“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.
