Lydia relaxed, the tension in her shoulders easing, the sting of disaster fading to a manageable throb. The fire cast shadows on the wall, making their shared exile feel less like an ordeal and more like a story she might someday tell with wry amusement.
She glanced at Maximilian, who stared into the flames with the focus of a man deciding whether to leap or wait for rescue.
“Do you mind this?” she asked softly, unsure whether she meant the journey, the storm, or their proximity.
He hesitated, then answered honestly. “Less than I expected.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“It is,” he said, turning to meet her eyes. The moment stretched before he looked away.
Lydia felt something shift within her. She had spent a lifetime pushing against the walls of expectation and propriety, only to find them still standing. Here, in this crumbling cottage, the walls wereliteral, and the only barrier between her and the world was the blanket shared with a man she could neither fully admire nor dismiss.
She leaned against him just enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin and to know he would not shrug her off.
Inside, heat built from the fire, the brandy, and the proximity of two people determined not to admit how much they needed it.
“I have never sat through a storm quite like this,” she admitted, her voice low. “It feels...” she searched for the word, “...significant.”
He considered this. “It is the sort of night that reminds you that you are indeed alive.”
She gave a mischievous grin. “Is that another compliment?”
“It is,” he replied. He reached for the flask, took a sip, and offered it without further comment.
Lydia drank, less for warmth than for the continuity of the gesture. The brandy loosened her tongue.
“Is this the worst storm you have seen?”
He considered. “Not the worst. But perhaps the most...” he searched for the word, “...inconvenient.”
She laughed, a sound that surprised even her. “I suppose I should apologize.”
He shook his head. “If not for the detour, we would be at the inn, enduring tepid mutton and the other guests’ chatter. This is preferable.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You would rather be stuck in a ruined cottage, with wet boots and a half-frozen traveling companion?”
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “The company is not entirely objectionable.”
She looked at him, really looked, seeing the man behind the title. His hair, drying, had started to curl at the ends; his features, usually set, had softened; and the blue of his eyes was brighter from the fire’s reflection. He seemed younger, less distant. Still formidable, but more human.
She shifted, drawing the blanket tighter. The movement brought her knee into contact with his, a spark she chose not to ignore.
“Is it always your way to endure?” she asked. “You speak of weather and duty as if they are merely obstacles.”
He frowned, thoughtful. “I suppose I was taught that some things must be borne, and some must be conquered.”
“And which am I?”
He laughed, surprised. “A trial, certainly. But perhaps not a burden.”
She grinned. “High praise from the Duke of Hasting.”
He shook his head.
She let her gaze wander around the room before resting her chin on her knees, watching him sidelong. A question nagged at her. Was she really so different from the women he knew in London? Did her irreverence amuse or unsettle him? Was she merely a distraction, or did something about her draw his attention?
She glanced at his hands, now folded in his lap—large and elegant. She remembered how they had steadied her in the carriage, how he had arranged the blanket around her shoulders with a skill that belied his reputation for coldness. She recalled the feeling of his chest against her back when the carriage jolted—a brief moment of closeness that felt less like rescue and more like possession.
