Page 3 of One Duke of a Time (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #37)

“Only if you can keep up,” she replied. In a move that would have scandalized every matron in London, Lydia tucked her skirts under and perched atop the piano crate. Her fingers found a bold tune, and the others joined in. Laughter and melody filled the air.

Maximilian stood in the carriage’s shadow, arms folded, but his gaze never left Lydia. He watched her play—her whole body bent to the instrument, her eyes shining—and felt, against his will, a twist of admiration. She was both captivating and magnetic.

He noticed how the barrel-chested musician leaned closer, his hands hovering too near Lydia’s as they played a duet, his smile too eager. Maximilian’s jaw tightened.

When the song ended, the musician clasped Lydia’s hand. “You have a rare talent, miss.”

She laughed. “You should hear me when properly inspired. ”

The man’s eyes widened with understanding, and a hint of something else.

Maximilian intervened, stepping forward. “Thank you for entertaining us. We must be on our way.”

Lydia shot him a look but allowed herself to be ushered back to the carriage. The moment the door closed, she turned on him.

“You are incorrigible,” she said, her voice low but furious. “Was I about to be abducted? Ravished in broad daylight?”

He met her glare with calm. “I was protecting your reputation.”

“Oh, hang my reputation,” she spat. “Do you think I care what a random fiddler says about me?”

“Not everyone you charm means well,” Maximilian replied. “Your family entrusted me with your safety, and I will not disappoint.”

“I have no need of a keeper.”

He leaned in, his expression serious. “I do not wish to be your keeper. But I am bound, Miss Montague, to deliver you to Devonshire in the same condition in which I found you.”

She shook her head. “You have no idea what condition you found me in.”

His jaw ticked, but he refrained from speaking .

She pulled the curtain aside and watched the musicians fade into the distance, their music a faint echo. “Why do you even care?”

He spoke quietly, so that only she could hear, “Because your aunt was a woman of strong principles. She would have wanted someone to look after you, even if you do not wish it.”

Lydia turned, taken aback by his sincerity. He looked not at her but at his gloved hands, the leather creaking as his fingers tightened.

She let the silence linger, then said, “You are not very good at this.”

He looked up, startled. “At what?”

She gestured between them. “Companionship. Friendship. Whatever this is meant to be.”

He said nothing, but the tips of his ears flushed faintly.

She softened a fraction. “Next time, you could simply ask me not to flirt with the locals. You might be surprised at how well I obey polite requests.”

He regarded her as if she were a new species of beetle—interesting but potentially dangerous. “You do not strike me as the obedient sort.”

She leaned forward just enough that their knees brushed. “Obedient, no. But reasonable, sometimes. Especially if reason is presented attractively. ”

He allowed himself a dry chuckle, the closest she had seen to a laugh. “Duly noted.”

The carriage rolled on as evening lengthened, shadows creeping along the interior. Lydia found herself stealing glances at his profile, the stubborn angle of his jaw, the way he rested his hand on his thigh. She wondered if he watched her too in the fading light.

As darkness fell, the landscape grew indistinct, hedgerows blending into one another, the only certainty being the warmth of the space and the heartbeat of possibility within it.

They arrived at the inn long after dusk.

The footman, blinking sleep from his eyes, swung open the carriage door and stepped back as Lydia exited, her crimson skirts flashing in the lantern light.

Maximilian disembarked more calmly, making his way to the low-beamed entrance as the first drops of rain began to tap the roof.

The dowager allowed herself to be helped down, declared the weather “excellent for the joints,” and requested a tray in her chamber at once.

Inside, the inn’s warmth enveloped them, thick with the scents of roasting meat, yeasty ale, and a floral note that seemed out of place in the English countryside. The innkeeper, a red-faced woman with a commanding presence, greeted them with a curtsy and a hasty apology.

“I am afraid the common room has been taken over by Viscount Standish’s hunting party, Your Grace. Quite the lively lot tonight. We have set aside a private parlor for you just through here.”

Lydia cast a longing glance at the noise spilling from the main hall, but Maximilian’s steady hand at her elbow guided her toward the promised sanctuary.

The parlor was cozy and well-appointed—a small table that left their knees one careless breath apart, two straight-backed chairs, and a single lantern in the center casting a warm glow. A silver bell sat beside the breadbasket, and Lydia eyed it warily.

“You may sit anywhere,” Maximilian offered, gesturing with a formality that felt exaggerated.

She chose the chair facing the window, just visible beyond the curtains, and watched as the rain shifted from sporadic taps to a steady murmur. When Maximilian took his seat, the table was wide enough to make reaching across a deliberate act—a calculation Lydia was sure he had considered.

“Does the parlor suit Your Grace’s requirements?” Lydia inquired, her voice edged with mockery .

“It is perfectly sufficient,” Maximilian replied. “Though I admit I am surprised you do not miss the company of Standish’s merry group.”

She tore a piece of bread and buttered it. “Why would I, when I have your dazzling conversation to sustain me?”

He inclined his head. “You mistake sparring for conversation, Miss Montague.”

“I am an excellent conversationalist,” she replied, “if given the right stimulus.”

He poured the wine, filling her glass first—a courtesy or perhaps a warning that he would monitor every drop she consumed.

“Your move,” she said, raising her glass.

He smiled, a rare display of teeth, and saluted her.

The first course arrived: partridge, roasted and glazed, with tiny new potatoes and a tangle of greens. Lydia attacked it with relish, making little effort to hide her appetite. Maximilian ate more slowly, as if each chew required careful deliberation.

“You are judging me,” she remarked, her mouth full.

He looked at her over the rim of his glass. “Never. I am trying to guess what you will do next. ”

“That is a fruitless endeavor,” Lydia replied, stabbing a potato. “Even I rarely know.”

“That is what makes you interesting,” he said.

She looked up, taken aback. “Is it?”

He nodded. “Most people are predictable. You are… not.”

Momentarily abashed, Lydia took another bite in silence. The shadows from the lantern flickered across Maximilian’s face, making it appear softer, almost vulnerable.

They spoke little during the main course, content to let the quiet fill the space between them. When the plates were cleared and the innkeeper brought out dessert—a slice of glossy chocolate torte accompanied by a single fork—Lydia could not suppress a laugh.

“They have only one fork for us?”

“Perhaps it is a test of character,” Maximilian replied.

“Or a prelude to battle,” Lydia countered.

She reached for the fork first, poised it over the torte, then hesitated. With exaggerated politeness, she offered it handle-first to Maximilian.

“After you, Your Grace.”

He accepted, carved off a small bite, and transferred the fork with care, setting it parallel to her hand.

She took her generous portion, the torte yielding to her with ease. Lydia closed her eyes as the flavor spread rich, bittersweet, and enveloping. She let out a soft, involuntary sigh.

When she opened her eyes, Maximilian was staring at her, the fork paused halfway to his mouth.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said, his voice lower and rougher than before. “It is rare to see such genuine pleasure in anyone.”

She smiled, unsure if he meant to insult or compliment her. “I do not believe in doing anything by half-measure. If it is worth doing, it is worth savoring.”

He set down the fork, poured a cordial for each of them, and raised his glass.

“To savoring,” he said.

She clinked her glass to his.

For a moment, neither spoke. The lantern flickered, and the fire in the corner cast shadows. The air between them was warm and safe.

Lydia set her glass down and regarded Maximilian. “You do not seem like a man who indulges often. ”

He shrugged slightly. “Duty rarely leaves room for indulgence.”

“What did you wish for before you became Duke of Hasting?” she asked, surprising herself.

He considered, fingers drumming on the tabletop. “I liked the stars. As a boy, I would sneak onto the roof and watch them until dawn. My father found it a waste of time. He preferred that I read treatises and ledgers.”

“And you?” she pressed.

“I preferred the stars,” he said. “But one must give up childish things.”

Lydia leaned in. “I do not think you ever gave them up. I think you simply learned to keep them hidden.”

He looked at her—not with the calculated appraisal of earlier, but with sincerity. “Perhaps you are right.”

She offered the fork again, and he accepted, letting their fingers linger in the exchange.

“I used to climb trees,” she said. “I would tear every dress, come home with scraped knees, and hands full of whatever birds' nests I could rescue from the crows. My mother despaired, but there was no stopping me. ”

“I find it hard to imagine you cowed by anything,” he said, a smile forming.

“I find it hard to imagine you ever sneaking anywhere,” she replied.

He allowed himself a quiet laugh. “We all contain contradictions, Miss Montague.”

The torte vanished quickly, and as Lydia licked the last trace of chocolate from her thumb, she realized she felt lighter than she had in weeks.

The innkeeper returned. “The countess is abed,” she reported, “sleeping soundly.”

"Thank you, ma'am," Lydia said, then stood. "I suppose we should retire as well."

Maximilian rose, pulled Lydia’s chair back, and led her toward the corridor where their rooms awaited.

At the foot of the stairs, he paused.

“I have been considering your proposal,” he said.

Lydia tilted her head. “Which one?”

“The diversion,” Maximilian clarified. “Through Little Whitchurch, for the scenery.”

She smiled. “Truly?”

He nodded. “Perhaps it would do us good to remember that some things are worth seeing, even if they cost us a day.”

Lydia’s heart leaped. “Then it is settled. ”

He offered his arm, and she took it, surprised by how natural it felt. Together, they ascended the stairs in silence, the only sounds being the rain and the fading laughter from the hunting party below.

At her door, Lydia paused. “Good night, Your Grace.”

He bowed once. “Good night, Miss Montague.”

The door closed softly behind her, but the warmth of his presence lingered, along with the promise of the detour to come.