Chapter Ten
The rain tapped steadily at the tall windows, soft but insistent, like a thought he couldn’t shake. Nicholas stood near the hearth, staring into the dying fire, his hands clasped behind his back. The study smelled of leather, old books, and smoke. It was comforting and familiar. Safe.
The morning’s scandal sheet still lay on the side table, folded neatly, as if the mockery were somehow more palatable in tidy columns. But the words had already etched themselves into his brain.
The Duke of Hawthorne’s new duchess was spotted last night in silver satin, looking every inch the queen of commerce.
Rumours are circling that the merchant’s blood running through her veins won’t be diluted by her new status as a duchess.
One wonders whether she’ll install a till beside the pianoforte.
The line had drawn laughter at the club, but he hadn’t laughed. It was no surprise to him that the rumours were already circling.
Just then, he heard the door open behind him. No knock.
He didn’t turn.
“Aunt Beatrice,” he said flatly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“How did you know it was me?”
“Charlotte knocks. Bash would have made a louder entrance. And no servant enters this room without permission.”
There was a pause, and then the rustle of skirts and the click of her heeled boots on the marble floor.
“Good. At least your instincts haven’t failed completely.”
He turned to face her.
His aunt stood with her gloved hands clasped over her reticule like a general over his sword. Her dark green gown was stiff with embroidery.
“I assume this isn’t a social call,” Nicholas said.
She raised one finely arched brow. “Have we ever had one of those?”
Fair point, he thought to himself.
He moved to the decanter, poured himself a glass of brandy.
“A drink?” he offered.
“You’ve seen the papers,” she said, moving to the window and ignoring his question. “Everyone has.”
“I have.”
She glanced at him. “You know what they’re saying.”
“That I’ve disgraced the family name. Sold a title for coin. Invited a merchant girl into our hallowed halls.”
She turned sharply. “Don’t mock me, Nicholas.”
“I wasn’t mocking you. I was mocking them.” He took a sip, then set the glass down harder than intended.
His aunt didn’t flinch. “You married beneath you.”
“I married intelligently.”
“You married desperately.”
Her voice wasn’t cruel. Just cutting, the way only someone who loved him could manage. She moved closer to the hearth, warming her hands like the room was cold.
“You think I don’t understand?” she said. “You needed funds. She had them. A simple transaction. But it’s not just your reputation at risk anymore. It’s the estate. Charlotte. The Montclair name.”
He stiffened. “I’m well aware.”
“She’s clever, I’ll give her that,” Beatrice went on. “She knows how to dress, how to carry herself. But she doesn’t belong, Nicholas. Not here. Not among us.”
“She belongs here,” he said, voice low. “And I told you that I love her.”
Beatrice turned, eyes narrowing. “You really think I am foolish enough to believe that?” she said. “Perhaps I did at first, but I’ve seen you two together. I’ve seen how you hold her at arm’s length. That is not love.”
He stared at her, jaw clenched. His aunt’s words hung in the air like smoke.
She tilted her head. “You really think this will last? That the ton will accept her? Mark my words, Nicholas, it won’t be long before she’s shut out of every drawing room and left off every guest list.”
“She doesn’t care about drawing rooms,” he said tightly. “She doesn’t need their approval. She’s unshaken by them.”
Beatrice looked unconvinced. “She’s ambitious. That’s clear. She bought her way into a title—”
Nicholas cut her off sharply.
“No. She earned everything she has. She built herself from nothing. She knows more about real work than any woman at Harrow’s ball.”
His voice rose slightly, the edge unmistakable now.
“She’s not a trophy, Beatrice. She’s not a mistake. She’s—”
He stopped. He hadn’t meant to say all that. Not like that.
Beatrice folded her arms. “She’s what?”
Nicholas looked away, toward the fire.
“She’s my wife,” he said finally.
“For now,” Beatrice said. “But I must warn you, Nicholas. If you wait too long, we will lose the opportunity for an annulment.”
“The marriage stands.”
There it was.
Clear and final.
Beatrice studied him in silence. Her disappointment wasn’t loud, it never was, but he could feel it radiating from her like heat off the hearth.
“I see,” she said at last, quietly. “Then there’s nothing more to discuss.”
She turned and crossed to the door, her footsteps clipped, controlled. Just before exiting, she paused.
“I hope, for your sake, she’s worth what you’ve sacrificed.”
Then she left, the door closing behind her with a soft, decisive click.
Nicholas stood there, heart pounding harder than he liked. He glanced at the fire. It had gone low again. Almost out.
***
As the clock on the mantel ticked the minutes by, he paced the length of the study, hands clenched behind his back, jaw tight.
The scent of scorched ash lingered from the hearth, but the fire had long since died.
Just like every excuse he could muster for this marriage to remain as cold and calculated as he’d promised himself it would be.
His aunt’s words clung to him like smoke.
You think she belongs here? You think this will last?
He shoved the door open and stepped out into the corridor, then down the main stairs and toward the garden. He needed air and space. He needed…He didn’t even know.
The rain had stopped. The clouds had begun to part in uneven streaks of light and grey, and the gardens shimmered, silver with lingering mist and the soft drip of water from leaf to stone. The gravel path was damp beneath his boots, muffling the sound of each purposeful step.
The moment he turned the corner of the path toward the east lawn, he saw her.
Lydia.
She was seated alone inside the old garden pavilion.
Glass panes fogged at the edges. Ivy creeping up its curved supports. The structure looked delicate at a distance, like something from a dream or a distant memory, but it had stood for generations.
She sat motionless on the bench, her back straight, her gloved hands folded neatly in her lap. Her gown was deep plum today, simple, not flashy, but it flattered her colouring. Her dark curls were pinned up, but a few had escaped in the damp air and clung to the side of her neck.
He should have left her alone. But instead, he found himself walking toward her anyway.
She heard his footsteps and turned, slowly, meeting his gaze through the glass door.
She didn’t stand or speak, and there was something about the way she looked at him, so calm and unflinching, that struck just a little too deep.
He stepped inside the pavilion.
It was warmer here, the sun filtering through the glass in golden streaks. The air smelled faintly of damp stone, lilac, and her.
She arched a brow. “Taking a walk? Or fleeing the house?”
He ignored the question.
“She’s watching,” he said simply, his voice low.
Lydia’s expression didn’t change, but her gaze flicked toward the house. She couldn’t see the upstairs windows from this angle, but she understood instantly.
“Your aunt?”
He nodded.
“She doesn’t approve of me,” Lydia said, softly but not bitterly.
“She doesn’t approve of anyone,” he replied.
A silence fell between them, taut and heavy with unsaid things.
Nicholas looked at her. He really looked at her. The faint colour in her cheeks, the curve of her mouth, and the stubborn tilt of her chin.
It wasn’t supposed to matter. None of this was supposed to matter.
He took a slow step closer.
“We need to play our part,” he said, quiet but firm.
Her lips parted. Just slightly.
“Now?”
He nodded once. “Now.”
Then he reached for her.
And kissed her.
At first, it was measured. Controlled. The kind of kiss designed to be seen through lace curtains. A display for his aunt’s benefit. A social statement. A well-placed lie.
But then…she moved.
Her hands came up to rest against his chest. Not pushing him away. Just there. Her fingers curled into the lapels of his coat like she needed something to hold onto.
He felt it, the shift, and his arm tightened around her waist. Her body fit against his.
She tilted her head, and her lips opened beneath his.
The kiss deepened, and his control slipped.
The part of him that had tried to keep this cold, this distant, this transactional, broke.
His tongue brushed hers, and she shivered in his arms.
He drank in the sound she made.
God, she was soft and maddeningly warm beneath his hands.
He pressed her back against the cool iron frame of the pavilion, so that they were out of sight of the house. Her gloved fingers tightened. He felt them twist in his coat. He could feel the slight hitch in her breath when his lips slid to the corner of her mouth, then back again.
This was no longer for show. No one could see them now. But he didn’t stop, and she didn’t either.
The air between them had shifted, thick with something neither of them could name. Desire, yes, but more than that. Something hotter, heavier, unspoken.
He pulled back, barely.
Her lips were flushed, her eyes wide, and her breathing shallow.
His chest rose and fell with effort.
Neither of them spoke.
The only sound was the echo of their breathing and the hush of wind brushing through wet leaves.
For a heartbeat, he wanted to say something. Anything. But he couldn’t find the words.
So instead, he stepped back.
One inch. Then two.
He looked at her once more, memorizing the way she looked just now. The colour in her cheeks. The damp shine on her lips.
Then he turned and walked out of the pavilion.
His boots crunched against the gravel. The sun had come out in full now, casting long shadows across the garden path.
He didn’t look back, but he could still taste her. And for the first time since this entire arrangement began, he wasn’t sure what was real anymore.