
“Is that truly the best position for the chandelier or merely the most convenient? Has anyone checked for rot beneath the landing? You. yes, you. What did I say about aligning the molding?” The men learned quickly that Lydia Montague did not borrow authority, she spent it.
Pausing at last, her hip braced against a stack of floorboards and her eyes stinging, she spotted Maximilian.
He stood on the grand staircase, coat discarded and sleeves rolled. The crowbar moved smoothly in his hands as sweat cut a pale line through the grime on his cheek. He glanced over the rail, offered her a brief smile, and levered up another warped board.
Something in her leapt—no fear, only anticipation.
She watched the economy of his work. The brace, the shift, the recommitment of weight. Around him, laborers moved with caution, their pride replaced by deference. Lydia’s lists scattered in her head. Focus refused to return in the presence of Maximilian.
He set the crowbar aside, tested a newel post, and called, “Miss Montague, if you would.”
The summons pricked, but his tone was a request, not a command. She gathered her skirts and climbed.
On the landing, he held up two lengths of molding. “Your judgment. Which is truer to the original? ”
She compared grain and angle, then lifted her chin. “This. The join will vanish, and the stain will take. Who chose it?”
“You did, last week.” His mouth tipped. “I wondered if you would recall.”
“You test me, then?”
“Always,” he said, warm enough to disarm any offense.
They stood framed by the staircase’s ribs while the hall echoed below. He passed the molding back, his thumb grazed her knuckle. The smallest touch, and yet the air shifted.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
His gaze was steady. “I am not here for the house alone.”
Heat crept up her throat. She turned to walk away, but his fingers caught her wrist—lightly, yet firmly.
“Stay,” he said. “Just a moment.”
She lingered.
The bell rang for the midday meal and boots thudded out, sawdust trailing behind. He released her hand but kept his focus on her. “The newel will be set by dusk,” he said, his tone firm.
She nodded, her heart racing, and fled before she gave into desire .
After lunch, work resumed. Pipes snaked through the library, new boards lined the west corridor, and the gloomy portraits were removed.
Old Hector Montague’s leer ended up in the barn, and Lydia did not pretend to mourn.
She negotiated wages, brokered peace between the kitchen and the electricians, and ate a sandwich over the ruined billiard table.
By dusk, the house settled into a quiet creak of timber. Lydia walked the ground floor, tallying her victories. An even baseboard, a clean sash, air that felt slightly less stale. Exhaustion seeped into her bones, but her mind buzzed with thoughts of what was next.
Unthinking, she paused at the staircase. The newel gleamed, bare wood, not yet stained, but sound. Maximilian crouched over a blueprint on the first landing.
“The stairs will hold,” he said without glancing up. “You may be the first to try them.”
She climbed. Carefully, deliberately, and halted above him.
“There is a question about the upper balustrade,” he said, extending the plans. “Your eye is better than mine.”
She knelt beside him. The paper lay between them, creased and marked. Their shoulders brushed. The scent of soap, wood, and clean sweat erased the day’s harsher notes. He traced a line, explaining pitch and rise. Her mind focused only on the closeness of his mouth to hers.
She pointed to a detail, their fingers brushing, and a spark shot up her arm.
She looked at him.
He looked at her.
They were closer than she had realized. His breath stirred the loose hairs at her temple and his hand flexed, as if resisting the urge to close over hers.
Lydia was not one to hesitate. She leaned forward, bracing herself with one hand on the landing, and kissed him.
It was a kiss filled with hunger—a mix of want and relief, everything held back through days of discipline and hours of pretense.
Maximilian responded instantly, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close.
She tangled her fingers in his shirt, feeling the heat beneath, surrendering to the pull of his mouth.
He tasted of salt, wine, and the day’s labor.
She bit his lower lip. He captured her waist in both hands, rising to his full height as he pressed her against the balustrade.
For a moment, Lydia feared she might lose herself from the intensity of it.
But Maximilian steadied her, cradling the back of her head and kissing her with a possessiveness that weakened her knees.
He broke away first, gasping, his eyes wild with something she had never seen in him. Need, yes, but also disbelief, as if he had not expected her to give so freely. As if he had not expected to claim her.
“Lydia,” he whispered, and her name on his tongue was all the poetry she needed.
She tugged him by the shirt up the stairs, nearly tripping, but neither cared for dignity.
They rushed through the half-finished upper corridor and into the master chamber—her bedchamber, newly painted, the bed heaped with pillows, the window still taped from last week’s repairs. Lydia kicked the door shut behind them.
They stood in the center of the room, breathing hard, eyes locked.
Maximilian's shirt hung open at the throat, buttons torn in her haste, and his hands shook as he reached to unfasten her dress.
She laughed, pressing his hands against her hips, guiding him.
He swept her into his arms, lifted her to the edge of the bed, and paused, gazing at her .
She hooked her leg around his, pulling him down atop her.
There was no tenderness at first, only raw desire.
Their mouths met again and again, tongues battling for dominance.
He tore at her dress, exposing her shoulder and breast, then buried his face in the hollow of her neck, breathing her in.
She clawed at his back, leaving marks on his skin, reveling in the way he growled her name into her collarbone.
Clothes became an afterthought. Maximilian cupped her breast, his thumb grazing the nipple until Lydia arched her back. Then he slid his hand lower, under the muslin, into the heat between her thighs.
She gasped, thrusting into his touch, refusing to let modesty dictate her pleasure.
His fingers moved with precision, swirling and stroking as she rocked against his touch. He slid low claiming her with his mouth, his tongue.
Lydia let herself go, allowing the sensation to build. When she came, the sound broke the stillness, rattling the windowpane.
He kissed her slower, gentler, tracing the line of her thigh with his lips.
“My turn,” she murmured, rolling him onto his back. She straddled him, hair falling around her face, breasts bare. He tried to speak—attempted to protest, but she silenced him with her mouth.
She explored every part of him, feeling his response, hearing the way his breath hitched and then steadied. When she slid down onto him, the joining was so perfect that tears pricked her eyes.
They moved together as equals, each daring the other to take, to give, to be seen and felt. When Maximilian finally climaxed, he buried his face in her shoulder to stifle the sound, and afterward, he held her so tightly that Lydia feared she might vanish if he let go.
They lay together, tangled in rumpled sheets, the dust of the day settling around them as their breaths returned to normal.
He stroked her back as they spoke softly about plans for the house and the uncertain road ahead. Lydia traced the pale lines of old scars across his shoulder.
“Will they accept me?” she asked. “The tenants? The village?”
His hand smoothed her hair. “You will make them better than they were,” he said simply. “You already are.”
She believed him .
He rolled toward her, wildness contained yet glowing. “You terrify me,” Maximilian admitted.
“Good,” she replied, grinning.
She closed her eyes to the steady beat of his heart and let sleep take her.
The next morning, Lydia woke to sunlight flooding the room and found an empty bed.
Maximilian was already in the courtyard, his voice carrying as crews hoisted slate to the roof.
He sounded every bit the duke, but the brittleness she remembered had softened.
He laughed at a laborer’s joke, the sound lingering like a warm echo.
Wrapped in her dressing gown, she stood at the window and watched, keeping her face indifferent while her body registered new aches and the lingering memory of his touch.
At nine, she began interviews. A gray-haired, steady-eyed housekeeper met Lydia’s questions with calm. A cook, a gardener, and a valet fidgeted nervously in a row. Lydia weighed every answer, taking notes, revealing no emotion as her household found its structure.
By noon, the housekeeper had established routines, debris was cleared from the garden, kitchens aired, and bedchambers stripped and turned.
Lydia oversaw it all, delegating when wise, correcting when necessary.
Standards were high. Praise rare. When the cook sent up eggs and crisped potatoes—hot, with actual napkins—she nearly wept, masking it with a comment about the table’s missing leg.