She offered the fork again, and he accepted, letting their fingers linger in the exchange.
“I used to climb trees,” she said. “I would tear every dress, come home with scraped knees, and hands full of whatever birds' nests I could rescue from the crows. My mother despaired, but there was no stopping me.”
“I find it hard to imagine you cowed by anything,” he said, a smile forming.
“I find it hard to imagine you ever sneaking anywhere,” she replied.
He allowed himself a quiet laugh. “We all contain contradictions, Miss Montague.”
The torte vanished quickly, and as Lydia licked the last trace of chocolate from her thumb, she realized she felt lighter than she had in weeks.
The innkeeper returned. “The countess is abed,” she reported, “sleeping soundly.”
"Thank you, ma'am," Lydia said, then stood. "I suppose we should retire as well."
Maximilian rose, pulled Lydia’s chair back, and led her toward the corridor where their rooms awaited.
At the foot of the stairs, he paused.
“I have been considering your proposal,” he said.
Lydia tilted her head. “Which one?”
“The diversion,” Maximilian clarified. “Through Little Whitchurch, for the scenery.”
She smiled. “Truly?”
He nodded. “Perhaps it would do us good to remember that some things are worth seeing, even if they cost us a day.”
Lydia’s heart leaped. “Then it is settled.”
He offered his arm, and she took it, surprised by how natural it felt. Together, they ascended the stairs in silence, the only sounds being the rain and the fading laughter from the hunting party below.
At her door, Lydia paused. “Good night, Your Grace.”
He bowed once. “Good night, Miss Montague.”
The door closed softly behind her, but the warmth of his presence lingered, along with the promise of the detour to come.
