“Necessary,” he interrupted, his voice hoarse.
She nodded, unable to stop smiling. “Yes, indeed.”
Finally, he said, low enough that she almost missed it, “You are still impossible.”
She moved to close the last inch between them, her voice equally soft. “And you are still a fool.”
He looked as if he might kiss her again or possibly throttle her, or perhaps both. She did not care, as long as the world kept tilting when he was near.
She closed the distance between them, intent on kissing him again.
He stepped back, halting her progress. “Forgive me,” he said, his voice raw. He swallowed. "I should not have..."
She touched her lips, still swollen from his, and smiled. “Do not apologize for something I wanted too,” she said.
He turned. “It is inexcusable?—”
She cut him off. “You wanted that kiss. So did I. Must we ruin it by pretending otherwise?”
He stared, off balance. The Maximilian she knew would have launched into a discourse on honor. This one—unguarded, breathless—was different.
Lydia leaned back against the stall door, folding her arms. “You are not used to being out of control.”
He gave a humorless laugh. “No. I am not.”
“It does not suit you,” she teased, her voice softer than usual. “Yet I think I like you better this way.”
He ran a shaking hand through his hair, disarranging it further. “You are impossible,” he said, a hint of awe in his tone.
She shrugged, not trusting herself to say more. Silence filled the space between them.
Maximilian closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he met her gaze without flinching. “This changes things.”
She nodded, the simplicity of the statement grounding her. “Yes, it does.”
“I am not certain how,” he said softly.
“Neither am I.”
They stood still, the horses quiet as if sensing the peace that had settled.
Then a single horse whickered, breaking the silence and drawing them back.
Lydia stepped forward, closing the distance but not touching him this time. “We should return to the inn,” she said, her voice gentler than it had been in months.
He nodded, and together they stepped out into the night.
They walked side by side, neither reaching out nor retreating. The air hummed with possibility.
As they reached the inn and passed into the glow of the doorway, the Dowager Marchweather swept past with a candle. “I shall chaperone from the top of the stairs,” she announced.
Lydia glanced sideways and caught Maximilian's profile: chin set, eyes forward, but mouth softened at the edges, as if he were suppressing a smile.
She felt herself smiling, too.
