“You have changed this house, this village,” he squared his shoulders, “and me. I cannot promise peace or a life free of disaster, but I can promise my constancy in the midst of it.”
A discreet sniff sounded from Beatrice as everyone moved closer. He ignored it.
“I would ask,” he said, releasing her hand to reach into his coat pocket, “whether you would consider sharing the rest of your chaos with me.”
He opened a small black velvet box. Inside lay a ring—not a simple band, nor a large gem, but gold twisted into a flame, the metal interlacing. Sun caught it, and the crown glimmered.
“I had it made,” he said softly, “to remind us that order is nothing without a spark.”
For once, Lydia had no words.
He lowered to one knee. “Miss Lydia Montague, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Silence settled over the lawn.
Her heart hammered. Wit deserted her. She laughed, incredulous, and plucked the ring from its box, then slid it onto her finger.
“Absolutely not my chaos,” she said, steady now. “But I will be your partner in ruin for as long as you can survive it.”
He blinked, a smile spread across his face—too wide, too genuine—and he struggled to rein it in. He failed. Lydia cupped his face in her hands and kissed him, not with shyness but with determination.
The garden erupted in cheers. Frances whooped.Beatrice wept. The vicar coughed. The quartet stumbled over a bar and quickly recovered.
And...
Maximilian kissed her back, his hands firm at her waist, as if she were the center of his universe.
They parted, and Lydia lifted her hand, the flame reflecting against her skin. “He is doomed, of course,” she announced, “but I have always preferred a hopeless cause.”
Applause erupted once more. For the first time, Maximilian appeared unsettled.
They stood at the garden’s center as guests widened the circle around them.
She leaned in, her voice for him alone. “Was it truly so difficult?”
“Only when I realized I might lose you,” he replied, his eyes sparkling.
“You never could,” she said, her conviction strong.
The garden, the house, even her past seemed to align, bright and full of promise.
It took nearly an hour for the commotion to settle. The quartet struck up again, their bows racing with renewed energy. Champagne—summoned by some unseen signal—flowed freely. Frances seized two glasses, pressing one into Lydia’s hand, whileMathew whisked Beatrice into a waltz, finishing with a dramatic dip in the middle of the lawn, eliciting cheers from the ladies.
Lady Marchweather—dressed in questionable silk and a large turban—cut through the crowd with a smile.
“I told you so,” she declared, her voice loud enough to rattle the dowagers at the rose arbor.
Lydia raised her glass. “You told me many things, Lady Marchweather. Most of them false.”
The old woman laughed. “Never the important bits. From the first quarrel when you thought me asleep, I knew you would either kill each other or—” she waved her glass “—this.”
Maximilian chuckled and offered Lady Marchweather his arm. She accepted like a queen, positioning herself between them.
“Now,” she said, “promise you will not run off and leave us with weak tea and dull people for the rest of the season.”
“You have my word,” Lydia said. “I will not allow any event to be boring.”
“Nor the tea weak,” Maximilian added solemnly.
