Page 7 of One Duke of a Time (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #37)

Maximilian finally met her eyes. "Do you truly believe this is about money?"

She shrugged. "It is always about money. Or desire... but in this case, I find the former more plausible."

He almost smiled but checked himself. Lydia noted the momentary lapse.

"Or perhaps," she said, "it is not about me at all. Maybe someone seeks to harm you, Your Grace. Your reputation is formidable."

He tensed—not overtly, but in the way his hands stilled on the cup, the blue of his eyes hardening.

"I have many adversaries," he allowed. "But none would choose such an indirect approach."

They drank in silence for a few minutes, the noise of the room fading to a dull hum.

Lydia felt the pressure mounting, like a storm brewing behind her eyes. She set her cup down with a soft clink.

"You are avoiding something," she said.

He arched a brow .

"Why do I feel as if you know more than you have told me?"

The silence that followed was sharp.

Maximilian glanced around the room, then back at her, his gaze narrowing.

"I have not lied to you," he said. "But there are matters regarding the estate and your aunt that are not easily explained."

"Try," she said, her tone pointed.

He considered her, then exhaled. "I visited the estate once, at the invitation of Lady Eugenia, years ago.

It was a strange visit. The place felt not just neglected but intentionally abandoned.

Eugenia was not there despite her invitation and left no explanation.

I spent the night in a house that felt.. . watched."

Lydia frowned. "By whom?"

He shook his head. "No one, and yet..."

She felt a chill along her arms. "Are you saying it is haunted?"

He let out a thin, humorless laugh. "Not in the way you mean. But I was not sorry to leave. And neither, I think, were the servants."

She absorbed this, her mind racing.

"You could have told me," she said. "I am neither a child nor an idiot."

He hesitated. "I thought it might be a trick of memory or an overactive imagination. But after today..."

"You think someone does not want us to reach the house," she finished.

He inclined his head. "I believe the house, or what it contains, is the key. And someone is invested in keeping you from it."

Lydia watched him, unsure whether to feel gratified by his honesty or insulted by his reticence.

"Thank you," she said, and meant it, though the words felt unfamiliar.

They finished their tea in silence. The locals gradually lost interest in them, and the fire settled into a comfortable glow. Lydia looked at her hands, fingers still trembling slightly, and decided it was her turn to share something.

"When I was twelve," she began, "my father caught me riding astride. Not sidesaddle, but like a boy. He locked me in my room for three days and would not even allow Honora to visit. By the end, I resolved never to let someone else set the limits of my freedom."

She did not look up as she spoke, but she felt the words settle between them—weighty and direct.

"That is why I will not be frightened away, not even by the prospect of death by carriage wheel," she said.

Maximilian was silent for a moment. "You are unlike anyone I have ever known," he said, without mockery or flattery, only fact.

She nodded, accepting the compliment.

"Still," he added, "I would prefer you alive at the end of this."

She laughed briefly. "That makes two of us. And we must protect the dowager as well."

He gave a firm nod.

Night fell quickly, the world outside the inn reduced to a gray wash of fog and drizzle. Lydia was shown to her room, which was only slightly larger than the carriage. A candle on the washstand flickered in a persistent draught, revealing the room’s imperfections.

She stood in the center of the small space and turned slowly, noting its features: two beds, a battered washstand, a trunk with a broken hinge, and a window occupied by Maximilian’s silhouette.

He had claimed the window immediately, hands clasped behind his back, head bent.

His presence filled the room, crowding the corners and compressing the air.

Through the thin wall came the dowager’s comfortable snore.

She’d retired with a syllabub after claiming her room and declaring herself unable to sleep in the company of others.

Lydia set her valise down and perched on the edge of the nearest bed. The mattress sagged toward the floor. She pulled out her brush and began the nightly ritual of taming her hair, each stroke a small act of discipline against the day’s chaos.

A hush settled—neither companionable nor adversarial, but thick with unspoken words. Lydia felt Maximilian watching her in the reflection of the window, his gaze unblinking, his jaw set with familiar resolve.

She pretended not to notice, focusing on the hairbrush, on the sensation of her scalp yielding beneath the bristles, on the memory of fingers tangled in her curls—his fingers, last night, as the gale battered the eaves and the world shrank to the hearth’s small radius.

She finished and set the brush down, her chest fluttering. She glanced at Maximilian, who had yet to move.

"Are you going to stand there all night?" she asked, her voice teasing. "Or shall I hang a towel over you for some privacy?"

He did not turn. "I am making sure we are not being observed from the street. "

She snorted. "Let them look. They will only see what they expect. A duke and his troublesome companion pretending civility, or scandal incarnate."

He ignored the jab, and she felt a twinge of disappointment.

She bent to remove her boots. The act was not elegant, but she did it with the efficiency of someone used to undressing in front of strangers. Lydia had attended enough finishing schools to know how to endure.

She slipped off the boots, then peeled down her stockings, rolling them carefully before setting them on the trunk. The cold air bit at her bare feet, and she drew them up under her nightdress, wrapping her arms around her knees.

Maximilian’s eyes flickered toward her and then away. He moved to the second bed, shrugged off his coat and waistcoat, and sat on the edge of the mattress, hands braced against his knees.

The sight of him—so carefully contained, so unwilling to surrender even the smallest piece of armor—made Lydia want to laugh, cry, or possibly kiss him.

She blew out the candle. The darkness enveloped them. Only the silvered outline of Maximilian’s shoulders remained, and then that disappeared as he lay down, the bed groaning beneath him.

Lydia rolled onto her side, facing away from him. She listened to the ache in her bones, the pulse in her throat, and the sensation of his body in the same space.

She thought about the kiss they had shared. Regret, restraint, and the dangerous wish for more consumed her. She wondered what it would take to break his discipline and her own.

After a while, she heard him shift. The mattress creaked, and his breathing changed. Slower now, and deeper.

Speaking without turning, she asked, "Do you think we are being followed?"

There was a long pause. She imagined him debating whether to answer honestly or at all.

Finally, he said, "I do not discount it. But I am accustomed to being watched. It is a hazard of my situation."

"Do you mind?" she asked.

He hesitated. "Not when I can control it."

She turned, propping herself on one elbow to face the darkness from which his voice had come. "And if you cannot?"

Another pause, longer this time. "Then I adapt," he said. "I make the watcher wish he had chosen an easier mark."

Lydia smiled, unseen. "I should feel safer, then."

"You are safe." His voice remained low, but the promise was clear.

She waited for him to qualify, to offer some sardonic comment, but he did not.

"Even now?" she pressed, softer.

"Especially now."

She let the words settle, feeling warmth in her chest.

They lay back to back, separated by a narrow strip of air that felt immense. The space between them vibrated with possibility, but neither made the leap.

She felt herself drifting, exhaustion finally taking hold. Just before sleep came, she heard him shift, the faint brush of linen against linen. His breathing slowed, and so did hers, their rhythms aligning, the distance between them reduced to the shared cadence of inhale and exhale.

She drifted to sleep, heart steady, mind quiet, a single word echoing in the dark...

Safe.