CHAPTER 15
The gardens at Rosecroft House had always leaned toward wildness—tamed for a season, then returning to chaos when attention wavered. Now, in early spring, they reflected Lydia’s influence: violets nestled under the yew, bulbs emerging along the gravel, hellebores lifting their pale faces in the shade. The air was brisk, yet the sun glinted on the panes of the new conservatory.
This gathering was no traditional party—no rigid rows of gentry, no endless whist tables—but a selection of Lydia and Maximilian's closest friends and family members summoned by the dowager countess.
Lydia wore crimson—her signature. The gown hugged her ribs, then flared as if the idea of runninghad been considered and dismissed. Her hair flowed loose in the wind, and she moved among her guests with the composure of a woman who had claimed her place by force of will.
Beatrice lingered at the lawn’s edge with a sherry, her expression fluctuating between boredom and delight. She wore her husband Matthew, Lord Lorne, pleased to catch their reflection in every window. Beside her, Lady Frances Seton, Duchess of Hargate, observed closely as her husband Johnathan, Duke of Hargate, congregated nearby.
A string quartet played on a small dais, notes drifting over the landscape. Servants moved through the crowd, balancing silver trays of champagne, pastries, and petits fours.
Lydia circulated through the crush, smiling over her triumph and the joy of having her dearest friends at hand. She accepted congratulations with restrained grace, dispatching prodding questions.
She kept Maximilian in view without lingering. Near the sundial, he spoke with minor gentry and the vicar, his posture relaxed, attention sharp. He had traded his regimentals for a dark coat and soft cravat, yet nothing changed the firmness of his expression. He had not smiled, but that did not mean he lacked cause.
“Do you suppose he is bored?” Frances murmured, stepping beside Lydia at the hydrangeas, watching him intently.
“He is incapable of boredom,” Lydia replied. “He converts it into contempt.”
Frances’s laugh was quiet. “He is not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?” Lydia took a glass from a passing tray, the bubbles settling.
“Something less… relentless.” She gave a sideways glance. “He worships you, you know.”
Lydia noted the quick tap of his fingers, the sweep of his gaze over the perimeter before returning to the vicar. “He worships order. I am simply the nearest.”
Beatrice arrived in a cloud of perfume. “Stop pretending you adore each other. It is tedious.”
“Some of us,” Lydia said, “are not given to performances.”
Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Says the lady in red, hosting a garden party at the end of March. You are practically waving a flag.”
“Red is practical,” Lydia replied. “If one bleeds, one may find the way home.”
Frances snorted, but Beatrice only grinned.
A newly arrived carriage drew their attention,and Lydia squinted against the sun, trying to determine who had arrived now.
William Atteberry, Duke of Powis, emerged.
"I daresay he is here for your duke, Lydia," Beatrice grinned, nodding toward Powis. "He and Hasting are part of a secret club, you know."
"Hush," Frances said. "It is no secret if people discuss it in the open."
"Do not fret," Lydia said, waving her fan. "I already know of the wayward duke's alliance. How could I not when you married one?" She shook her head, amused. "Truly, Frances."
Around them, the talk thickened. At the rose arbor, ladies discussed Edmund Southgate, debating whether his flight to the Continent was prudence or disgrace. By the reflecting pool, three landowners fenced politely over a canal. Lydia’s staff moved with efficiency in new uniforms, disciplined and with the certainty that their mistress brooked no nonsense.
Under her hand, the estate had begun to right itself. The terrace gleamed, and the old gravel was replaced with a cleaner grit. Beds once choked with couch grass now bristled with narcissus and hyacinth. Even the garden chairs had been painted—twice, when the first shade failed to please. Guestsfelt it. They stood not only at a house but in something that would endure.
The quartet slipped from Mozart to Haydn; the tempo brightened. Beatrice hummed along. Lydia allowed herself to be charmed until Maximilian’s gaze met hers across the lawn, unapologetic and direct. He raised a brow, the faintest invitation. Lydia looked away, as if distracted, though her pulse betrayed her.
She strolled to the pond, unhurried. The water lay still, disturbed only by a goldfish’s flick. Maximilian joined her, waiting until they were out of easy earshot.
“Do you like it?” he asked, tipping his chin toward the scene.
Lydia studied the guests, servants, and the rebuilt terrace. “It will do,” she said. “For a start.”
