Page 2 of One Duke of a Time (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #37)

T he duke’s carriage was elegant discomfort: plum damask and brass polished to a shine.

Lydia sprawled on the bench, her crimson skirts bleeding into the interior.

Beside her, the Dowager Countess of Marchweather settled, sighed, and within moments fell asleep, lace cap askew, parasol clutched like a baton.

Maximilian, Duke of Hasting, sat opposite, straight-backed, his navy riding coat and precise cravat creating a barrier of propriety between him and chaos.

They had barely left the Montague townhouse before the mood inside the carriage soured. A delicate snore punctuated the duke’s movements as he extracted a fold of heavy parchment and consulted it with the focus of a surgeon about to make a difficult decision.

“We shall proceed via the Southwark Turnpike and then to Exeter by the main road. It is the swiftest route. There have been disturbances on the lesser roads.” He did not look up.

Lydia made a small noise of disgust. “How dreadfully unoriginal. Is it your policy to avoid any experience that smacks of novelty, Your Grace?”

He folded the map carefully. The dowager murmured “nonsense” in her sleep and adjusted her shawl, undisturbed by strategy or scandal.

Ignoring their chaperone, he met Lydia's gaze and said, “It is my policy to avoid unnecessary delays.”

“Unnecessary!” She twisted to look out the window at the congested streets of London.

“You cannot possibly tell me you prefer the monotony of the highway to the wonders of the countryside. There is a detour through Little Whitchurch with views so spectacular that even the sheep would be inspired to poetry.”

“I do not take advice from sheep,” Maximilian replied, “and neither should you.”

She laughed, the sound echoing in the coach. “I will have you know I have taken advice from far less reputable sources.”

“I do not doubt it.”

She fixed him with a look. “You never laugh, do you?”

“Rarely,” he said. “It encourages people.”

She smiled mischievously, then braced her boots against the opposite bench as the carriage lurched over a deep rut. “Your Grace, what would happen if, for one brief hour, you allowed whimsy to dictate your actions?”

He considered her in silence. “Society would collapse, I suspect.”

She eyed the map in his gloved hand. “May I?”

He hesitated, then passed it across, his fingers brushing against hers. The contact was brief but noticeable. A prickle ran up her arm. Lydia looked at him, eyebrows raised, but he was already smoothing his cravat, his gaze fixed on a spot just above her head.

She flattened the map on her lap, tracing a meandering blue line.

“Here. If we detour at Little Whitchurch, we will arrive only—what, half a day later? But we will have three times the scenery and only a slight chance of highwaymen. Unless you are afraid to demonstrate your dueling skills?” She grinned with challenge.

“My skills require no demonstration,” Maximilian said. “And I am responsible for your safety. I will not jeopardize it for a sketchbook.”

Lydia, affronted, pressed a hand to her chest. “You might consider that I am capable of protecting myself. How can you be so certain I am not the more dangerous companion?”

His eyes slid to her. “Experience.”

“I have been nothing but delightful. Admit it.”

He didn’t, but the corners of his mouth twitched, and Lydia seized upon it as a victory.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her posture a challenge. “If you insist on this route, I demand at least one concession.”

He sighed, resigned. “What is it?”

“Provisions. If I am to be denied scenery, I will require adequate sustenance.” She propped her chin on her fist. “What did you bring?”

He gestured to the sleek travel hamper between them. “Salted meats. Biscuits. Fruit. Brandy.”

She blinked. “Is that all?”

“It is a journey, Miss Montague, not an embassy ball.”

She rolled her eyes and flipped open the hamper. “ You have neglected jam, pickles, clotted cream, and any number of delights. Did you not bring tarts?”

He looked genuinely perplexed. “Should I have?”

Lydia pressed a hand to her temple. “Dear Lord, you intend to starve me into compliance. I suppose you have also forbidden singing and—” she snapped her fingers, “—laughter.”

“I would never forbid anything, Miss Montague,” Maximilian said, though the set of his jaw suggested otherwise. “I merely make recommendations against certain things.”

She withdrew a wrapped biscuit and sniffed it suspiciously. “If you are trying to bribe me with this, you should know I am not above blackmail.”

He folded his arms. “I am not above retaliation.”

She snapped the biscuit in half, crumbs scattering onto her skirts. “I should have brought a companion with backbone.” She glanced at Lady Marchweather, blissfully unaware as she slept.

“Perhaps you might have,” Maximilian replied, “if you had not terrorized every eligible escort in London.”

She gaped, then grinned. “You have heard the tales, then.”

“I have lived them.”

After each retort, his fingers drifted to his cravat .

She tilted her head, studying him. “If you are this tense before we have even left the city, you may not survive to Devonshire.”

He reached for the brandy flask, opened it, and poured himself a judicious inch. “That is a risk I accepted the moment I agreed to this.”

Lydia watched him over the rim of her biscuit, a small smile on her lips. She could not decide if he was the driest man she had ever met or merely the best at concealing his true self beneath layers of starched cloth.

Lydia pretended to study the map, but her eyes flicked up at regular intervals, catching Maximilian watching—her face, her hands, the way she arranged her skirts.

Her breath caught as his gaze dropped to her mouth, then he blinked hard, as if pulling himself back from a ledge.

Her mind drifted to the moment in the Montague parlor when his hand had caught her wrist. She remembered the gentleness of his touch and the way his thumb had pressed against her pulse.

She wasn’t sure whether he meant to steady or possess her, and she found she would not have minded either.

The memory unsettled her, which meant she had to confront it .

“Is wrist-grasping a family specialty?” she asked.

He blinked, startled. “Pardon?”

“You did it when we met and looked as though you meant to do it again just now.” She waggled her fingers.

His gaze lingered on her hand before returning to her face. “I suppose I did. You seem to have that effect on people.”

“Unnerving them?”

“Disarming them,” he said, leaving her uncertain whether it was an insult or a compliment—perhaps both.

She folded the map and handed it back. “There, Your Grace. I have conceded the route at great personal cost. The least you can do is agree to a detour if I spot anything remarkable along the way.”

He hesitated. “Within reason.”

She leaned back, satisfied. “Everything I do is within reason. My reason, to be specific.”

Lydia pressed her cheek to the window, watching the city fade into narrow lanes and sparse hedgerows. It was not the landscape she craved, but she resolved to make it interesting, even if Maximilian refused.

As they rounded a bend, the carriage hit a rut the size of a badger’s sett. The jolt dislodged Lydia from her position, pitching her toward Maximilian. His arm shot out, steadying her.

The dowager snorted awake at the jolt, blinked at Lydia on the duke’s shoulder, and promptly dozed off again with a satisfied hum.

For a moment, neither Lydia nor Maximilian moved.

Her shoulder pressed against his chest; his breath tickled the curls at her temple.

She felt the tension in his jaw. The warmth of his palm against her bare arm was almost indecent, and she became acutely aware of how closely her ribs brushed his with every breath.

She could have righted herself immediately, but she did not.

“Easy, Miss Montague,” he murmured, not loosening his hold. “This road is less forgiving than one may think.”

She twisted to see his face, chin tipped defiantly. “I prefer roads with character.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth for an instant—an unguarded flick—before he released her, every motion precise and deliberate.

Returning to her corner, she adjusted her skirts with exaggerated dignity. “If you find my company so hazardous, perhaps you should have had me tied to the bench like a bandbox,” she said .

“I would have, had I anticipated the level of chaos,” he replied, smoothing his coat as if it, too, had been offended by the contact.

They did not speak for a while. The silence felt different now. Charged, expectant.

It was Lydia who broke it, craning her neck to see what lay ahead. “Look! Up there by the oak tree. A party of musicians!”

Sure enough, a motley group had set up a makeshift camp beside the road consisting of two fiddlers, a woman with a tambourine, and a barrel-chested man attempting to coax a tune from what looked like half a piano strapped to a cart.

The music was uneven but spirited. Lydia rapped on the carriage ceiling, signaling the driver to slow.

Maximilian scowled. “Is there a reason for this detour?”

“Of course,” Lydia replied. “We are in the country. It is expected that one mingles with the locals.”

She exited the carriage before he could protest, her skirt lifted to clear the step, her boots landing with a satisfying crunch on the dirt. Maximilian followed more slowly, his posture conveying skepticism.

Behind them, the dowager slept through the noise, her soft snores creating a steady rhythm .

The musicians were delighted by the sudden appearance of nobility. The fiddlers launched into a jig, the woman with the tambourine offered a wink and a curtsy, and the man at the battered piano greeted Lydia with a bow that nearly toppled him.

“Will you play for us, miss?” he asked, his voice bright.