CHAPTER 1
The Montague townhouse in London buzzed with genteel chaos. Housemaids moved swiftly through the corridors, brass polished to a shine, and the scent of lavender filled the air. Miss Lydia Montague, however, was far from calm.
"A stipulation? From Aunt Eugenia!" She waved the solicitor's letter in the air. "A blasted stipulation? As though I were some frail ninny who cannot travel without a chaperone!"
Lady Honora, her elder sister by twelve years, sighed from the chaise. "It is not uncommon, Lydia. Inheritances often come with conditions."
"Conditions," Lydia snapped, pacing the drawing room, her crimson skirts swaying, "are for horsesand debts, not for women with perfectly functional intellects."
Honora winced. "Do stop waving that about. You are wrinkling it."
She paused, the letter trembling in her hand, as her gaze drifted toward the tall windows. A vivid memory surfaced—a younger Lydia, no more than ten, sitting cross-legged beneath a lilac tree while Aunt Eugenia spun tales of pirates and daring lady adventurers. The scent of ginger biscuits, the rustle of chickens in the grass, and Aunt Eugenia’s laughter flooded back with warmth. She had only visited a handful of times, but those moments had left an impression. The idea that this same woman had now left her a legacy—complete with strings—felt like a final nudge from beyond the grave.
She hated the thought of being bound by rules, expectations, or even well-meaning ghosts. Yet, Aunt Eugenia’s letter tugged at something beneath her bravado.
Lydia halted before the fireplace, the letter clenched in her gloved hand. "Aunt Eugenia left me an estate, Honora. An actual estate. With a proper roof and a dowry sum that would make even your husband raise an eyebrow. And yet, I cannot claim itunless I am escorted to Devonshire like a wayward governess."
"At least it is not Father escorting you," Honora muttered, lifting her teacup.
Lydia narrowed her eyes. "No. Instead, I am to be accompanied by Maximilian Ashcombe, Duke of Hasting, and if the tales are true, an unrepentant rogue."
The name hung in the air.
Honora's spoon paused mid-stir. "The Duke of Hasting? The one with the jawline that could fell a lady at thirty paces?"
"Yes, that one," Lydia said, lacking any reverence.
"But he is positively dour. Is he not the one who stared down the Prince Regent at some affair?"
"Stared down, insulted, and left with his cravat untouched," Lydia replied. "He is also reputed to have the charm of a wet boot and the temperament of a lion with a toothache."
"And yet," Honora said, setting down her tea, "you are to spend several days traveling with him."
Lydia lifted her chin. "I shall be perfectly safe." She did not entirely believe it—not about the road, and certainly not about him, but she would never admit it.
Honora raised an eyebrow. "From him, perhaps. But what of yourself?"
Lydia did not answer.
Two days later, the Montague butler announced, "His Grace, the Duke of Hasting."
Lydia rose from the window seat where she had been pretending to read. In truth, she had spent the better part of the morning picturing how much starch a man like the duke poured into his spine before breakfast.
Maximilian Ashcombe did not disappoint—he entered tall and brooding, dressed in deep navy riding clothes tailored to perfection. His boots gleamed. His cravat was immaculate. And his expression, when he saw her, hovered between mild annoyance and visible restraint.
Lydia smiled sweetly and offered a curtsy. "Your Grace."
Maximilian bowed. "Miss Montague."
"How dutiful of you to arrive precisely on time."
"I find punctuality preferable to dramatics."
"Pity," she murmured. "We do dramatics so well in this house."
He glanced at the overstuffed drawing room—the floral upholstery, her sister's needlework, the framedsketch of a dog that had died three years ago. "I can see that."
She moved forward, the feather in her hair bobbing. "Will you sit? Or would you rather stand and glower a bit longer?"
