CHAPTER 2
The duke’s carriage was elegant discomfort: plum damask and brass polished to a shine. Lydia sprawled on the bench, her crimson skirts bleeding into the interior. Beside her, the Dowager Countess of Marchweather settled, sighed, and within moments fell asleep, lace cap askew, parasol clutched like a baton. Maximilian, Duke of Hasting, sat opposite, straight-backed, his navy riding coat and precise cravat creating a barrier of propriety between him and chaos.
They had barely left the Montague townhouse before the mood inside the carriage soured. A delicate snore punctuated the duke’s movements as he extracted a fold of heavy parchment and consulted itwith the focus of a surgeon about to make a difficult decision.
“We shall proceed via the Southwark Turnpike and then to Exeter by the main road. It is the swiftest route. There have been disturbances on the lesser roads.” He did not look up.
Lydia made a small noise of disgust. “How dreadfully unoriginal. Is it your policy to avoid any experience that smacks of novelty, Your Grace?”
He folded the map carefully. The dowager murmured “nonsense” in her sleep and adjusted her shawl, undisturbed by strategy or scandal.
Ignoring their chaperone, he met Lydia's gaze and said, “It is my policy to avoid unnecessary delays.”
“Unnecessary!” She twisted to look out the window at the congested streets of London. “You cannot possibly tell me you prefer the monotony of the highway to the wonders of the countryside. There is a detour through Little Whitchurch with views so spectacular that even the sheep would be inspired to poetry.”
“I do not take advice from sheep,” Maximilian replied, “and neither should you.”
She laughed, the sound echoing in the coach. “Iwill have you know I have taken advice from far less reputable sources.”
“I do not doubt it.”
She fixed him with a look. “You never laugh, do you?”
“Rarely,” he said. “It encourages people.”
She smiled mischievously, then braced her boots against the opposite bench as the carriage lurched over a deep rut. “Your Grace, what would happen if, for one brief hour, you allowed whimsy to dictate your actions?”
He considered her in silence. “Society would collapse, I suspect.”
She eyed the map in his gloved hand. “May I?”
He hesitated, then passed it across, his fingers brushing against hers. The contact was brief but noticeable. A prickle ran up her arm. Lydia looked at him, eyebrows raised, but he was already smoothing his cravat, his gaze fixed on a spot just above her head.
She flattened the map on her lap, tracing a meandering blue line. “Here. If we detour at Little Whitchurch, we will arrive only—what, half a day later? But we will have three times the scenery and only a slight chance of highwaymen. Unless you areafraid to demonstrate your dueling skills?” She grinned with challenge.
“My skills require no demonstration,” Maximilian said. “And I am responsible for your safety. I will not jeopardize it for a sketchbook.”
Lydia, affronted, pressed a hand to her chest. “You might consider that I am capable of protecting myself. How can you be so certain I am not the more dangerous companion?”
His eyes slid to her. “Experience.”
“I have been nothing but delightful. Admit it.”
He didn’t, but the corners of his mouth twitched, and Lydia seized upon it as a victory.
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her posture a challenge. “If you insist on this route, I demand at least one concession.”
He sighed, resigned. “What is it?”
“Provisions. If I am to be denied scenery, I will require adequate sustenance.” She propped her chin on her fist. “What did you bring?”
He gestured to the sleek travel hamper between them. “Salted meats. Biscuits. Fruit. Brandy.”
She blinked. “Is that all?”
“It is a journey, Miss Montague, not an embassy ball.”
She rolled her eyes and flipped open the hamper. “You have neglected jam, pickles, clotted cream, and any number of delights. Did you not bring tarts?”
