Marchweather beamed. “They are already finishing each other’s sentences. My work is done.” She wandered off to find more mischief.
Beatrice smiled, eyes bright, glass low. “I knew you would say yes,” she said, pulling Lydia into a tipsy embrace.
Frances joined them, her expression merry. “I confess, I had doubts. There are easier ways to secure an estate or a duke.”
“But none so entertaining,” Lydia replied.
Frances tipped her glass. “To Rosecroft House, and to chaos in its most charming form.”
“To chaos,” Beatrice echoed, lifting her flute. “And to the women who turn catastrophe into a love story.”
They touched glasses, forming a brief circle—three women stronger than their old injuries.
As the sun set behind the conservatory glass, Lydia stood with Maximilian at the garden’s edge. His arm slipped around her waist. Together, they watched guests drift away—some toward carriages, others toward the warmth of the drawing room.
“You realize,” he said, “we are doomed to a lifetime of Lady Marchweather’s interference.”
Lydia turned the flame-shaped ring, catching the last light. “No reason to fret. I am rather keen to see what else she has in store.”
He drew her closer, and for once, she let the world turn without her help.
A footman approached with a silver tray. “A telegram for Miss Montague.”
Lydia broke the seal and read.
Congratulations. You are the envy of every woman from London to Devonshire. Do not let him forget it. Yours, Honora.
She laughed, tucking it into her sleeve, then took Maximilian’s hand.
“You know,” she said, “I never wanted any of this.”
He looked puzzled.
“This house. This future. This...” she hesitated, “happiness.”
He pulled her close. “Neither did I. But I want it now.”
She rested her head on his shoulder and imagined the years ahead: the garden, the house, the family they might create, and the certainty that whatever came, she would not be alone.
This was her chaos. And at last, it was exactly what she wanted.
