Chapter Twelve #2
Lydia smiled. “Excuse me. Could you see that fresh linen is brought to my chambers? The blue set, if it’s available.”
The girl hesitated and then, too quickly, too carelessly, sighed.
It was the sort of sigh that carried centuries of disdain in a single breath. She didn’t meet Lydia’s eyes.
“Of course,” she muttered. “Your Grace.” Her tone made the title sound like a joke.
Lydia’s lips pressed into a line. She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, another voice cut through the corridor like a blade.
“You!” Nicholas barked as he stepped around the corner like a storm in black wool and starch, his boots echoing against the floor, his expression dark as slate.
The maid froze.
He looked at her, his voice low, but lethal. “You will not speak to the Duchess of Hawthorne that way.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“You did,” he said coldly. “And I don’t care for it.”
He took a single step forward.
“Let me be perfectly clear,” he said, his voice ringing now, low and unmistakable. “My wife is not a guest in this house. She is not a passing visitor. She is not to be whispered about in corners or treated like an inconvenience. She is the Duchess of Hawthorne.”
The maid’s face paled.
Nicholas’s voice dropped even lower.
“And you will treat her as such.”
The girl bobbed a clumsy curtsy and fled down the hall, her cheeks burning.
Silence fell.
Lydia hadn’t moved. Instead, she stood motionless, her hand still at her side, watching him.
Nicholas turned to her.
His jaw was tight and his shoulders straight.
A beat passed between them, and then he turned and walked down the hall toward the great gallery.
Later that same morning, the house had shifted. Word travelled quickly at Hawthorne House, even without voices. The silence felt heavier, more expectant. Servants moved quickly, carefully. Doors were opened for her. Tea was brought without delay.
Lydia had no idea what was happening until she stepped out onto the landing and saw them.
The entire household staff.
Footmen, maids, kitchen servants, the butler, the steward, and all the grounds staff. Every last one of them gathered in the front gallery. Sunlight slanted through the arched windows, catching motes of dust that swirled like mist.
They stood in rows, backs straight, faces wary.
And there, standing at the foot of the staircase, was Nicholas.
Lydia stopped midway down the stairs.
The murmur of voices hushed instantly when he raised a hand.
His tone was calm, but there was iron underneath it.
“Some of you,” he said, “seem to be under the impression that the Duchess does not deserve your respect. That her presence here is temporary. That her title is ornamental.”
His eyes scanned the room. Several staff looked away.
“Let me correct you,” he continued. “The Duchess is my wife. She is your mistress. This is her home.”
His voice sharpened.
“And if I see, or hear of, any further disrespect toward her—from anyone—you will not have the privilege of remaining in this household.”
A beat of pure silence.
“That will be all.”
He turned without another word and disappeared down the hallway.
The staff scattered like startled birds, retreating in hushed clusters, eyes lowered. The butler, Mr. Cobbs, gave Lydia a formal bow as he passed. Several maids dipped curtsies.
She stood frozen, hand on the stair rail, breath shallow.
It had happened.
Nicholas had claimed her.
Not in whispers or in the shadows. But in front of the people who ran this house, who had quietly defied her for days.
She didn’t know what stunned her more. The declaration, or the strange warmth it lit in her chest.
It wasn’t love or tenderness, but it was something. And something was more than she’d expected.
***
That afternoon, the door to the study stood slightly ajar.
A low rustle of papers drifted through the crack, followed by the familiar sound of Nicholas’s pen scratching over parchment. Lydia hesitated, her fingers hovering just above the handle, before she pushed gently and stepped inside.
He was at his desk, back straight, sleeves rolled to the elbow in quiet defiance of decorum. His dark hair was mussed, as though he’d run his fingers through it more than once today. A small stack of letters sat beside a half-drunk glass of port.
He didn’t look up right away, but he didn’t send her away either.
Lydia waited a beat. Then closed the door softly behind her.
“I wanted to thank you,” she said, her voice low.
That made him glance up.
“For what?” he asked, setting his pen aside.
“For earlier. With the staff. The corridor. The speech.” Her voice faltered, just slightly. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He looked back down at the papers in front of him. “Yes, I did.”
Something about the way he said it made her chest tighten.
She stepped closer, cautiously. “I mean it.”
He nodded, still not quite meeting her eyes. “Well. You’re my wife. The house will act accordingly.”
“And you?”
That made him pause.
He finally looked up, his eyes unreadable. “I’ve been looking into your textile contacts.”
Lydia blinked, surprised by the sudden change of subject. “You have?”
“I spoke with Mr. Henley,” he continued. “He’s still managing what’s left of the Southwark warehouse. It needs repairs, but it’s standing. And I tracked down Godfrey Loomworks—your father’s old supplier. Half their machines are sitting idle.”
She moved closer, heart picking up speed. “You mean it’s possible?”
“If we act quickly,” he said. “We can have something operational by next week.”
Lydia stood in stunned silence.
He pulled out a folder, hers, the one she’d left behind. It was dog-eared now and clearly read.
“Your numbers are… surprisingly thorough,” he said.
“I learned from the best,” she said quietly. “My father didn’t believe in chance.”
He nodded once. “Good. Because business rarely offers any.”
Then, after a pause, he added, “I do have questions. About materials. Distribution. Who you’d want to hire, and how visible you plan to be in the operation.”
Lydia smiled before she could stop herself. “I’ll write up a plan.”
He met her gaze, really met it, and for a second, the air between them felt oddly suspended.
Pride swelled inside her. And something else. Gratitude, perhaps, or even admiration.
Then, without thinking, she moved around the desk and wrapped her arms around him.
He stiffened, but only for a moment.
Then one of his hands found the small of her back.
The embrace was warm, real, and far too close. She felt the press of his chest, the breadth of his shoulders, the slow burn of his breath near her temple.
She pulled back, just slightly, but didn’t let go.
His face was inches from hers.
“I’m sorry,” she said, breath catching. “That was…”
His voice was lower now, rougher. “Don’t do things like that.”
Her brows lifted. “Like what?”
He didn’t blink. “Touch me like you want something… if you don’t.”
That silenced her. Because the truth was—she did.
Her hands, still on his coat, twitched slightly. She could feel her pulse everywhere. It was in her throat, her fingertips, between her thighs. The want wasn’t logical, but it was there, coiled hot and sudden. But logic had never been part of this marriage.
She pulled back gently, arms falling to her sides.
“I should go,” she murmured, voice tight.
He didn’t stop her. But he didn’t look away, either. And as she left the study, her heart pounding, she knew she had to get a grip on this desire. Because she couldn’t want what she couldn’t have, and she definitely couldn’t fall for the man she’d married to survive.