Page 19 of One Duke of a Time (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #37)

Maximilian returned for lunch, smelling of smoke and lime. He ate standing, tearing bread with the focus of a starved man. “Better to attack the food than the workers,” he said when she teased, and winked, surprising them both.

In the afternoon, he directed the west-wing repairs, pausing to consult her on difficult choices. Their discussions were brisk and increasingly respectful. He did not raise his voice and deliver orders. She did not accuse him of arrogance, even in disagreement.

At sunset, carriages rumbled away, and the house settled to the low sounds of night. The stillness felt familiar, soothing. The house seemed to exhale.

On the landing, Lydia caught Maximilian returning from the study, his back against the unfinished balustrade. Her hands slid into his hair, and restraint faded. They did not reach the bedchamber before the world narrowed to breath and whispered names.

She did not know where it would end. Did not pretend that he would marry her. But they had settled into a rhythm and she meant to relish every heartbeat of it.

The next night, in the library, she found him shelving books. He glanced up, ready for debate, but she silenced him with a kiss that left no room for argument. Papers skittered across the floor and quills rolled off the table. Candlelight turned the room into a chapel, and they treated it as one.

On the third night, in the drawing room, on the rug with a low fire crackling nearby, their laughter punctuated kisses as discovery became their language.

He murmured in Latin and French, mixed with the rough English of his youth.

She conjured playful endearments of her own.

They learned each other quickly. What steadied, what unraveled, when to press and when to pause.

Spent and smiling, they fell asleep on the bare floor bodies pressed close.

By the sixth day, the house had changed its scent—paint and varnish overlaying old damp. The halls resonated with purpose. The library stood newly ordered. The kitchen gleamed. Staff moved with pride. Lydia felt it too and embraced the feeling.

That evening, they dined by the fire, enjoying good wine from a cellar she had stocked and food that surpassed any in recent memory.

She wore deep green with a velvet sash. He donned the cravat she had chosen, tied more carefully than she expected.

They spoke of the estate—debts, progress, tenants’ hopes.

Lydia sketched plans for the orchard, a glasshouse, even a village fête on the lawn.

Maximilian nodded, amended, and challenged the impractical with a sly, encouraging smile.

Afterward, in the drawing room, with the fire banked low, he poured wine and sat beside her on the settee. He studied the flames, then turned to her.

“I never expected,” he said quietly, “to be challenged as you challenge me.”

She laughed. “You say it like a curse.”

“It is,” he replied. “And I cannot do without it.”

She searched for irony, for armor, but found none. Setting her glass aside, she traced his jaw with her fingertips. “I never expected to want someone in my life as I want you.”

His eyes burned. “You have me,” he said.

She leaned her forehead against his, surrendering to the warmth of his embrace as the fire dwindled to embers and the house settled into silence.

Later, Lydia lay awake, listening to his breathing.

She replayed the week. The relentless work, the pride in his eyes when a plan succeeded, and the tender way he folded her dressing gown when he thought she wasn’t watching.

A dangerous thought crept in...dare she yearn for more?

Wish for permanency rather than accept an affair?

Half asleep, Maximilian turned toward her, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close. She floated in the unfamiliar comfort of belonging, buoyed by the fragile hope that it might endure.

The house around them, quieter, stronger, seemed to share in her sentiment.

On the seventh morning, a hard wind off the Channel swept the air clean. In the great hall, Lydia sipped her tea, reviewing invoices when the butler, perspiring despite the chill, hurried in with an urgent whisper.

“Carriages at the gate, miss. Two. Southgate livery, and the magistrate from Ilminster.”

Lydia set her cup down with a deliberate clink. “Thank you, Royston. Inform His Grace, then summon Mrs. Hunt and the staff. All of them. This should be seen.”

She rose, smoothing her morning dress.

At the foot of the stairs, she encountered Maximilian, already dressed, his expression neutral except for the tight line of his jaw. He glanced toward the drive, where the horses stamped and tossed .

“You look like a woman about to conduct a minor coup,” he remarked.

“I aim for nothing less,” she replied, and together they moved toward the doors.

The staff assembled behind them in tidy ranks. Mrs. Hunt’s doing. The gardener, still dirt-stained, clutched his hat to his chest. Lydia stood on the threshold as the visitors approached.

Edmund Southgate led, immaculate and polished, his smile rehearsed. Behind him trailed a small, bespectacled magistrate, exuding reluctance.

“Miss Montague,” Edmund called, his voice smooth. “I see you have not packed yet.”

“Mr. Southgate. Magistrate.” Lydia’s tone remained flat. “Welcome to Rosecroft House.”

The magistrate bowed and glanced at Edmund. “Mr. Southgate requested my assistance in resolving a fraudulent inheritance.”

“Only for clarity,” Edmund said smoothly. “I would hate for Miss Montague to suffer the embarrassment of an improper claim.”

Maximilian tensed. Lydia’s hand on his arm signaled him to let her speak.

“We will proceed in the hall,” she stated firmly. “The staff will witness.” Striding ahead, she took the central chair at the great table. Maximilian positioned himself just behind her, while the staff lined the walls like a silent jury.

Edmund wasted no time. “My aunt’s last will names me heir. The supposed codicil is a recent fabrication.”

The magistrate nodded. “If you have the documents, Miss Montague.”

Lydia signaled to Mrs. Hunt, who brought a leather folder. With steady hands, Lydia unclasped it and laid out the letters, will, codicil, and diary.

She read the relevant clause of the will, then presented the codicil. Signed, witnessed, sealed. Edmund snorted. “A clever forgery. No expert?—”

“You have not yet seen the diary,” Lydia interjected, flipping to a marked page. “My aunt’s handwriting, weeks before her death: the codicil, the reasons, and,” she tapped the margin, “a warning to you, Mr. Southgate, to stay off these premises.”

A murmur rippled through the room. Lydia pressed on. “If you wish to contest authenticity, do so before a judge, not my staff.”

The magistrate compared signatures, his brows knitting together. “The handwriting appears identical. The witnesses,” he read the names, "are respectable. Absent substantial contrary evidence, I am inclined to accept these as valid. ”

Edmund flushed, indignation flickering across his features. “You cannot simply?—”

“Enough,” Maximilian said, his voice low but firm. “The only fabrication here is your entitlement. Leave willingly, or be carried out.”

Edmund scanned the faces in the room, finding no ally, then met Lydia’s gaze. Whatever he saw there made even the magistrate flinch. “This is not the last you will hear of me,” he spat, then stormed out.

The magistrate lingered, red-faced. “I will file a formal report with Chancery. But in my opinion,” he added with a brief bow, “your case is sound.”

Lydia thanked him and dismissed the staff. Maximilian watched the last of them go, the echoes of Edmund’s outburst fading from the marble.

“You handled that beautifully,” Maximilian said, admiration in his tone.

She laughed, short and genuine. “I have always done my best work with an audience.”

A carriage rattled up the drive, gravel spitting. Through the window, a flash of blue and white and a plume of feathers appeared.

“The Dowager Countess Marchweather,” Maximilian murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. "Accompanied by two other ladies. "

Lydia strode to the door and swung it open, her heart alight.

Beatrice, Countess Lorne, strode in, her peacock silk billowing, eyes bright with the promise of scandal. Beside her walked Lady Frances Seton, Duchess of Hargate, exuding an air of authority.

“Lydia!” Bea sang. “Did your cousin really try to toss you out?”

“He tried,” Lydia replied, a grin breaking through. “And failed spectacularly.”

Frances surveyed the scene, then offered a sly, approving smile. “Good. Lady Eugenia would have been furious to see you bested.”

"Indeed, she would," Lady Marchweather agreed.

Lydia curtseyed, the gesture playful. “Ladies, I have missed you.”

“Where is the culprit?” Bea craned her neck. “I wanted to see him weep.”

“Gone, and he will not return,” Maximilian said. “Unless he fancies pistols at dawn.”

The Duchess raised an eyebrow, then took Lydia’s hands. “You did well. The place already feels like home.”

Lydia’s composure faltered for a moment. “Thank you. I could not have done it without… considerable assistance. ”

She glanced at Maximilian, who appeared both abashed and pleased.

Frances’s gaze flitted between them. Leaning in, she whispered, “Shall we expect little Maximilians by next winter.”

Color crept into Lydia’s cheeks, and she laughed. “If so, you may tutor them.”

Bea cackled, looping an arm through Lydia’s and pulling her along. “You must tell us everything. Over tea, over wine, or preferably both. But first, a tour before our husbands arrive.”

The trio swept out. Maximilian lingered, watching Lydia walk away—back straight, head high, flanked by women who had always stood by her. A swell of pride rose within him.

From the window, he spotted Edmund’s carriage dwindling down the lane, the Southgate crest fading into dust. Pouring a glass of wine, he settled at the great table and waited.

When Lydia returned, cheeks flushed with laughter and triumph, she crossed to him. He stood, took her hand, and drew her close.

“Is it over?” he asked.

She smiled, warm and a touch mischievous. “For now.”

“And after? ”

She kissed his cheek and whispered, “We are expecting more arrivals.”

He held her in the heart of the house, and warmth spread in his chest—a feeling that this place could be home. That she could be home.

From the corridor, Lady Frances called, “Lydia, do not dawdle!”

Lydia's grin widened, her fingers tightening around his as excitement lit her eyes.