CHAPTER 12
The first morning belonged to the dust. When Lydia turned on her pillow, motes drifted across the square of sunlight on the coverlet. The sight was steadying—evidence that both she and the room had survived the night and that the bed was now hers.
She lay still, counting her breaths, and wondered if she had always been this tired or if, now that the journey was over, her body was simply admitting it.
The chamber, originally designed for some ancestor’s lady, was high and echoing. Lydia tried to picture her aunt sitting upright in the faded damask, challenging the world. Instead, Lydia sprawled. Yesterday’s clothes lay where they had fallen: boots half under the settee, stays at the bed’s foot, stockingsballed beside a guttered candle. On the desk, the codicil waited under her aunt's diary and letters.
She rolled onto her back and winced at a bruise she did not remember earning—likely from a collision with the study furniture in her retreat. No matter. She smiled at the ceiling, then rose to ready herself for the day.
Lydia stretched, her joints cracking. Her yellow dressing gown, too cheerful for her mood, hung over the footboard. She shrugged into it and crossed the cold floor to throw open the curtains. Melted frost framed finger tracks on the glass. She traced one and leaned her forehead against the pane.
Maximilian appeared in the lower garden. He paced the cracked flagstones, his hair catching the sun as he turned at the gap where the conservatory had collapsed and the roses had made their last stand. His coat was a sober blue, untrimmed. In the morning light, he looked every inch the duke. Her heart tugged, and she sighed, regretting how things between them had been snuffed out.
What occupied him? Did he think of her? Of what they had shared? Perhaps he sought escape?
She ran her fingers through her hair, grimaced at the knots, and left it as it was. It was only Maximilian. He had seen worse. A tremor shook her hand—not from illness, just the aftershock of too much effort and too little certainty. She gripped the sill until her hand steadied. It took longer than she liked.
Still, it was just a hand, and a small tremor at that. She flexed her palm and looked back to the garden.
He had stopped. One foot on a cracked stone, the other angled to leave. His head tipped up. Had he sensed her? He often did.
She pressed her open palm to the glass. He did not move. He only stared toward the horizon, shoulders squared, profile sharply outlined against the ruin.
It comforted her more than she wanted to admit. He was a fixed point. If she allowed it, he was on her side despite it all.
She turned from the window and set herself to order. The codicil folded to fit the breast pocket of her gown. The bed was straightened with brisk, efficient movements that kept her from crawling back beneath the coverlet.
In the mirror, her face was pale but clear-eyed; the blue seemed too bright in the morning light. With her wild hair and yellow gown, she looked ready to frighten the day before it frightened her. The thought pleased her.
No breakfast awaited, for there were no staff. The house was so quiet she could hear a faint drip in the next room. She considered the kitchen and decided against meeting ghosts—hers or anyone else’s.
She sat at the edge of the bed, drew her knees up, and allowed herself a moment of stillness. The quiet comforted her, even edged as it was with the threat of being alone forever.
She let the ache come: Maximilian’s hand on her wrist, his fierce loyalty, her aunt’s voice in the diary. The letters. When it swelled, she rose and faced the window once more.
He was gone.
She closed her eyes against the sorrow flooding her.
Not gone. He was merely out of sight.
She would find him. He would return, or she would go down to the garden, and the next phase would begin—peace or a renewal of hostilities. She was ready for either.
She smoothed her gown, checked her pockets, and approached the door. Her hand hovered over the knob as she took a deep breath. She closed her fist, then opened the door.
Squaring her shoulders, she let the yellow silk catch the light and stepped into the corridor.
The dining room was colder and larger than her bedchamber—clean in the way neglect makes a room tidy. Lydia paused on the threshold. An absurd twelve-foot table held a single plate and mug at one end, a deliberate slight to its original purpose. Maximilian occupied the chair beside them, positioned a precise inch from the edge, hands folded in a way that was both civil and lethal.
Breakfast waited beside a basket they had brought from the inn. Two rough heels of bread, a quarter wheel of cheese beading in the chill, and a tin coffee pot that might have seen the Peninsula. No flowers. No silver. The hearth was cold. In all that gray, Lydia’s yellow gown stood out.
She sat without invitation. Maximilian poured coffee. She warmed her fingers on the mug, set it down, and broke the silence.
“Does the house frighten you?”
He glanced at her, then at the barren table between them. “I have fought in three wars, Miss Montague. Houses, like people, grow dangerous when neglected.”
“Then I shall keep this one in constant terror.”
