He stood with his hands in his pockets, considering.
“I am told,” he said, “that the staff are taking bets on how long you will go without a disaster.”
“What is the record?”
“Fourteen days. Set in 1812 by your great-great-grandmother—reportedly a worse tyrant than Napoleon.”
Lydia allowed a small smile. “Then we must mark fifteen.”
“God help us,” he replied, his tone warming.
A footman arrived with a tray. Lydia took a glass and handed one to Maximilian.
Behind them, laughter swelled. Beatrice, no doubt, was at the center of something delightful. Lydia let the music and the scent of wet earth fill her senses.
Maximilian set his empty glass on the fountain's edge and turned to her, his expression unreadable. “I go to London tomorrow,” he said. “Only a week. Solicitors. And Beatrice insists the city wilts without me.”
“Is this farewell, then?” Lydia asked, aiming for a teasing tone, but her voice softened.
“Hardly.” A genuine smile broke across his face. “I would rather stay and endure your management, but obligations call.”
“You might ignore them.”
“I have never been good at ignoring things.”
She looked down at the rim of her glass, where light fractured through old flaws. “I will be here when you return.”
“Good.” He reached for her hand—not as lover tomistress, but as comrade to comrade. “Someone must keep me from mediocrity.”
“You need someone to keep you from slipping entirely,” she said, squeezing once, refusing to show her disappointment.
He released her hand, but the moment lingered.
Across the lawn, Frances and Beatrice had gathered a small group, all watching with the patience of cats stalking birds. Lydia ignored them and studied Maximilian—firm and at ease, as if he had mastered both.
The music paused. In the hush, he caught her eye and gave a small nod. Subtle, unmistakable.
The quiet deepened. Even the birds seemed to listen. For an instant, it felt as if the future of Rosecroft House hung on his next move.
Maximilian stepped forward, then paused, cautious, as if the slightest misstep might shatter the moment. The garden hush thickened; even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Lydia felt the world balance on the edge of this moment.
He stopped before her, close enough for her to catch the faint citrus in his hair and the clean salt of effort. His eyes, usually cool as river stones, sparkled with something new—exhilaration, joy; she was not entirely sure.
He reached for her hand. His fingers trembled. No one else would notice, but Lydia did. She let him take it, startled by her own racing pulse.
He drew a breath, glanced at the assembled guests, then back to her. His mouth formed the words before he spoke.
“I rehearsed this,” he said, pitched for her alone. “Every scenario. Every ridiculous scene your friends might contrive.”
She smiled despite herself, and relief flickered in his eyes.
“And yet,” he continued, “the words refuse to cooperate.”
“You are doing rather well so far,” Lydia said loudly enough for the nearest guests to hear.
He huffed a laugh and squeezed her hand. “I have spent my life arranging things until chaos gave way. You...” His voice thinned, then steadied. “You are the only chaos I ever wanted to keep.”
She might have made a joke to break the tension, but he did not let her.
