"Standing suits me," he replied.
She offered a slow smile. "How fortunate. I do adore a man who knows his strengths." He smelled faintly of bay rum and leather.
His eyes narrowed a fraction.
Honora cleared her throat from her spot near the fireplace. "Would you care for refreshment, Your Grace?"
Maximilian inclined his head. "Thank you, no. I am only here to collect Miss Montague and begin our journey."
Lydia folded her arms. "So it is true, then. You view this as an errand."
He met her gaze squarely. "Do you not?"
His calm demeanor irked her, as if he were already resigned to suffering her company rather than curious about it. Annoyance sparked in her chest—was he truly so unmoved? She wondered, not for the first time, what he really thought of her. Was she merely an obligation, an inconvenience to beendured? Or was there something else behind that maddeningly impassive expression?
She arched a brow. "I see it as a grand adventure, of course. But then, I have imagination."
"And trunks, I presume."
"Five. Possibly six. And a hatbox. And the Dowager Countess of Marchweather, who has decided to accompany us, though I suspect she believes we are going on a seaside holiday rather than a legal expedition. She packed three trunks of shawls and a taxidermied squirrel, so I fear the worst."
His sigh was audible.
They stared at one another across the room, the air charged. He took a step forward, and she did not back away.
"Miss Montague," he said in a voice carved from the same marble as his cheekbones, "I understand you dislike the terms of this journey. I assure you, I do as well. But I have no intention of being waylaid by frivolity or diversion."
She tilted her head. "That is a shame. I excel at both."
His mouth twitched. "Of course you do."
She took a step closer, the tips of her boots nearlybrushing his. "Are you going to try and manage me, Your Grace?"
He paused. Then, with an air of dry amusement, he said, "Miss Montague, attempting to manage you would be the height of arrogance. I knew your aunt well—she had the same fire, the same disregard for rules. She once prevailed upon me to help with a difficulty at her property in Devonshire. It seems I have not escaped her errands even now. She was adored by many, including my grandmother. It is part of the reason I agreed to this. It felt right to honor her wishes. But make no mistake, I intend only to endure you."
She grinned. "You will be wearied beyond endurance, then."
Their eyes locked, and something shifted. He reached for her gloved wrist—not forcefully, but instinctively, as she swayed slightly closer to him.
"Careful," he murmured.
"Of what?" She notched her chin.
His gaze dropped to her lips before returning to her eyes. "Of proving me wrong."
She did not move. Scarcely breathed.
A heartbeat passed. Then two.
Lydia slowly extracted her wrist from his grasp. "I am packed," she said lightly. "We shall leave in the morning, yes?"
He nodded once.
She flashed him a smile as sharp as a duelist’s blade. "I do hope you are not easily scandalized, Your Grace."
He looked heavenward as if summoning patience, then cast a wary glance toward the hallway. "This is going to be a very long trip," he muttered.
"Touché." She laughed, her voice rich with mischief.
She did not know what lay ahead—but she was not afraid of where the road might lead. Aunt Eugenia had once told her, with a wink and a sip of brandy, that the best journeys began with a little defiance. Lydia smiled at the memory.
“Until morning, Miss Montague,” he said.
“Do try not to be scandalized, Your Grace,” she returned.
