“Where is the culprit?” Bea craned her neck. “I wanted to see him weep.”
“Gone, and he will not return,” Maximilian said. “Unless he fancies pistols at dawn.”
The Duchess raised an eyebrow, then took Lydia’s hands. “You did well. The place already feels like home.”
Lydia’s composure faltered for a moment. “Thank you. I could not have done it without… considerable assistance.”
She glanced at Maximilian, who appeared both abashed and pleased.
Frances’s gaze flitted between them. Leaning in, she whispered, “Shall we expect little Maximilians by next winter.”
Color crept into Lydia’s cheeks, and she laughed. “If so, you may tutor them.”
Bea cackled, looping an arm through Lydia’s and pulling her along. “You must tell us everything. Over tea, over wine, or preferably both. But first, a tour before our husbands arrive.”
The trio swept out. Maximilian lingered, watching Lydia walk away—back straight, head high, flanked by women who had always stood by her. A swell of pride rose within him.
From the window, he spotted Edmund’s carriage dwindling down the lane, the Southgate crest fading into dust. Pouring a glass of wine, he settled at the great table and waited.
When Lydia returned, cheeks flushed with laughter and triumph, she crossed to him. He stood, took her hand, and drew her close.
“Is it over?” he asked.
She smiled, warm and a touch mischievous. “For now.”
“And after?”
She kissed his cheek and whispered, “We are expecting more arrivals.”
He held her in the heart of the house, and warmth spread in his chest—a feeling that this place could be home. That she could be home.
From the corridor, Lady Frances called, “Lydia, do not dawdle!”
Lydia's grin widened, her fingers tightening around his as excitement lit her eyes.
