She pointed to a detail, their fingers brushing, and a spark shot up her arm.
She looked at him.
He looked at her.
They were closer than she had realized. His breath stirred the loose hairs at her temple and his hand flexed, as if resisting the urge to close over hers.
Lydia was not one to hesitate. She leaned forward, bracing herself with one hand on the landing, and kissed him.
It was a kiss filled with hunger—a mix of want and relief, everything held back through days of discipline and hours of pretense. Maximilian responded instantly, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. She tangled her fingers in his shirt, feeling the heat beneath, surrendering to the pull of his mouth.
He tasted of salt, wine, and the day’s labor. She bit his lower lip. He captured her waist in both hands, rising to his full height as he pressed heragainst the balustrade. For a moment, Lydia feared she might lose herself from the intensity of it. But Maximilian steadied her, cradling the back of her head and kissing her with a possessiveness that weakened her knees.
He broke away first, gasping, his eyes wild with something she had never seen in him. Need, yes, but also disbelief, as if he had not expected her to give so freely. As if he had not expected to claim her.
“Lydia,” he whispered, and her name on his tongue was all the poetry she needed.
She tugged him by the shirt up the stairs, nearly tripping, but neither cared for dignity. They rushed through the half-finished upper corridor and into the master chamber—her bedchamber, newly painted, the bed heaped with pillows, the window still taped from last week’s repairs. Lydia kicked the door shut behind them.
They stood in the center of the room, breathing hard, eyes locked. Maximilian's shirt hung open at the throat, buttons torn in her haste, and his hands shook as he reached to unfasten her dress. She laughed, pressing his hands against her hips, guiding him. He swept her into his arms, lifted her to the edge of the bed, and paused, gazing at her.
She hooked her leg around his, pulling him down atop her.
There was no tenderness at first, only raw desire. Their mouths met again and again, tongues battling for dominance. He tore at her dress, exposing her shoulder and breast, then buried his face in the hollow of her neck, breathing her in. She clawed at his back, leaving marks on his skin, reveling in the way he growled her name into her collarbone.
Clothes became an afterthought. Maximilian cupped her breast, his thumb grazing the nipple until Lydia arched her back. Then he slid his hand lower, under the muslin, into the heat between her thighs.
She gasped, thrusting into his touch, refusing to let modesty dictate her pleasure.
His fingers moved with precision, swirling and stroking as she rocked against his touch. He slid low claiming her with his mouth, his tongue.
Lydia let herself go, allowing the sensation to build. When she came, the sound broke the stillness, rattling the windowpane.
He kissed her slower, gentler, tracing the line of her thigh with his lips.
“My turn,” she murmured, rolling him onto his back. She straddled him, hair falling around her face,breasts bare. He tried to speak—attempted to protest, but she silenced him with her mouth.
She explored every part of him, feeling his response, hearing the way his breath hitched and then steadied. When she slid down onto him, the joining was so perfect that tears pricked her eyes.
They moved together as equals, each daring the other to take, to give, to be seen and felt. When Maximilian finally climaxed, he buried his face in her shoulder to stifle the sound, and afterward, he held her so tightly that Lydia feared she might vanish if he let go.
They lay together, tangled in rumpled sheets, the dust of the day settling around them as their breaths returned to normal.
He stroked her back as they spoke softly about plans for the house and the uncertain road ahead. Lydia traced the pale lines of old scars across his shoulder.
“Will they accept me?” she asked. “The tenants? The village?”
His hand smoothed her hair. “You will make them better than they were,” he said simply. “You already are.”
She believed him.
He rolled toward her, wildness contained yet glowing. “You terrify me,” Maximilian admitted.
“Good,” she replied, grinning.
She closed her eyes to the steady beat of his heart and let sleep take her.
The next morning, Lydia woke to sunlight flooding the room and found an empty bed. Maximilian was already in the courtyard, his voice carrying as crews hoisted slate to the roof. He sounded every bit the duke, but the brittleness she remembered had softened. He laughed at a laborer’s joke, the sound lingering like a warm echo.
