Chapter Eight
Nicholas stood at the far end of the stables, hands braced on the edge of the open doorway, watching rain streak down in silver sheets across the gravel drive.
The scent of wet hay and horses clung to the air. A few grooms murmured nearby, brushing down the bays. He could hear the rhythmic scrape of hoof picks and the dull clatter of a bucket tipping somewhere behind him.
Still, it was quieter here than inside the house.
Safer.
He hadn’t seen Lydia since dinner two nights ago, and that had suited him just fine. She’d said little. Handled the Baroness’s cruelty with grace. Handled him with the same infuriating calm.
She didn’t chase him. Didn’t linger outside his study or send word through Charlotte. She made no demands, and that, he thought grimly, was perhaps the most disarming thing of all.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
Nicholas turned his head slowly.
Sebastian leaned against a wooden beam with the lazy confidence of a man who hadn’t truly worked a day in his life. His dark hair was slightly damp, his coat carelessly slung over one shoulder. As usual, his cravat was tied in a way that would have scandalized every matron in Mayfair.
“They aren’t worth that much,” Nicholas replied.
“Ahh, come on,” Sebastian pressed.
Nicholas returned his gaze to the rain. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Debauching a baron’s niece? Teaching bad habits to a stable hand?”
“I came to see if you’d finally decided to act married,” Sebastian said cheerfully. “It’s been what? Four days? And you’re already hiding from your duchess in the hayloft?”
“I’m not hiding,” Nicholas said evenly. “I’m keeping the peace.”
“You’re avoiding her like she’s contagious.”
“I prefer to give people space.”
“Since when?”
Nicholas said nothing.
Sebastian pushed off the post and stepped closer. “You do realize, Nicky, that most men in your situation would be trying to at least enjoy their new wife.”
Nicholas gave him a dry look. “Women like my wife want power. Control. They don’t know what to do with men like me.”
Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “Men like you?”
“Broken men. Angry men. Men who ruin everything they touch.”
There was a long pause.
Sebastian exhaled. “Christ, that’s dramatic. You sound like the third act of a gothic novel.”
Nicholas gave a humourless smile. “She’s not ready for me.”
“And you’re not ready for her,” Sebastian said, watching him closely. “Which is unfortunate, really. Because she’s already in your house. Your name. Your bed—”
“She’s not in my bed.”
“Whose fault is that?”
Nicholas didn’t answer. He stared out at the rain like it might offer a solution.
“She’s clever,” Sebastian added after a beat. “And she’s wearing that title better than anyone expected. I heard Lady Shepley’s still reeling. Apparently, Lydia served her insult back to her on a silver tray with jam.”
Nicholas smirked faintly.
Sebastian watched him. “You could make this easier, you know. You could treat her like a wife. You could be… human.”
Nicholas shook his head. “This was never about affection. It was a deal. She gets her title. I get her dowry. That’s all.”
“And yet,” Sebastian murmured, “you’re standing in the stables during a storm, so you don’t have to be in the same house with her. That sounds like something, Nicholas. It just doesn’t sound like nothing.”
Nicholas didn’t reply.
The rain continued to fall in clean, silver sheets. And Nicholas continued to stand just beyond its reach.
***
The library was one of the few places in Hawthorne House where Nicholas felt remotely human.
Not comfortable. Not at peace. Just… functional.
He pushed the door open without thought, already tugging off his gloves, expecting quiet. Expecting solitude.
Instead, he found her.
She stood near the far windows, framed in the amber light of the late afternoon. Her hands were behind her back. Her posture was straight, regal, but not still. The kind of stillness that held a storm.
He stopped.
“Waiting to ambush me, Duchess?”
Lydia turned. Her expression was calm. Too calm.
“I thought you might eventually come here. You seem to prefer silence to conversation.”
He stepped further into the room, letting the door fall shut behind him.
“I didn’t realize we needed conversation,” he said, voice flat. “I thought we had an arrangement.”
“That’s not what this is,” Lydia said quietly.
His brow lifted. “Isn’t it?”
“You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m giving you space.”
“No, Your Grace. You’re giving yourself permission to disappear.”
He crossed to the decanter and poured himself a brandy, slowly, deliberately, as if she weren’t worth more than a pour.
“You seem to be doing just fine without me. You’ve been welcomed, haven’t you?”
She didn’t answer. Not immediately.
He glanced over. She was watching him like a chess master studying a piece mid-fall.
“Is this how our marriage is going to be?” she asked finally. Her voice was quiet, but not soft. “Cold and silent?”
He took a long sip before answering.
“It’s how marriages work in our world, Lydia. You married for the title. I married for money. It’s not romance… It’s arithmetic.”
She stepped closer. “Alright,” she said. “If this is all transactional, then let’s talk business.”
He blinked. “Pardon?”
“I want to restart my father’s textile venture. The suppliers are still there. The contacts. The designs. What’s missing is a proper warehouse, and a noble name to stamp on the ledgers.”
He set his glass down harder than intended. “You want to use the Hawthorne name to rebrand your merchant business?”
“I want to use the Hawthorne warehouse,” she replied, evenly. “The one sitting idle on River Street with birds nesting in the rafters. I’ve already drawn up the plan. The goods can be in production within weeks.”
“Lydia—”
“I don’t need your blessing,” she cut in. “I need your name on a single page to open a trade account. That’s it. I didn’t marry you to play duchess in the drawing room. I married you to survive—and I will.”
Her eyes sparked, cool and steady.
She wasn’t angry. She was unyielding and beautiful, too.
He hadn’t really allowed himself to look before. Not properly. Not past the fact of her usefulness. But standing there, her chin lifted, gown modest but tailored with exacting skill, she looked infuriatingly composed. And altogether too tempting.
“You think it’s that simple?” he said. “To slap a ducal crest on a packing crate and call it legitimacy?”
“It is that simple,” she replied. “Because your name might open doors, but my goods will keep them open.”
He gave a short, humourless laugh. “You really have no intention of being ornamental, do you?”
“Would you like me to be?” she asked, tilting her head. “I can sit quietly in the corner with my embroidery and wait to be admired like a fine chair.”
He stepped closer. Too close, really.
“No,” he said, gaze dropping briefly to her mouth. “That would be worse.”
She held her ground. “Then let me build something.”
“What exactly are you asking?”
She turned toward the chair near the hearth, lifting a leather folio from where it waited.
“I’m asking for access to what’s already ours,” she said, placing the folder on the desk. “And the freedom to make it matter.”
He opened it to find ledgers, sketches, names, and numbers. All meticulously organized.
“You came prepared,” he said.
“Always.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
“I wasn’t raised to be easy, Your Grace.”
His gaze sharpened. “I’m beginning to see that.”
She was watching him now, too. No smile, but something dangerous played behind her eyes.
They stood like that for a long second, tension humming in the air. Somewhere, a clock chimed the hour.
He finally spoke. “I’ll review the documents.”
“You’ll find them in order.”
“Somehow,” he muttered, “I don’t doubt that.”
She began to gather the papers again, silent, efficient, but when she reached for the folder, his hand brushed against hers.
She stilled.
His fingers lingered a moment too long.
“I meant what I said, Lydia,” he said softly. “The Hawthorne name carries weight. More than you know. If you drag it through trade, there will be talk.”
She looked up at him, her voice quiet. “There already is.”
Their eyes locked.
Too close. Too aware.
She was the first one to pull away before she swept out of the library without another word.
Nicholas stood there, alone, the ghost of her warmth still in the room.
He looked down at the folio.
The woman was dangerous, and in that moment, he wasn’t entirely sure who had the upper hand.