He looked at her over the rim of his glass. “Never. I am trying to guess what you will do next.”
“That is a fruitless endeavor,” Lydia replied, stabbing a potato. “Even I rarely know.”
“That is what makes you interesting,” he said.
She looked up, taken aback. “Is it?”
He nodded. “Most people are predictable. You are… not.”
Momentarily abashed, Lydia took another bite in silence. The shadows from the lantern flickered across Maximilian’s face, making it appear softer, almost vulnerable.
They spoke little during the main course, content to let the quiet fill the space between them. When the plates were cleared and the innkeeper brought out dessert—a slice of glossy chocolate torte accompanied by a single fork—Lydia could not suppress a laugh.
“They have only one fork for us?”
“Perhaps it is a test of character,” Maximilian replied.
“Or a prelude to battle,” Lydia countered.
She reached for the fork first, poised it over the torte, then hesitated. With exaggerated politeness, she offered it handle-first to Maximilian.
“After you, Your Grace.”
He accepted, carved off a small bite, andtransferred the fork with care, setting it parallel to her hand.
She took her generous portion, the torte yielding to her with ease. Lydia closed her eyes as the flavor spread rich, bittersweet, and enveloping. She let out a soft, involuntary sigh.
When she opened her eyes, Maximilian was staring at her, the fork paused halfway to his mouth.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said, his voice lower and rougher than before. “It is rare to see such genuine pleasure in anyone.”
She smiled, unsure if he meant to insult or compliment her. “I do not believe in doing anything by half-measure. If it is worth doing, it is worth savoring.”
He set down the fork, poured a cordial for each of them, and raised his glass.
“To savoring,” he said.
She clinked her glass to his.
For a moment, neither spoke. The lantern flickered, and the fire in the corner cast shadows. The air between them was warm and safe.
Lydia set her glass down and regarded Maximilian. “You do not seem like a man who indulges often.”
He shrugged slightly. “Duty rarely leaves room for indulgence.”
“What did you wish for before you became Duke of Hasting?” she asked, surprising herself.
He considered, fingers drumming on the tabletop. “I liked the stars. As a boy, I would sneak onto the roof and watch them until dawn. My father found it a waste of time. He preferred that I read treatises and ledgers.”
“And you?” she pressed.
“I preferred the stars,” he said. “But one must give up childish things.”
Lydia leaned in. “I do not think you ever gave them up. I think you simply learned to keep them hidden.”
He looked at her—not with the calculated appraisal of earlier, but with sincerity. “Perhaps you are right.”
