“Easy, Miss Montague,” he murmured, not loosening his hold. “This road is less forgiving than one may think.”
She twisted to see his face, chin tipped defiantly. “I prefer roads with character.”
His eyes dropped to her mouth for an instant—an unguarded flick—before he released her, every motion precise and deliberate.
Returning to her corner, she adjusted her skirts with exaggerated dignity. “If you find my company so hazardous, perhaps you should have had me tied to the bench like a bandbox,” she said.
“I would have, had I anticipated the level of chaos,” he replied, smoothing his coat as if it, too, had been offended by the contact.
They did not speak for a while. The silence felt different now. Charged, expectant.
It was Lydia who broke it, craning her neck to see what lay ahead. “Look! Up there by the oak tree. A party of musicians!”
Sure enough, a motley group had set up a makeshift camp beside the road consisting of two fiddlers, a woman with a tambourine, and a barrel-chested man attempting to coax a tune from what looked like half a piano strapped to a cart. The music was uneven but spirited. Lydia rapped on the carriage ceiling, signaling the driver to slow.
Maximilian scowled. “Is there a reason for this detour?”
“Of course,” Lydia replied. “We are in the country. It is expected that one mingles with the locals.”
She exited the carriage before he could protest, her skirt lifted to clear the step, her boots landing with a satisfying crunch on the dirt. Maximilian followed more slowly, his posture conveying skepticism.
Behind them, the dowager slept through the noise, her soft snores creating a steady rhythm.
The musicians were delighted by the sudden appearance of nobility. The fiddlers launched into a jig, the woman with the tambourine offered a wink and a curtsy, and the man at the battered piano greeted Lydia with a bow that nearly toppled him.
“Will you play for us, miss?” he asked, his voice bright.
“Only if you can keep up,” she replied. In a move that would have scandalized every matron in London, Lydia tucked her skirts under and perched atop the piano crate. Her fingers found a bold tune, and the others joined in. Laughter and melody filled the air.
Maximilian stood in the carriage’s shadow, arms folded, but his gaze never left Lydia. He watched her play—her whole body bent to the instrument, her eyes shining—and felt, against his will, a twist of admiration. She was both captivating and magnetic.
He noticed how the barrel-chested musician leaned closer, his hands hovering too near Lydia’s as they played a duet, his smile too eager. Maximilian’s jaw tightened.
When the song ended, the musician clasped Lydia’s hand. “You have a rare talent, miss.”
She laughed. “You should hear me when properly inspired.”
The man’s eyes widened with understanding, and a hint of something else.
Maximilian intervened, stepping forward. “Thank you for entertaining us. We must be on our way.”
Lydia shot him a look but allowed herself to be ushered back to the carriage. The moment the door closed, she turned on him.
“You are incorrigible,” she said, her voice low but furious. “Was I about to be abducted? Ravished in broad daylight?”
He met her glare with calm. “I was protecting your reputation.”
“Oh, hang my reputation,” she spat. “Do you think I care what a random fiddler says about me?”
“Not everyone you charm means well,” Maximilian replied. “Your family entrusted me with your safety, and I will not disappoint.”
“I have no need of a keeper.”
He leaned in, his expression serious. “I do not wish to be your keeper. But I am bound, Miss Montague, to deliver you to Devonshire in the same condition in which I found you.”
She shook her head. “You have no idea what condition you found me in.”
His jaw ticked, but he refrained from speaking.
