Page 5 of One Duke of a Time (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #37)
She tried not to watch him. She truly did.
But the wet fabric of his shirt clung to the muscles of his back and arms with a boldness that felt like a challenge.
He set his jaw and disregarded the steam rising from his shoulders, the damp hair at his nape, and the intensity of his movements.
As Lydia watched, she felt frustrated for reasons both clear and unclear.
Sitting before the fire, she stretched her hands toward the heat, determined to show no discomfort. Still, her fingers trembled, and she caught herself shivering as a droplet traced her spine beneath her stays.
A knock, followed by a sharp kick, announced the arrival of the footman. He staggered in, arms full of rescued valises, his face flushed from the cold and exertion.
“Beg pardon, Miss, Your Grace.” He set the luggage just inside the door, removed his cap with a shake that scattered rain, and added, “I will see to the horses, but the shelter is poor. We cannot move on until the wheel is mended, and that will take some hours, even if the smith comes from the village.”
Maximilian nodded at the coachman. “Do what you must. We will manage here.”
The man nodded and withdrew, leaving them in gloom illuminated only by the flickering flame.
Lydia eyed the pile of valises. “If the local smith is as reliable as most country professionals, we shall be here until Michaelmas.”
“Would that trouble you greatly?” Maximilian asked, not quite looking at her .
“I thrive on adventure,” she replied, ignoring the wet hem of her dress pooling around her.
He crouched by the luggage, extracting a smaller bundle wrapped in oilcloth. “I expected as much. I also anticipated you would accept help when needed.”
She bristled. “I do not require?—”
He produced a woolen blanket and shook it out.
“You are shivering,” he said, his voice softened by concern.
She started to refuse, the words on her tongue, but a cold draft found the bare skin at her nape, causing her to flinch. He closed the distance in three strides, kneeling so their eyes were level.
“Allow me,” he said, and before she could object, he draped the blanket around her shoulders, covering her neck and upper arms.
For a moment, they were so close she could see the tiny flecks of gold in his blue eyes. She could smell sandalwood, starch, and a hint of wet wool. His hands lingered on the edge of the blanket. Her hands tightened around the wool’s edge.
She wanted to challenge him. She wanted to thank him. She did neither.
Instead, she asked, “Do you always take charge in a crisis? ”
“Only when chaos is likely to prove fatal.”
She glared, then relented. “Thank you, I suppose.”
He rose, his full silhouette cast in the firelight—his shirt clinging to every contour, breeches similarly fitted, his hair falling loose. He looked less like a duke than a pirate, and the thought was not entirely displeasing.
“I will dry my things near the fire. You should as well,” he said, laying his coat and waistcoat over a chair.
Lydia spread her shawl on the floor in front of the hearth, then focused on the flames, determined not to show how much she needed the warmth. She heard movement and turned to see Maximilian searching through the valises.
He withdrew a tin flask, uncorked it, and took a measured sip before offering it to her.
“Brandy?” he asked, holding it out.
She accepted, her hands shaking more from anticipation than cold. The liquor burned its way down, spreading warmth faster than the fire. She coughed and handed it back, noticing the imprint of her fingers on the tin.
“You are better prepared than I gave you credit for,” she said, daring to smile .
He took another sip and set the flask aside. “I dislike surprises.”
“That cannot be true,” she replied. “You are the very picture of a man who craves unpredictability, if only to sneer at it.”
He shot her a sidelong look, one brow raised. “You think I am a hypocrite?”
“I think you are a man who likes to win,” she said, “even against the weather.”
The smile he gave was small but genuine. “You are not entirely wrong.”
She angled her body toward the fire, drawing the blanket tighter. “You should dry your shirt too,” she observed. “There is little virtue in shivering for modesty’s sake.”
He laughed—a genuine, disarming sound—and unbuttoned his cuffs, rolling his sleeves to expose his forearms. Lydia studied the muscle beneath his skin with interest, then returned her gaze to the fire.
“Would you like me to turn away?” she asked, teasing.
“Not necessary,” he replied. “I doubt there is much about the human form that shocks you. All the same, I intend to spare you.”
She barked a laugh, then glanced toward the adjoining room where the dowager slept .
He smiled again, this time warmer, and sat beside her, close enough that the steam from his shirt mingled with the vapor rising from her hem. They shared the blanket, a narrow strip bridging the space between their shoulders.
Lydia relaxed, the tension in her shoulders easing, the sting of disaster fading to a manageable throb. The fire cast shadows on the wall, making their shared exile feel less like an ordeal and more like a story she might someday tell with wry amusement.
She glanced at Maximilian, who stared into the flames with the focus of a man deciding whether to leap or wait for rescue.
“Do you mind this?” she asked softly, unsure whether she meant the journey, the storm, or their proximity.
He hesitated, then answered honestly. “Less than I expected.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“It is,” he said, turning to meet her eyes. The moment stretched before he looked away.
Lydia felt something shift within her. She had spent a lifetime pushing against the walls of expectation and propriety, only to find them still standing.
Here, in this crumbling cottage, the walls were literal, and the only barrier between her and the world was the blanket shared with a man she could neither fully admire nor dismiss.
She leaned against him just enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin and to know he would not shrug her off.
Inside, heat built from the fire, the brandy, and the proximity of two people determined not to admit how much they needed it.
“I have never sat through a storm quite like this,” she admitted, her voice low. “It feels...” she searched for the word, “...significant.”
He considered this. “It is the sort of night that reminds you that you are indeed alive.”
She gave a mischievous grin. “Is that another compliment?”
“It is,” he replied. He reached for the flask, took a sip, and offered it without further comment.
Lydia drank, less for warmth than for the continuity of the gesture. The brandy loosened her tongue.
“Is this the worst storm you have seen?”
He considered. “Not the worst. But perhaps the most...” he searched for the word, “...inconvenient.”
She laughed, a sound that surprised even her. “I suppose I should apologize. ”
He shook his head. “If not for the detour, we would be at the inn, enduring tepid mutton and the other guests’ chatter. This is preferable.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You would rather be stuck in a ruined cottage, with wet boots and a half-frozen traveling companion?”
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “The company is not entirely objectionable.”
She looked at him, really looked, seeing the man behind the title. His hair, drying, had started to curl at the ends; his features, usually set, had softened; and the blue of his eyes was brighter from the fire’s reflection. He seemed younger, less distant. Still formidable, but more human.
She shifted, drawing the blanket tighter. The movement brought her knee into contact with his, a spark she chose not to ignore.
“Is it always your way to endure?” she asked. “You speak of weather and duty as if they are merely obstacles.”
He frowned, thoughtful. “I suppose I was taught that some things must be borne, and some must be conquered.”
“And which am I?”
He laughed, surprised. “A trial, certainly. But perhaps not a burden. ”
She grinned. “High praise from the Duke of Hasting.”
He shook his head.
She let her gaze wander around the room before resting her chin on her knees, watching him sidelong.
A question nagged at her. Was she really so different from the women he knew in London?
Did her irreverence amuse or unsettle him?
Was she merely a distraction, or did something about her draw his attention?
She glanced at his hands, now folded in his lap—large and elegant.
She remembered how they had steadied her in the carriage, how he had arranged the blanket around her shoulders with a skill that belied his reputation for coldness.
She recalled the feeling of his chest against her back when the carriage jolted—a brief moment of closeness that felt less like rescue and more like possession.
She realized she wanted—needed—to know if it had meant anything to him.
He turned toward her, facing her. The movement closed the distance between them.
She felt her breath quicken as her shoulder brushed against his. She could smell the faint sweetness of brandy on his lips and the clean, damp scent of his skin. A shiver ran through her .
“You are still freezing,” he said, reaching to adjust the blanket.
This time, his hand rested on her shoulder, warm and steady, sending a jolt of heat down her spine.
“Is this allowed?” she whispered, unsure if she was teasing or pleading.
He drew her closer, the movement gentle yet firm. The blanket slipped from her grip, pooling around their waists, and she found herself in his arms.
She expected awkwardness—perhaps an apology or a retreat to propriety—but instead, he bent his head, and she felt his lips brush against her temple. "It is if we wish it."
She closed her eyes, surrendering to the sensation. The next kiss was firmer, placed at the corner of her mouth. She turned toward it, and their lips met—soft and exploratory at first, then hungry.
For a moment, the fire and storm faded, leaving only the press of lips, the rhythm of breath, and heat between them. His hand slipped to her nape, fingers tangling in her damp hair.
Her fingers gripped his forearm, nails digging in, pulling him closer.
She gasped, and he tasted the sound. The kiss deepened, bringing a sense of falling—dangerous yet welcome.
Then, just as suddenly, she pulled away. Her lungs heaved, and she stared at him with a mix of defiance and horror. “I should not have,” she said, her voice trembling. “That was?—”
“Inevitable, necessary even,” he finished for her, his voice raw.
She blinked, confused. “You do not believe in necessity. Only endurance.”
He smiled, unguarded, almost boyish. “Perhaps I am learning.”
She laughed, then covered her mouth, mortified. “Mercy, what must you think of me?”
He regarded her, searching her eyes, then said, “I think you are the bravest woman I have ever met.”
She shook her head. “You do not know half my secrets, Your Grace.”
He raised an eyebrow, inviting her to share, but she did not. Instead, she pulled the blanket up, rested her head on his shoulder, and wondered what would happen if she surrendered completely—not to fate or expectation, but to the force that had brought them together.