Page 4 of One Duke of a Time (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #37)

T he next morning, a gray sky promised rain.

Lydia awoke to the sound of boots in the corridor and the innkeeper fussing over hot water and fresh bread.

She had barely gathered herself—bare feet tucked beneath her, curls in their usual disarray—when Maximilian appeared at her door.

He looked as precise as ever. His navy frock was immaculate, jaw freshly shaved, and blue eyes bright with determination.

“We must make haste,” he said, barely crossing the threshold. “The weather is?—”

“A scandal in itself?” Lydia finished, tugging on her gloves. “I heard the wind howling. Is that a sign of adventure or impending doom? ”

He regarded her, unamused. “If you insist on a detour, I suggest we outrun the storm.”

She donned her slippers, then fell into step beside him, the scent of soap and starch trailing him. “It is not truly an adventure until one risks life and limb.”

His glance was dry, but the corners of his mouth hinted at a smile.

They left the inn just as the first serious drops began to fall.

The carriage gleamed with fresh oil, and the horses stamped and tossed their manes.

Lydia climbed up without assistance, heedless of the slippery step, but Maximilian’s hand hovered near her elbow—whether out of chivalry or concern for the upholstery, she could not say.

Inside, the damp filled the air, and Lydia drew her crimson shawl tight around her shoulders as Maximilian helped Lady Marchweather aboard.

"A fine day for a nap," the dowager said, snuggling into a corner.

They set out, the landscape quickly enveloping them in its soggy embrace.

Trees hunched against the roadside like sulky children, their leaves spent, while the sky pressed lower with every mile.

The road turned into deep ruts and washouts.

The carriage jolted like a ship in rough seas, and Lydia found herself gripping the leather strap above her head in silent defiance.

Maximilian braced himself opposite, one hand steadying a stack of correspondence on his knee, the other splayed to keep him upright. All the while, the dowager slept.

For nearly an hour, the only sounds were the rain, the countess's snoring, and the occasional slosh of standing water as the wheels hit a rut.

Then, abruptly, the vehicle lurched sideways, skidding as if the road had tipped beneath them.

The dowager snorted awake at the jolt, blinked at the scene—and promptly retrieved her squirrel from the floor.

Lydia's body snapped against the padding and rebounded—right into Maximilian's outstretched arm.

His knee collided with hers, and his hand caught her shoulder, steadying her.

"Are you hurt?" His voice was sharp, the question more a demand than an inquiry.

"Only my dignity," she replied, breathless, blinking at the mud splattered across the window. "What in God’s name?—?"

Before she could finish, thunder cracked overhead, so close it rattled her teeth, and the carriage let out a more alarming groan.

A splintering sound announced the collapse of the left front wheel, and they began to tilt, the world shifting as wood and iron surrendered to gravity, the whole conveyance sliding into a waterlogged ditch.

Lydia shrieked, a sound she would later deny.

Maximilian flung himself from the seat to shield her as the carriage came to a jarring halt.

The dowager countess uttered something most unladylike as she wrapped her shawl around her squirrel.

Then, for a long moment, all was still except for the rain and the frantic breathing of three people unaccustomed to peril.

The muffled cursing of the coachman, a wild neigh from the horses, and the patter of hail against the roof cut through their surprise.

"Miss Montague," Maximilian said, his voice steady, "are you all right?"

She looked down. She was clinging to him, her nails digging into his sleeve. With exaggerated poise, she disengaged, even as her heart raced. "I have survived worse in the Montague nursery." She looked to the dowager.

The duke did not release Lydia as he asked, "Are you unharmed, Lady Marchweather?"

"Indeed," she said, glancing around. "I will wait here. You go see what the devil happened."

He pushed the door, but the tilt had jammed it. They arranged their bodies and managed to force the door open enough to admit the elements.

Outside, rain fell in nearly horizontal sheets, the trees a blur, the road lost beneath a layer of water. The coachman stood by the horses, hat gone, hair plastered to his skull, arms flailing for balance.

Lydia surveyed the damage. The left wheel was splintered, half-submerged in mud and water. The carriage leaned at such an angle that she had to grip the doorframe to avoid sliding into the swamp. Her boots sank to her ankles.

Maximilian stood beside her, steadying her with a firm grip, his own boots miraculously clean. “There is shelter,” he shouted, gesturing toward a low thatched cottage visible through the storm. “Over there, by the next copse. Go!”

Behind them, the dowager was helped down by the coachman, bundled in shawls, and directed toward the lean-to.

Lydia hesitated, not from fear but from the inadequacy of her attire. Her once-proud crimson dress absorbed water, the skirts clinging to her calves, the bodice weighing heavily, and her bonnet—flung backward on the seat—had collapsed.

Maximilian noticed and almost smiled. “Vanity is a luxury we cannot afford,” he said, offering his arm. After a moment's hesitation, she accepted it, gripping tightly as they trudged toward the cottage.

The path was challenging. Water pooled everywhere, the wind seized her shawl, and the rain soaked through to her stays. Lydia pressed her lips together, determined not to complain, but her teeth began to chatter.

“Just ahead!” shouted the coachman, who had untangled the team and now trudged behind, guiding the two shivering horses. “I will see to the animals, Your Grace!” He vanished toward the lean-to beside the cottage, leaving them at the threshold.

Maximilian pushed against the door, which opened with a damp creak.

Lydia stepped inside and leaned against the wall, every muscle trembling—not from fear but from the effort of holding herself together. Her dress, now soaked, left rivulets on the floor.

The dowager shuffled in after her, announced she would “supervise in spirit,” and disappeared into an adjoining room.

Maximilian followed, closing the door behind him. He surveyed the room, exhaled slowly, and turned to her. "You are shaken."

“Not at all,” she lied. “I am merely upset about the state of the roads. ”

His mouth quirked. “If you will allow me, Miss Montague, I will attempt to start a fire.”

She nodded, and he began his task, gathering dry tinder from the log pile and remnants left by past visitors. Lydia removed her gloves, wringing them out, then tugged at her shawl, which came away with a tearing sound. She examined the damage and decided it now qualified as artfully distressed.

For a while, the only sounds were the scrape of Maximilian’s flint and the storm against the roof.

"Perhaps you should ask an outrider or the footman to start the fire?" she suggested.

"They are quite busy in the stables. Fear not, I am more capable than I appear." He tried again. Finally, a spark caught, and a thread of smoke rose. Maximilian shielded the flame with his hands, coaxing it into a blaze.

Crouched at the hearth, inches apart, Lydia became aware of the awkwardness of their situation. Here she was—disheveled, drenched, and more exposed than fashion allowed—sitting with the Duke of Hasting, known for his severe personality and roguish behavior.

She straightened, her back rigid. “Do you often rescue women from overturned carriages, Your Grace? ”

He glanced up, his eyes glinting. “Only those determined to test the limits of physics and good sense.”

She pursed her lips, then surprised herself by laughing. “Perhaps I am not quite the calamity you believe me to be.”

He studied her, the firelight casting flickering gold on his face. “On the contrary. I think you are precisely as calamitous as you seem, Miss Montague.”

She met his gaze, defiant and unafraid. “And you? Are you as unflappable as legend suggests?”

His answer, when it came, was scarcely louder than the fire. “Not at all.”

They stared at each other, the space between them charged not with fear or censure, but with a recognition of mutual disarray.

Lydia felt the tremor in her limbs subside, replaced by a steadier pulse.

For the first time since the storm began, she was grateful for the ruin of her dress, the loss of decorum, and the clarity of disaster.

Maximilian broke the spell, rising to his full height and turning his attention to the shuttered windows. “The worst will pass soon. It always does,” he said, with the certainty of a man who has learned to wait out greater tempests .

She sat by the fire, pulling her knees beneath her shawl and watching him move about the cramped room. His presence, always imposing in the drawing rooms of London, seemed here in the half-light almost comforting. Not tamed, but in harmony with the surroundings.

She hugged her arms tightly, shivering once, then inched closer to the fire. She did not thank Maximilian again, but when she looked up next, he was sitting beside her, his boots steaming by the hearth, his face calm and, she thought, just a little less guarded.

She wrung water from her hair while pretending not to notice how her dress clung to her body. The color, once bold, now marked her as a victim of the elements.

He ignored her at first, but as he removed his drenched coat and waistcoat, his gaze shifted to her, and his jaw tightened.