Everything had changed.
Even if neither of them would admit it.
They entered the carriage where the countess had awoken and now chattered about propriety and suffocating rules.
Outside, the countryside unfolded—brittle, bright, and indifferent.
Lydia leaned her head against the glass and closed her eyes, letting the ache of the previous night settle into memory. For a moment, sheallowed herself to feel the aftermath of being chosen.
She did not know if she would ever be chosen again.
The journey continued, and with every turn of the wheel, the old world slipped further away.
Lydia pressed her shoulder to the cool glass, watching the landscape blur by—dun fields, stone walls, and sheep that might as well have been painted in place. Her gaze drifted across hedgerows and sullen copses, imagining herself anywhere but inside this carriage with the Duke of Hasting.
Maximilian sat opposite her, bent over a sheaf of papers and a road map that looked worn. He frowned at it, his thumb tracing the path toward Millbrook as if the route had let him down. Occasionally, he marked the margin with small, methodical strokes. Lydia wondered if he was measuring distance or simply keeping his hands busy.
She tucked her feet beneath her skirt, brushing a finger over the bruise at her knee, trying to decide whether she was glad the countess had fallen back to sleep or wished her awake. The memory of a night that had brought them close only to set them apart lingered. She looked at his hands—broad, capable, and all over her the previous night. Her gaze trailedto the cuff of his shirt, now frayed, a tear she knew she had caused.
He must have felt her gaze, for he tugged the sleeve down casually.
A long mile passed, the silence broken only by the axle’s whine and the wheels thudding in the ruts. Lydia counted the flicks of the horses’ ears, Maximilian’s sighs, and the creak of leather when he shifted. The unspoken words pressed heavily.
Her throat was dry. She reached for the flask just as he did, their fingers colliding briefly, his hand covering hers. The contact surprised her, sending shock, memory, and warning through her. She drew back but not before catching the flash of emotion in his eyes. He let her take the flask, then accepted it himself.
“Thank you,” he said, as if nothing had happened.
She nodded, watching the line of his throat as he drank, noticing the faint tremor in his hand.
The silence deepened. The sun glowed behind the clouds, and a chill settled in the carriage. Lydia pulled her shawl closer. Heat surged in her cheeks at the memory of his mouth against her skin.
A rut jarred the carriage, sending her forward into his chest. He caught her, his arms firm around her waist, his breath warm against her ear. For amoment, neither moved. His grip was protective, not possessive, yet his heart raced against hers.
“Are you all right?” His voice was rough.
She nodded. “It was only the road.”
He let go at once. She slid back, glancing toward the countess, then back at Maximilian. Their eyes met. She looked away first.
“We should arrive before midday. It is better to take the back lane than to go through the market crowd.”
“Afraid someone will recognize us?”
“I am more concerned with surprises.”
“Last time we were surprised,” she said lightly, “I thought it went rather well.”
He worried the edge of his cuff instead of answering.
Lydia willed him to speak, to bridge the gap. She matched his reserve, declining food and a blanket, even as her teeth chattered.
The countryside blurred past. She traced circles in the condensation on the glass, marking time like a prisoner.
Relief washed over her when the village appeared—thatch and slate roofs, chimneys smoking, the market square alive with carts and livestock. Maximilian tucked away his map,straightened his cravat, and prepared his expression for society.
Lydia did the same, smoothing her skirt and pinching her cheeks for color.
The carriage slowed. Maximilian opened the door, paused as if he might offer a hand, then simply said, “After you.”
