Page 22 of One Duke of a Time (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #37)
He turned to Lydia, who regarded him with amused wariness. “Miss Montague—or rather, Her Grace—has always been unique. And Your Grace,” he nodded to Maximilian, “has never met a battle he could not outwait or outwit. A perfect match, for neither will ever truly surrender.”
Laughter rippled down the table, and Johnathan lifted his cup higher. “May they live long and never agree on anything for more than a fortnight, lest the world grow dull.”
Glasses rose, the toast ringing out.
Lydia felt the words settle around her like a warm embrace. She glanced at Maximilian, whose gaze over the rim of his glass threatened to steal her appetite. Beneath the table, she found his hand with hers. He caught it, warm and steady, and their fingers entwined.
The staff moved with newfound grace. The footman bowed with genuine respect, the maid lingered with bright eyes as she set down rolls, and even Hollis managed a smile when Maximilian thanked him by name.
At intervals, tenants appeared, hats in hand, offering small tokens: cider, eggs tied with ribbon, and a dense brown loaf.
Lydia welcomed each with warmth and a genuine smile, while Maximilian matched her tone, firm but not cold.
Soon, the room filled with the fragrance of flowers and the soft hum of conversation, infused with the comfort following a public victory .
As the day went on, guests drifted toward the garden. Frances guided Johnathan toward the orchard, the housekeeper retreated to plan an evening feast, and the servants slipped away, their laughter fading into the distance, while Powis slipped away with a maid.
Lydia and Maximilian lingered, the room finally theirs.
He turned to her, fingers entwined with hers. “Do you realize it is over?”
She smiled, slow and certain. “It is never over. Not for people like us.”
He nodded, a spark of excitement in his eyes. “Then shall we see what comes next?”
They rose together, leaving behind bouquets and empty plates. At the threshold, with the garden spread out before them and vows still echoing in the air, Maximilian pressed a hand to the small of her back.
“Ready?” he asked quietly.
Instead of words, she leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. Together, they stepped into their bedchamber, leaving the party behind, the future, wild and uncertain, stretching out before them.
The maids had prepared the room with precision. Crisp linens, a steady fire, and candles arranged in clusters. Petals scattered along the sill and at the foot of the bed hinted at an inside joke the house seemed to share.
The first moments alone carried their awkward weight. Lydia, inexperienced in the rituals of a wedding night, hesitated, torn between taking charge and waiting. Maximilian stood just inside the door, shoulders squared as if braced for battle, his expression unreadable.
For a moment, they simply gazed at one another. Then he crossed the carpet and kissed her, not tentative but certain. His mouth was firm, his hands at her waist, then cradling her face, before tugging the pins from her hair until curls tumbled loose.
She laughed into his mouth, then pulled back enough to say, “You are nervous.”
“So are you,” he replied, his eyes locked on hers.
"We have never done this the proper way," she said, her tone saucy.
They stood close, the world reduced to the thump of two pulses. When her hands reached for her bodice, his brushed them aside as he slowly unbuttoned the crimson silk. Each pop of thread revealed more skin.
The gown slid from her shoulders and pooled at her feet. She stood in her shift and stockings, he in his shirt and trousers, still neat from the feast. At her bidding, he shed them piece by piece until they met at the bed’s edge, equal in exposure.
They came together—lips, tongues, hands—greedy and unrefined. Fumbles turned to laughter, a rhythm emerging from their missteps. She nipped at his shoulder. He gripped her waist. It was raw and unchoreographed, defined only by the undeniable fact of their union.
Later, collapsed and breathless, they reached for each other again.
The second time was slower, exploratory.
Maximilian traced her spine with his lips and fingers.
Lydia yielded, unable to resist and eager to feel him.
He held her as if she were precious, and she clung harder, determined to mark him in return.
She came undone in his hands, his mouth, and finally in the act itself—combustion, not surrender. He followed, his voice rough against her neck. They stayed joined until stillness overtook them.
Afterward, sprawled across his chest, she let exhaustion creep in. His hand stroked her shoulder, idle and steady.
“I never thought,” he said, his voice low, “that I would find this. Not in all the planning, the nights, the paperwork. I never expected to be?—”
“Happy?” she supplied.
“Yes. Happy.”
She snorted. “That is because you were too busy making lists.”
His laugh filled the quiet and tightened his hold around her. She dreamed of small moments. His lips at her temple, his hand at her back, the sound of his laugh in the dark.
They drifted into sleep as equals, in love and in power, secure in the storm they had chosen.