She pulled the curtain aside and watched the musicians fade into the distance, their music a faint echo. “Why do you even care?”
He spoke quietly, so that only she could hear, “Because your aunt was a woman of strong principles. She would have wanted someone to look after you, even if you do not wish it.”
Lydia turned, taken aback by his sincerity. He looked not at her but at his gloved hands, the leather creaking as his fingers tightened.
She let the silence linger, then said, “You are not very good at this.”
He looked up, startled. “At what?”
She gestured between them. “Companionship. Friendship. Whatever this is meant to be.”
He said nothing, but the tips of his ears flushed faintly.
She softened a fraction. “Next time, you could simply ask me not to flirt with the locals. You might be surprised at how well I obey polite requests.”
He regarded her as if she were a new species of beetle—interesting but potentially dangerous. “You do not strike me as the obedient sort.”
She leaned forward just enough that their knees brushed. “Obedient, no. But reasonable, sometimes. Especially if reason is presented attractively.”
He allowed himself a dry chuckle, the closest she had seen to a laugh. “Duly noted.”
The carriage rolled on as evening lengthened, shadows creeping along the interior. Lydia found herself stealing glances at his profile, the stubborn angle of his jaw, the way he rested his hand on his thigh. She wondered if he watched her too in the fading light.
As darkness fell, the landscape grew indistinct, hedgerows blending into one another, the only certainty being the warmth of the space and the heartbeat of possibility within it.
They arrived at the inn long after dusk. The footman, blinking sleep from his eyes, swung open the carriage door and stepped back as Lydia exited, her crimson skirts flashing in the lantern light. Maximilian disembarked more calmly, making his way to the low-beamed entrance as the first drops of rain began to tap the roof. The dowager allowed herself to be helped down, declared the weather “excellent for the joints,” and requested a tray in her chamber at once.
Inside, the inn’s warmth enveloped them, thick with the scents of roasting meat, yeasty ale, and a floral note that seemed out of place in the English countryside. The innkeeper, a red-faced womanwith a commanding presence, greeted them with a curtsy and a hasty apology.
“I am afraid the common room has been taken over by Viscount Standish’s hunting party, Your Grace. Quite the lively lot tonight. We have set aside a private parlor for you just through here.”
Lydia cast a longing glance at the noise spilling from the main hall, but Maximilian’s steady hand at her elbow guided her toward the promised sanctuary.
The parlor was cozy and well-appointed—a small table that left their knees one careless breath apart, two straight-backed chairs, and a single lantern in the center casting a warm glow. A silver bell sat beside the breadbasket, and Lydia eyed it warily.
“You may sit anywhere,” Maximilian offered, gesturing with a formality that felt exaggerated.
She chose the chair facing the window, just visible beyond the curtains, and watched as the rain shifted from sporadic taps to a steady murmur. When Maximilian took his seat, the table was wide enough to make reaching across a deliberate act—a calculation Lydia was sure he had considered.
“Does the parlor suit Your Grace’s requirements?” Lydia inquired, her voice edged with mockery.
“It is perfectly sufficient,” Maximilian replied. “Though I admit I am surprised you do not miss the company of Standish’s merry group.”
She tore a piece of bread and buttered it. “Why would I, when I have your dazzling conversation to sustain me?”
He inclined his head. “You mistake sparring for conversation, Miss Montague.”
“I am an excellent conversationalist,” she replied, “if given the right stimulus.”
He poured the wine, filling her glass first—a courtesy or perhaps a warning that he would monitor every drop she consumed.
“Your move,” she said, raising her glass.
He smiled, a rare display of teeth, and saluted her.
The first course arrived: partridge, roasted and glazed, with tiny new potatoes and a tangle of greens. Lydia attacked it with relish, making little effort to hide her appetite. Maximilian ate more slowly, as if each chew required careful deliberation.
“You are judging me,” she remarked, her mouth full.
