Wrapped in her dressing gown, she stood at the window and watched, keeping her face indifferent while her body registered new aches and the lingering memory of his touch.
At nine, she began interviews. A gray-haired, steady-eyed housekeeper met Lydia’s questions with calm. A cook, a gardener, and a valet fidgeted nervously in a row. Lydia weighed every answer, taking notes, revealing no emotion as her household found its structure.
By noon, the housekeeper had established routines, debris was cleared from the garden, kitchens aired, and bedchambers stripped and turned. Lydia oversaw it all, delegating when wise,correcting when necessary. Standards were high. Praise rare. When the cook sent up eggs and crisped potatoes—hot, with actual napkins—she nearly wept, masking it with a comment about the table’s missing leg.
Maximilian returned for lunch, smelling of smoke and lime. He ate standing, tearing bread with the focus of a starved man. “Better to attack the food than the workers,” he said when she teased, and winked, surprising them both.
In the afternoon, he directed the west-wing repairs, pausing to consult her on difficult choices. Their discussions were brisk and increasingly respectful. He did not raise his voice and deliver orders. She did not accuse him of arrogance, even in disagreement.
At sunset, carriages rumbled away, and the house settled to the low sounds of night. The stillness felt familiar, soothing. The house seemed to exhale.
On the landing, Lydia caught Maximilian returning from the study, his back against the unfinished balustrade. Her hands slid into his hair, and restraint faded. They did not reach the bedchamber before the world narrowed to breath and whispered names.
She did not know where it would end. Did notpretend that he would marry her. But they had settled into a rhythm and she meant to relish every heartbeat of it.
The next night, in the library, she found him shelving books. He glanced up, ready for debate, but she silenced him with a kiss that left no room for argument. Papers skittered across the floor and quills rolled off the table. Candlelight turned the room into a chapel, and they treated it as one.
On the third night, in the drawing room, on the rug with a low fire crackling nearby, their laughter punctuated kisses as discovery became their language. He murmured in Latin and French, mixed with the rough English of his youth. She conjured playful endearments of her own. They learned each other quickly. What steadied, what unraveled, when to press and when to pause. Spent and smiling, they fell asleep on the bare floor bodies pressed close.
By the sixth day, the house had changed its scent—paint and varnish overlaying old damp. The halls resonated with purpose. The library stood newly ordered. The kitchen gleamed. Staff moved with pride. Lydia felt it too and embraced the feeling.
That evening, they dined by the fire, enjoying good wine from a cellar she had stocked and food that surpassed any in recent memory. She wore deepgreen with a velvet sash. He donned the cravat she had chosen, tied more carefully than she expected. They spoke of the estate—debts, progress, tenants’ hopes. Lydia sketched plans for the orchard, a glasshouse, even a village fête on the lawn. Maximilian nodded, amended, and challenged the impractical with a sly, encouraging smile.
Afterward, in the drawing room, with the fire banked low, he poured wine and sat beside her on the settee. He studied the flames, then turned to her.
“I never expected,” he said quietly, “to be challenged as you challenge me.”
She laughed. “You say it like a curse.”
“It is,” he replied. “And I cannot do without it.”
She searched for irony, for armor, but found none. Setting her glass aside, she traced his jaw with her fingertips. “I never expected to want someone in my life as I want you.”
His eyes burned. “You have me,” he said.
She leaned her forehead against his, surrendering to the warmth of his embrace as the fire dwindled to embers and the house settled into silence.
Later, Lydia lay awake, listening to his breathing. She replayed the week. The relentless work, the pride in his eyes when a plan succeeded, and the tender way he folded her dressing gown when hethought she wasn’t watching. A dangerous thought crept in...dare she yearn for more? Wish for permanency rather than accept an affair?
Half asleep, Maximilian turned toward her, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close. She floated in the unfamiliar comfort of belonging, buoyed by the fragile hope that it might endure.
The house around them, quieter, stronger, seemed to share in her sentiment.
On the seventh morning, a hard wind off the Channel swept the air clean. In the great hall, Lydia sipped her tea, reviewing invoices when the butler, perspiring despite the chill, hurried in with an urgent whisper.
“Carriages at the gate, miss. Two. Southgate livery, and the magistrate from Ilminster.”
Lydia set her cup down with a deliberate clink. “Thank you, Royston. Inform His Grace, then summon Mrs. Hunt and the staff. All of them. This should be seen.”
She rose, smoothing her morning dress.
At the foot of the stairs, she encountered Maximilian, already dressed, his expression neutral except for the tight line of his jaw. He glanced toward the drive, where the horses stamped and tossed.
“You look like a woman about to conduct a minor coup,” he remarked.
“I aim for nothing less,” she replied, and together they moved toward the doors.
The staff assembled behind them in tidy ranks. Mrs. Hunt’s doing. The gardener, still dirt-stained, clutched his hat to his chest. Lydia stood on the threshold as the visitors approached.
