Page 8 of One Duke of a Time (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #37)

T he following evening, twilight enveloped the stable yard, and lanterns illuminated the swept straw amidst the mud.

Lydia’s damp half-boots, scrubbed as well as the inn’s limited staff could manage, left small prints behind her as she crossed the yard, following Maximilian’s shadow.

They had spent the day at the inn out of necessity.

Dinner had required restraint.

The Dowager Marchweather declared the mutton “morally unfit for gentlemen,” drank two syllabubs, and fell asleep in her chair, scandalizing three farmers’ wives.

Maximilian had cut his food with precision, chewing and swallowing in silence, his jaw set hard as they awaited news of the carriage being in proper repair.

Now, as he led Lydia through the yard, his stride was clipped, each step a private calculation. Lydia matched his pace, her crimson shawl a bold contrast against the gloom.

The stable door creaked, not from disrepair but from age, and the warmth inside hit her immediately—stale hay, horse, and a hint of linseed.

A single lantern swung from a hook just inside, casting a warm glow across the packed dirt.

In the far stall, a stable hand worked a curry comb over the ribs of a dappled mare, carefully avoiding their gaze.

Maximilian went directly for the carriage, crouching to run his palm along the spokes, his eyes narrowed. Lydia followed, keeping a measured distance, but the tension in him was palpable.

“I do not see the point in fussing over the repairs,” she said, trying to keep it light. “If the carriage wishes to kill us, it will—regardless of your pampering of the axle.”

His response was a brief, unamused glance. “I do not intend to be killed by carelessness, Miss Montague.”

She folded her arms, letting the edge of her shawl catch the lantern light. “How tedious it must be to be forever on guard. We survived the night, did we not?”

He straightened, wiped his hand on a clean square of linen, and fixed her with a stare. “Survival was not a matter of chance.”

Lydia bristled—not at the content, but at the tone: cool, assured, and certain of its necessity.

“And yet here we are,” she said. “You inspecting every wheel and bolt as if you could outwit fate. Meanwhile, I wish you would stop fussing long enough to listen.”

He circled the carriage, testing the lashings. “You may speak. I am listening.”

She drew a breath. “No, you are cataloguing. Every word is another entry in your inventory."

Is it so terrible to want a moment’s respite from all this—” She gestured to the carriage, the yard, the sky. “—constant tension?”

He paused, hands braced on the rail, the strain in his arms visible even in the dim light. “I do not prepare for calamity, Miss Montague. I anticipate it so I might prevent it.”

“All that vigilance has not spared you from disasters,” she shot back.

A muscle in his jaw tightened. “I am alive. You are alive. That will suffice. ”

She stared at him, annoyed at how his logic made her feel irrational. “You sound as if every pleasure is a risk you cannot bear. Is that the life you prefer?”

The stable hand, sensing the shift in atmosphere, muttered a quick “Evening, Your Grace,” and slipped into the dusk, leaving them alone with the sounds of shifting horses and the rhythmic creak of wood settling after the day’s exertion.

Lydia moved closer, her boots scuffing through the straw. “I do not want to be another item on your checklist, Your Grace.”

He looked up, sharp. “You are not an item. You are...” He stopped, realizing how close she had come.

For the first time, she saw something raw on his face. Less certainty, more hunger. “I am what?” she pressed, her voice low.

He held her gaze. “You are reckless. You terrify me, Miss Montague.”

She almost laughed. “You? Frightened? What an honor.”

He exhaled, his composure fraying. “You think I enjoy it? Watching you court danger, inviting chaos?”

“I do not do it for your amusement,” she said, stepping even closer until the lantern’s light caught the highlights in her hair and the challenge in her eyes.

“I do it because life is too short to spend it in retreat. Some of us were not born to bar the doors and outlast a siege. Some of us wish to win.”

He braced himself, as if expecting a blow. “You have no idea what it means to be responsible for another’s safety.”

“Do I not?” she snapped. “You know nothing of what I have had to do to survive. You think you are the only one with a burden. Is that not a typical flaw of men like you?”

He stood abruptly, causing the lantern to flicker and cast shadows over his face. “And what flaw would that be, Miss Montague?”

She did not flinch. “The belief that no one else carries weight. That your suffering is unique. I did not ask you to protect me. I only asked you to trust that I could protect myself.”

His lips parted to respond, but nothing came.

The horses shuffled in their stalls, restless. Lydia noticed the pulse at his throat and the effort it took for him to keep his hands still at his sides.

“If you would just let go for one moment—” she began, but her words trailed off, an accusation as much as a plea.

He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it more disheveled than she had ever seen. “Let go?” he echoed, his voice rough. “If I let go, everything I am holding together falls apart.”

The words hung between them, painfully honest.

She swallowed, feeling the air thicken. “Then let it.”

He looked at her, truly looked, and something in his expression changed—not softened, exactly, but clarified—like still water revealing the bottom.

She did not know who moved first. Perhaps it was both of them, the distance between them a string pulled so tight it could only snap.

They stood nearly chest to chest, breath mingling. She saw her own reflection in his eyes—stubborn, wounded, alive.

“Do you want me to go?” she asked, her gaze locked on his.

He shook his head, a barely perceptible movement. “No.”

“Then say what you mean,” she urged.

His voice, when it came, lacked the control she was used to. “I should not.”

She let the moment linger. Then, as if testing a fragile bridge, she reached up and placed her palm against his chest. She could feel the pounding of his heart, even through the layers of fabric .

He did not push her away. He did not move at all, except to breathe.

She dropped her hand but not her gaze. “You are not the only one afraid, Maximilian.”

It was the first time she had used his given name. The intimacy of it surprised them both.

“It is my duty to protect you, even from myself,” he said.

Outside, a gust of wind made the lanterns sway, the light casting flickering shadows across their faces. Inside the stable, the animals stilled, unwilling to interrupt what might be a truce or the prelude to confrontation.

Lydia drew a shaky breath, suddenly aware of how cold her hands had become and how warm her face felt.

She nodded once, then turned and walked into the dark, leaving him to inspect the carriage.

The straw crunched softly under her steps as she exited.

The sound of the stable door closing behind her was not an ending but a promise.

Lydia reached the edge of the yard before her nerve failed her.

The stable door had shut, but their words still simmered in her mind, each one echoing back at her with increasing intensity.

She turned, fists clenched, and marched back across the straw-strewn lane, ignoring the muck and the night wind on her throat.

She found Maximilian exactly as she had left him, bent over the wheel, fingers gripping the rim. He did not look up. His breath came fast and uneven in the cold.

She approached him, close enough that the wool of his coat brushed against her skirt, and said quietly, “You cannot keep doing this.”

He straightened, not fully turning. “Doing what, Miss Montague?”

“This. Managing. Directing. Pushing me away.”

He turned abruptly, forcing her to step back. “Is that so terrible?” His eyes sparked, not with anger but with the panic of a breached wall.

“Yes!” she hissed, shoving her hands into her shawl. “You act as if I am some recalcitrant child rather than a woman who knows what she wants.”

He stepped forward. “What do you want, Lydia?” The use of her name was deliberate—a challenge and a plea.

She braced herself. “I want you to stop treating me as if I am fragile.”

He laughed, humorless. “You are the least fragile person I have ever met. ”

“Then why do you act as if every step I take is a crisis?”

He moved again.

She held her ground.

“Because every step you take is a risk. And I...” He bit off the sentence, leaving the rest unsaid.

She pressed in, chin tilted up. “You what?”

He matched her gaze, breathing hard. “I care. Is that what you want to hear? That I care enough to want you safe, even from yourself? Even from me?”

Her heart raced. “I never asked for your protection.”

He gave a sharp, incredulous laugh. “You never ask. You demand. You dare. You make it impossible to look away, even when it would be safer.”

She shook her head, a strand slipping free to catch the lantern light. “Is that what you think? That I exist to antagonize you?”

“I think,” he said, stepping so close that the air between them vibrated, “that you exist to test every limit. Including mine.”

For a moment, she thought he would grab her or walk away.

Instead, he said, his voice trembling, “You are impossible. ”

Her composure slipped. Frustration turned into something else. “And you are insufferable.”

He caught her wrist firm enough to hold, not to hurt. “Say it,” he demanded.

“Let go,” she said, not meaning it.

“Not until you tell me what you really want.”

She opened her mouth, but the words tangled behind her lips. Only a small, involuntary sound escaped—half sob, half laugh.

He pulled her forward, their bodies colliding. His mouth found hers, hard, all of their restraint burned up in an instant.

She froze for a beat—his mouth, his grip, the taste of brandy. Then she opened to him, fisting his lapels and pulling him closer.

The kiss was a clash—heat and tongues, the desperate friction of months—days—of wanting things they should not.

His tongue traced the edge of her lower lip, and she bit it, just hard enough to startle him.

He crushed her closer until her chest pressed against his and her feet barely touched the ground.

The world narrowed to heat, soft lips, and sharp breaths as they tried to regain control and failed.

They broke apart, propelled by their own momentum. Lydia staggered back, gasping, her fingers still clutching the front of his coat. Maximilian’s face was flushed, his hair wild, and his eyes seemed nearly black in the shifting lamplight.

They stared, their ragged breathing and the distant shuffle of restless horses the only sounds.

Lydia pressed the back of her hand to her lips, relishing and steadying. “Well,” she said, her voice rough but triumphant, “that was certainly?—”

“Necessary,” he interrupted, his voice hoarse.

She nodded, unable to stop smiling. “Yes, indeed.”

Finally, he said, low enough that she almost missed it, “You are still impossible.”

She moved to close the last inch between them, her voice equally soft. “And you are still a fool.”

He looked as if he might kiss her again or possibly throttle her, or perhaps both. She did not care, as long as the world kept tilting when he was near.

She closed the distance between them, intent on kissing him again.

He stepped back, halting her progress. “Forgive me,” he said, his voice raw. He swallowed. "I should not have..."

She touched her lips, still swollen from his, and smiled. “Do not apologize for something I wanted too,” she said .

He turned. “It is inexcusable?—”

She cut him off. “You wanted that kiss. So did I. Must we ruin it by pretending otherwise?”

He stared, off balance. The Maximilian she knew would have launched into a discourse on honor. This one—unguarded, breathless—was different.

Lydia leaned back against the stall door, folding her arms. “You are not used to being out of control.”

He gave a humorless laugh. “No. I am not.”

“It does not suit you,” she teased, her voice softer than usual. “Yet I think I like you better this way.”

He ran a shaking hand through his hair, disarranging it further. “You are impossible,” he said, a hint of awe in his tone.

She shrugged, not trusting herself to say more. Silence filled the space between them.

Maximilian closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he met her gaze without flinching. “This changes things.”

She nodded, the simplicity of the statement grounding her. “Yes, it does.”

“I am not certain how,” he said softly.

“Neither am I.”

They stood still, the horses quiet as if sensing the peace that had settled .

Then a single horse whickered, breaking the silence and drawing them back.

Lydia stepped forward, closing the distance but not touching him this time. “We should return to the inn,” she said, her voice gentler than it had been in months.

He nodded, and together they stepped out into the night.

They walked side by side, neither reaching out nor retreating. The air hummed with possibility.

As they reached the inn and passed into the glow of the doorway, the Dowager Marchweather swept past with a candle. “I shall chaperone from the top of the stairs,” she announced.

Lydia glanced sideways and caught Maximilian's profile: chin set, eyes forward, but mouth softened at the edges, as if he were suppressing a smile.

She felt herself smiling, too.