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.
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 Lydiawatched, 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.
