Page 20 of One Duke of a Time (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #37)

T he gardens at Rosecroft House had always leaned toward wildness—tamed for a season, then returning to chaos when attention wavered.

Now, in early spring, they reflected Lydia’s influence: violets nestled under the yew, bulbs emerging along the gravel, hellebores lifting their pale faces in the shade.

The air was brisk, yet the sun glinted on the panes of the new conservatory.

This gathering was no traditional party—no rigid rows of gentry, no endless whist tables—but a selection of Lydia and Maximilian's closest friends and family members summoned by the dowager countess.

Lydia wore crimson—her signature. The gown hugged her ribs, then flared as if the idea of running had been considered and dismissed. Her hair flowed loose in the wind, and she moved among her guests with the composure of a woman who had claimed her place by force of will.

Beatrice lingered at the lawn’s edge with a sherry, her expression fluctuating between boredom and delight.

She wore her husband Matthew, Lord Lorne, pleased to catch their reflection in every window.

Beside her, Lady Frances Seton, Duchess of Hargate, observed closely as her husband Johnathan, Duke of Hargate, congregated nearby.

A string quartet played on a small dais, notes drifting over the landscape. Servants moved through the crowd, balancing silver trays of champagne, pastries, and petits fours.

Lydia circulated through the crush, smiling over her triumph and the joy of having her dearest friends at hand. She accepted congratulations with restrained grace, dispatching prodding questions.

She kept Maximilian in view without lingering.

Near the sundial, he spoke with minor gentry and the vicar, his posture relaxed, attention sharp.

He had traded his regimentals for a dark coat and soft cravat, yet nothing changed the firmness of his expression.

He had not smiled, but that did not mean he lacked cause .

“Do you suppose he is bored?” Frances murmured, stepping beside Lydia at the hydrangeas, watching him intently.

“He is incapable of boredom,” Lydia replied. “He converts it into contempt.”

Frances’s laugh was quiet. “He is not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?” Lydia took a glass from a passing tray, the bubbles settling.

“Something less… relentless.” She gave a sideways glance. “He worships you, you know.”

Lydia noted the quick tap of his fingers, the sweep of his gaze over the perimeter before returning to the vicar. “He worships order. I am simply the nearest.”

Beatrice arrived in a cloud of perfume. “Stop pretending you adore each other. It is tedious.”

“Some of us,” Lydia said, “are not given to performances.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Says the lady in red, hosting a garden party at the end of March. You are practically waving a flag.”

“Red is practical,” Lydia replied. “If one bleeds, one may find the way home.”

Frances snorted, but Beatrice only grinned.

A newly arrived carriage drew their attention, and Lydia squinted against the sun, trying to determine who had arrived now.

William Atteberry, Duke of Powis, emerged.

"I daresay he is here for your duke, Lydia," Beatrice grinned, nodding toward Powis. "He and Hasting are part of a secret club, you know."

"Hush," Frances said. "It is no secret if people discuss it in the open."

"Do not fret," Lydia said, waving her fan. "I already know of the wayward duke's alliance. How could I not when you married one?" She shook her head, amused. "Truly, Frances."

Around them, the talk thickened. At the rose arbor, ladies discussed Edmund Southgate, debating whether his flight to the Continent was prudence or disgrace.

By the reflecting pool, three landowners fenced politely over a canal.

Lydia’s staff moved with efficiency in new uniforms, disciplined and with the certainty that their mistress brooked no nonsense.

Under her hand, the estate had begun to right itself.

The terrace gleamed, and the old gravel was replaced with a cleaner grit.

Beds once choked with couch grass now bristled with narcissus and hyacinth.

Even the garden chairs had been painted—twice, when the first shade failed to please.

Guests felt it. They stood not only at a house but in something that would endure.

The quartet slipped from Mozart to Haydn; the tempo brightened.

Beatrice hummed along. Lydia allowed herself to be charmed until Maximilian’s gaze met hers across the lawn, unapologetic and direct.

He raised a brow, the faintest invitation.

Lydia looked away, as if distracted, though her pulse betrayed her.

She strolled to the pond, unhurried. The water lay still, disturbed only by a goldfish’s flick. Maximilian joined her, waiting until they were out of easy earshot.

“Do you like it?” he asked, tipping his chin toward the scene.

Lydia studied the guests, servants, and the rebuilt terrace. “It will do,” she said. “For a start.”

He stood with his hands in his pockets, considering.

“I am told,” he said, “that the staff are taking bets on how long you will go without a disaster.”

“What is the record?”

“Fourteen days. Set in 1812 by your great-great-grandmother—reportedly a worse tyrant than Napoleon. ”

Lydia allowed a small smile. “Then we must mark fifteen.”

“God help us,” he replied, his tone warming.

A footman arrived with a tray. Lydia took a glass and handed one to Maximilian.

Behind them, laughter swelled. Beatrice, no doubt, was at the center of something delightful. Lydia let the music and the scent of wet earth fill her senses.

Maximilian set his empty glass on the fountain's edge and turned to her, his expression unreadable. “I go to London tomorrow,” he said. “Only a week. Solicitors. And Beatrice insists the city wilts without me.”

“Is this farewell, then?” Lydia asked, aiming for a teasing tone, but her voice softened.

“Hardly.” A genuine smile broke across his face. “I would rather stay and endure your management, but obligations call.”

“You might ignore them.”

“I have never been good at ignoring things.”

She looked down at the rim of her glass, where light fractured through old flaws. “I will be here when you return.”

“Good.” He reached for her hand—not as lover to mistress, but as comrade to comrade. “Someone must keep me from mediocrity.”

“You need someone to keep you from slipping entirely,” she said, squeezing once, refusing to show her disappointment.

He released her hand, but the moment lingered.

Across the lawn, Frances and Beatrice had gathered a small group, all watching with the patience of cats stalking birds. Lydia ignored them and studied Maximilian—firm and at ease, as if he had mastered both.

The music paused. In the hush, he caught her eye and gave a small nod. Subtle, unmistakable.

The quiet deepened. Even the birds seemed to listen. For an instant, it felt as if the future of Rosecroft House hung on his next move.

Maximilian stepped forward, then paused, cautious, as if the slightest misstep might shatter the moment. The garden hush thickened; even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Lydia felt the world balance on the edge of this moment.

He stopped before her, close enough for her to catch the faint citrus in his hair and the clean salt of effort. His eyes, usually cool as river stones, sparkled with something new—exhilaration, joy; she was not entirely sure .

He reached for her hand. His fingers trembled. No one else would notice, but Lydia did. She let him take it, startled by her own racing pulse.

He drew a breath, glanced at the assembled guests, then back to her. His mouth formed the words before he spoke.

“I rehearsed this,” he said, pitched for her alone. “Every scenario. Every ridiculous scene your friends might contrive.”

She smiled despite herself, and relief flickered in his eyes.

“And yet,” he continued, “the words refuse to cooperate.”

“You are doing rather well so far,” Lydia said loudly enough for the nearest guests to hear.

He huffed a laugh and squeezed her hand. “I have spent my life arranging things until chaos gave way. You...” His voice thinned, then steadied. “You are the only chaos I ever wanted to keep.”

She might have made a joke to break the tension, but he did not let her.

“You have changed this house, this village,” he squared his shoulders, “and me. I cannot promise peace or a life free of disaster, but I can promise my constancy in the midst of it. ”

A discreet sniff sounded from Beatrice as everyone moved closer. He ignored it.

“I would ask,” he said, releasing her hand to reach into his coat pocket, “whether you would consider sharing the rest of your chaos with me.”

He opened a small black velvet box. Inside lay a ring—not a simple band, nor a large gem, but gold twisted into a flame, the metal interlacing. Sun caught it, and the crown glimmered.

“I had it made,” he said softly, “to remind us that order is nothing without a spark.”

For once, Lydia had no words.

He lowered to one knee. “Miss Lydia Montague, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Silence settled over the lawn.

Her heart hammered. Wit deserted her. She laughed, incredulous, and plucked the ring from its box, then slid it onto her finger.

“Absolutely not my chaos,” she said, steady now. “But I will be your partner in ruin for as long as you can survive it.”

He blinked, a smile spread across his face—too wide, too genuine—and he struggled to rein it in. He failed. Lydia cupped his face in her hands and kissed him, not with shyness but with determination.

The garden erupted in cheers. Frances whooped. Beatrice wept. The vicar coughed. The quartet stumbled over a bar and quickly recovered.

And...

Maximilian kissed her back, his hands firm at her waist, as if she were the center of his universe.

They parted, and Lydia lifted her hand, the flame reflecting against her skin. “He is doomed, of course,” she announced, “but I have always preferred a hopeless cause.”

Applause erupted once more. For the first time, Maximilian appeared unsettled.

They stood at the garden’s center as guests widened the circle around them.

She leaned in, her voice for him alone. “Was it truly so difficult?”

“Only when I realized I might lose you,” he replied, his eyes sparkling.

“You never could,” she said, her conviction strong.

The garden, the house, even her past seemed to align, bright and full of promise.

It took nearly an hour for the commotion to settle.

The quartet struck up again, their bows racing with renewed energy.

Champagne—summoned by some unseen signal—flowed freely.

Frances seized two glasses, pressing one into Lydia’s hand, while Mathew whisked Beatrice into a waltz, finishing with a dramatic dip in the middle of the lawn, eliciting cheers from the ladies.

Lady Marchweather—dressed in questionable silk and a large turban—cut through the crowd with a smile.

“I told you so,” she declared, her voice loud enough to rattle the dowagers at the rose arbor.

Lydia raised her glass. “You told me many things, Lady Marchweather. Most of them false.”

The old woman laughed. “Never the important bits. From the first quarrel when you thought me asleep, I knew you would either kill each other or—” she waved her glass “—this.”

Maximilian chuckled and offered Lady Marchweather his arm. She accepted like a queen, positioning herself between them.

“Now,” she said, “promise you will not run off and leave us with weak tea and dull people for the rest of the season.”

“You have my word,” Lydia said. “I will not allow any event to be boring.”

“Nor the tea weak,” Maximilian added solemnly.

Marchweather beamed. “They are already finishing each other’s sentences. My work is done.” She wandered off to find more mischief .

Beatrice smiled, eyes bright, glass low. “I knew you would say yes,” she said, pulling Lydia into a tipsy embrace.

Frances joined them, her expression merry. “I confess, I had doubts. There are easier ways to secure an estate or a duke.”

“But none so entertaining,” Lydia replied.

Frances tipped her glass. “To Rosecroft House, and to chaos in its most charming form.”

“To chaos,” Beatrice echoed, lifting her flute. “And to the women who turn catastrophe into a love story.”

They touched glasses, forming a brief circle—three women stronger than their old injuries.

As the sun set behind the conservatory glass, Lydia stood with Maximilian at the garden’s edge. His arm slipped around her waist. Together, they watched guests drift away—some toward carriages, others toward the warmth of the drawing room.

“You realize,” he said, “we are doomed to a lifetime of Lady Marchweather’s interference.”

Lydia turned the flame-shaped ring, catching the last light. “No reason to fret. I am rather keen to see what else she has in store.”

He drew her closer, and for once, she let the world turn without her help .

A footman approached with a silver tray. “A telegram for Miss Montague.”

Lydia broke the seal and read.

Congratulations. You are the envy of every woman from London to Devonshire. Do not let him forget it. Yours, Honora.

She laughed, tucking it into her sleeve, then took Maximilian’s hand.

“You know,” she said, “I never wanted any of this.”

He looked puzzled.

“This house. This future. This...” she hesitated, “happiness.”

He pulled her close. “Neither did I. But I want it now.”

She rested her head on his shoulder and imagined the years ahead: the garden, the house, the family they might create, and the certainty that whatever came, she would not be alone.

This was her chaos. And at last, it was exactly what she wanted.