No music. No powdered pageboys, no petals scattered. Only the hum of bees, the branches swaying in the breeze, and silk rustling as Lydia entered.
She did not pause. She walked with her chin held high, bouquet clutched like a talisman. The crimson dress did what it was meant to do, drown every other color, every expectation, every trace of the past in something bold and dangerous. Even the bees seemed to falter.
Maximilian’s breath caught—audible, embarrassingly so—before his composure snapped back into place.
Lydia allowed herself a flash of satisfaction, then focused on the vicar. She stopped beside Maximilian, close enough that her sleeve brushed his knuckles, and waited. The silence felt ceremonial, not awkward.
The vicar cleared his throat, his eyes twinkling over his spectacles. “We are gathered,” he began, “tounite two singular souls in what, I am told, is not to be called holy matrimony, but perhaps—if the parties agree—a mutual truce.” Lydia’s mischievous grin nearly made him lose his place.
Frances smiled. Hargate stared, unsure if he had imagined the entire affair.
The magistrate continued, inserting sly comments into the formalities. “If any person can show just cause why these two should not be joined…” he intoned, then paused. A tenant coughed, nerves evident in the sound.
At last, the vows. “Maximilian, do you take Lydia to have and to hold, to honor, and, to the best of your ability, to obey?”
Maximilian’s mouth twitched. “I do.”
“And do you promise never, under any circumstances, to cage her spirit or demand the impossible?”
“I do,” he said, louder.
The vicar turned to her. “Lydia, do you take Maximilian to have and to hold, to honor, and, if you choose, to obey?”
Her smile was bright. “I do.”
“And do you promise to stand beside him in all things, never behind, never with less than your whole self?”
“I do,” she said, and meant it.
The rings were mismatched. His was plain hammered gold with a thin line of red enamel. Hers was a band of rubies that hugged the flame-shaped ring he proposed with. Their fingers trembled for a moment as they exchanged them. For a brief second, Lydia thought she might weep.
The vicar shut the book. “By the powers vested in me, and the wishes of all present, I pronounce you married... and entirely on your own recognizance.”
Frances clapped first, the sound sharp and joyful. The others followed. Hollis smiled, the housekeeper dabbed her eyes, and the tenants nodded their approval.
Maximilian turned to Lydia, his eyes bright and open. He bent, his lips brushing her cheek. Improper, yes, but Lydia let it happen, even leaning into it. Solid and certain, it moved her unexpectedly.
The sun broke free of the clouds, flooding the garden. Crimson silk flared, gold gleamed at his sleeve, and for a moment, the world felt new.
The morning room lacked grandeur, its rectangular shape suggesting a space designed solely for breakfast and the softer light of ten o’clock. Yet, as the site of the wedding breakfast, it had taken on a quiet significance. Not a ballroom or a gallery, but asun-warmed and intimate space where the new order would be tested.
Frances and Johnathan claimed the largest table. She dismantled the pastry basket while he surveyed the feast like a general tallying rations. Lydia and Maximilian sat at the head, not by design but by natural inclination. The housekeeper hovered nearby, lips pressed thin to contain a smile, while Hollis presided over coffee and ham with a serious demeanor.
The food was simple yet abundant. Warm rolls, smoked fish, poached eggs, and jams in cut-glass bowls that scattered light across the linen. For a while, conversation reigned, broken only by the clink of silver and the steady rustle of linen.
Johnathan broke through the chatter. He raised his cup of sherry and cleared his throat. “I am, by reputation, a man of few words,” he began, prompting a snort from Frances, “but I have seen many marriages, and I can honestly say I have never seen one less likely, nor more right, than this.”
He turned to Lydia, who regarded him with amused wariness. “Miss Montague—or rather, Her Grace—has always been unique. And Your Grace,” he nodded to Maximilian, “has never met a battle hecould not outwait or outwit. A perfect match, for neither will ever truly surrender.”
Laughter rippled down the table, and Johnathan lifted his cup higher. “May they live long and never agree on anything for more than a fortnight, lest the world grow dull.”
Glasses rose, the toast ringing out.
Lydia felt the words settle around her like a warm embrace. She glanced at Maximilian, whose gaze over the rim of his glass threatened to steal her appetite. Beneath the table, she found his hand with hers. He caught it, warm and steady, and their fingers entwined.
The staff moved with newfound grace. The footman bowed with genuine respect, the maid lingered with bright eyes as she set down rolls, and even Hollis managed a smile when Maximilian thanked him by name.
At intervals, tenants appeared, hats in hand, offering small tokens: cider, eggs tied with ribbon, and a dense brown loaf. Lydia welcomed each with warmth and a genuine smile, while Maximilian matched her tone, firm but not cold. Soon, the room filled with the fragrance of flowers and the soft hum of conversation, infused with the comfort following a public victory.
