Page 21 of One Duke of a Time (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #37)

T he wedding day shone in rose gold and was filled with laughter, sunlight streaming through the windows of Rosecroft House.

In Lydia’s chamber, the air was bright and cool, warming at the window seam.

Dust had vanished, leaving only the essentials.

A cheval mirror, a large oak armoire, two reupholstered chairs, and the low bed with its neatly folded coverlet.

Lydia stood barefoot on the rug, her dressing gown loosely tied at her hips, the color a deep blend of wine.

She watched the light climb the bedpost, approaching the bouquet of letters she had arranged the night before.

Notes from Frances, tenants, and even an odd viscount’s daughter, each one congratulating or warning her.

She considered them briefly, then turned away, letting the sun be her focus.

The early hours had brought nerves, but now only calm remained. Not exactly anticipation, but readiness. A quiet excitement for what lay ahead. She flexed her toes against the rug and waited for the maid.

A firm knock echoed, just as Lydia had requested. No tiptoeing today.

“Come in,” she called. The door swung open, allowing both the maid and a rush of light from the corridor.

The girl carried the gown draped across her arms as if it were significant.

It was neither white nor ivory. It was a deep crimson silk, matte and tailored with precision.

The skirt flared without excess, the bodice was clean and high, and the sleeves, long and tight, ended in a point at the hand. No lace, no trim, no apologies.

The maid set it down and began to style Lydia’s hair.

Her hands moved deftly, and Lydia let her work, directing with an arched brow or tilt of her chin.

The final effect was severe but not cruel, dark coils softened by a few loose tendrils at her ear, a concession Lydia allowed for her own amusement.

Dressing, usually a chore, transformed into a ritual. The chemise slid over her shoulders, the stays laced snugly, leaving just enough give for breath. The gown’s weight served as a reminder of her visibility and the attention she would command today.

When the last hook was fastened and the sash knotted, Lydia stepped before the mirror. The ring glinted on her left hand, half-hidden by the sleeve. She touched it, certain it was there and it was hers.

A hush rippled through the house, broken by Lydia’s laugh, sharp enough to make the maid flinch.

“Do you think he will like it?” she asked, her voice light.

The maid regained her composure, a conspiratorial smile spreading across her face. “If he doesn’t, half the county would trade places with him.”

“God save me,” Lydia quipped, a pleased smile tugging at her lips.

A second knock, gentler this time. Frances entered, cradling a bouquet of flowers that looked freshly picked from the garden. She froze, her eyes widening in disbelief.

“Mercy, you really did it,” Frances breathed, thrusting the bouquet forward. “You have turned marriage into a hostage negotiation and still managed to look stunning. ”

Lydia inhaled the wild scent, a grin breaking across her face. “They will never see it coming.”

“They will never recover,” Frances replied, pride in her voice as she settled onto the chaise adorned with violet and cream ribbons.

They sat for a moment in companionable silence. Lydia arranged the flowers in her lap, the weight of the day settling in. Not fear, not exposure, but the exhilarating certainty of becoming irrevocable.

Frances’s gaze softened. “Do you remember when you threatened to run away? You said you would sooner join a whaling crew than marry?”

“I stand by it,” Lydia said, “though I will admit the pay here is better.”

They laughed, the sound bright and unfiltered. Amid the day’s theater, Lydia realized this was what mattered most. Girlhood alliances, shared exile, the rare chance to be truly seen. Above all—love.

Frances rose, kissed her cheek, and said, “I will make sure the groom has not gone mad staring at the sundial.”

“Tell him,” Lydia replied, “he has one chance to run, and it is now.”

At the door, Frances looked back, her gaze sincere. “I doubted he would deserve you. I am glad I was wrong. ”

Lydia met her gaze in the mirror, red silk, wildflowers, and flame ring in harmony. “I have not changed. I have only found someone who does not ask me to.”

Frances’s smile glinted. “Well, then. Hang on to forever.”

She left. Lydia lingered a moment longer, the bouquet in her hands, the ring a silent promise. She looked into the mirror, seeing both the girl she had been and the woman she had become, realizing that neither had anything left to prove.

The garden exuded restraint and intent. Its walls rose high enough to block the wind but not the sun, with beds trimmed into neat ranks of yew and box, while wild roses clung to the perimeter.

Ribbons draped from the sundial at the center, likely a touch from Frances, each caught by the breeze and scattering color.

Along the flagstone path, the gardener had lined narcissus and tulips, their stems beaded with dew.

At the far end, beneath a makeshift arbor of white-painted lath and the season’s first leaves, Maximilian waited.

His hands folded behind his back suggested composure, but the twitch of his right foot betrayed him.

Guests gathered in uneven ranks. Frances and Hargate, Beatrice and Matthew, Hollis in his ancient frock coat, Powis, the housekeeper stiff in her gown, and further back, a cluster of tenants whose names Lydia had memorized the night before.

The vicar stood at a borrowed reading desk, his expression dry save for the small tilt of his lips.

No music. No powdered pageboys, no petals scattered. Only the hum of bees, the branches swaying in the breeze, and silk rustling as Lydia entered.

She did not pause. She walked with her chin held high, bouquet clutched like a talisman. The crimson dress did what it was meant to do, drown every other color, every expectation, every trace of the past in something bold and dangerous. Even the bees seemed to falter.

Maximilian’s breath caught—audible, embarrassingly so—before his composure snapped back into place.

Lydia allowed herself a flash of satisfaction, then focused on the vicar. She stopped beside Maximilian, close enough that her sleeve brushed his knuckles, and waited. The silence felt ceremonial, not awkward.

The vicar cleared his throat, his eyes twinkling over his spectacles. “We are gathered,” he began, “to unite two singular souls in what, I am told, is not to be called holy matrimony, but perhaps—if the parties agree—a mutual truce.” Lydia’s mischievous grin nearly made him lose his place.

Frances smiled. Hargate stared, unsure if he had imagined the entire affair.

The magistrate continued, inserting sly comments into the formalities. “If any person can show just cause why these two should not be joined…” he intoned, then paused. A tenant coughed, nerves evident in the sound.

At last, the vows. “Maximilian, do you take Lydia to have and to hold, to honor, and, to the best of your ability, to obey?”

Maximilian’s mouth twitched. “I do.”

“And do you promise never, under any circumstances, to cage her spirit or demand the impossible?”

“I do,” he said, louder.

The vicar turned to her. “Lydia, do you take Maximilian to have and to hold, to honor, and, if you choose, to obey?”

Her smile was bright. “I do.”

“And do you promise to stand beside him in all things, never behind, never with less than your whole self? ”

“I do,” she said, and meant it.

The rings were mismatched. His was plain hammered gold with a thin line of red enamel. Hers was a band of rubies that hugged the flame-shaped ring he proposed with. Their fingers trembled for a moment as they exchanged them. For a brief second, Lydia thought she might weep.

The vicar shut the book. “By the powers vested in me, and the wishes of all present, I pronounce you married... and entirely on your own recognizance.”

Frances clapped first, the sound sharp and joyful. The others followed. Hollis smiled, the housekeeper dabbed her eyes, and the tenants nodded their approval.

Maximilian turned to Lydia, his eyes bright and open. He bent, his lips brushing her cheek. Improper, yes, but Lydia let it happen, even leaning into it. Solid and certain, it moved her unexpectedly.

The sun broke free of the clouds, flooding the garden. Crimson silk flared, gold gleamed at his sleeve, and for a moment, the world felt new.

The morning room lacked grandeur, its rectangular shape suggesting a space designed solely for breakfast and the softer light of ten o’clock.

Yet, as the site of the wedding breakfast, it had taken on a quiet significance.

Not a ballroom or a gallery, but a sun-warmed and intimate space where the new order would be tested.

Frances and Johnathan claimed the largest table.

She dismantled the pastry basket while he surveyed the feast like a general tallying rations.

Lydia and Maximilian sat at the head, not by design but by natural inclination.

The housekeeper hovered nearby, lips pressed thin to contain a smile, while Hollis presided over coffee and ham with a serious demeanor.

The food was simple yet abundant. Warm rolls, smoked fish, poached eggs, and jams in cut-glass bowls that scattered light across the linen. For a while, conversation reigned, broken only by the clink of silver and the steady rustle of linen.

Johnathan broke through the chatter. He raised his cup of sherry and cleared his throat. “I am, by reputation, a man of few words,” he began, prompting a snort from Frances, “but I have seen many marriages, and I can honestly say I have never seen one less likely, nor more right, than this.”