Chapter Thirteen
Drizzle licked against the windows, soft and steady, trailing lazy rivulets down the glass. The fire burned low in the hearth, barely more than a flicker, but Nicholas hadn’t noticed the chill creeping into the room.
He was seated in his study chair, legs stretched out, cravat slightly loosened, a tumbler of brandy in one hand, untouched.
Across from him, Sebastian leaned back on the edge of the desk, reading aloud from a crumpled piece of parchment.
“Let’s review: the stables still owe last month’s hay costs, your solicitor says he needs three more weeks to finalize the Southwark warehouse paperwork, and Lady Winthrop—charming soul—is threatening to pull her investment from the tenant lease if she hears one more whisper of scandal.”
He glanced up.
Nicholas said nothing.
Sebastian’s eyes narrowed.
“And by your silence, I take it you’re finding all this news very exciting.”
Nicholas’s gaze drifted to the tall window behind the desk.
Outside, through a soft haze of mist and light, he could see Lydia was walking the garden path, her gloved fingers tucked around a leather notebook, the hem of her soft lavender skirts brushing the gravel with every step.
She paused occasionally. Pausing to sketch, or write, or simply look. Not at anything in particular. Just... everything.
She tilted her face to the sky briefly, letting the grey light catch in her dark curls.
She was utterly unaware of him, and for reasons he couldn’t name, that made it worse.
“Nicholas,” Sebastian said slowly, drawing out the syllables, “unless your sudden fascination with light precipitation has something to do with how to pay your debts, I’m going to require a little attention here.”
Nicholas exhaled through his nose. “You’re insufferable.”
“Yes, but consistent. Now. Are you even listening?”
“I’m listening,” he lied.
Sebastian followed his gaze to the window. A beat passed. Then—
“Ah,” he said knowingly. “The duchess.”
Nicholas scowled.
Sebastian grinned. “She’s looking rather radiant today. Must be the air of entrepreneurial superiority.”
Nicholas leaned back in his chair. “It’s not what you think.”
Sebastian’s brow rose, lazy and sceptical. “It’s precisely what I think.”
Nicholas picked up a fountain pen from the desk and turned it over between his fingers. “I kissed her.”
Sebastian blinked.
“Well. That was refreshingly direct.”
Nicholas didn’t look at him.
Sebastian tilted his head. “Did she slap you?”
“No.”
“Did you slap yourself?”
“I’m getting close.”
Sebastian chuckled under his breath. “And was this a passionate declaration of marital bliss, or a moment of strategic performance for Aunt Beatrice’s benefit?”
Nicholas’s mouth twitched. “Started as the latter.”
“And ended as the former?”
Nicholas didn’t answer.
Sebastian whistled low. “Well then.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Nicholas said flatly.
Sebastian leaned back, the parchment forgotten. “Of course you don’t.”
Nicholas turned away, his eyes drawn back to the window. Lydia had paused again, crouched now near one of the flowerbeds, brushing aside a tangle of damp ivy. Her gloved fingertips were careful, delicate, precise—like everything she did when she thought no one was watching.
He was watching, and it was starting to become a problem.
***
Later that same afternoon, Nicholas was seated at his desk, a document beneath his hands.
The ink hadn’t dried, and already he wanted a drink.
He laid the pen down carefully, fingers still curled with tension. The solicitor across the desk, a thin man with owl-like spectacles and the air of someone who’d made his peace with boredom, stamped the final page.
“That concludes it,” Mr. Feldon said crisply. “The Duchess’s dowry has been transferred. The estate’s immediate debts are settled. At least for now.”
Nicholas didn’t answer. At least not right away. Because something inside him twisted. The ledger was cleaner—but at what cost? He’d taken her money and used it. Just as she’d offered, just as they’d agreed.
It had saved him, and yet, somehow, it didn’t sit right. Not because it wasn’t proper, it was, but because it felt personal.
She had made it feel personal, and he felt both guilty for kissing her and also for fighting the urge, every second of every day, not to do it again.
Fifteen minutes later, the knock at his study door brought Mr. Henley—older, rounder, with a ruddy face and a cheerful demeanour that seemed entirely too bright for the state of Nicholas’s thoughts.
“Good news, Your Grace,” the man said after they exchanged pleasantries. “The Southwark warehouse is already half cleared. My crew says the beams are stable, and the looms—well, they’ll need a bit of oil and coaxing, but they’ll run.”
Nicholas folded his arms. “And the distributor?”
“Reliable. Preston & Ryle. They worked with Her Grace’s father in the later years—took a hit when he passed, but they’re keen to be back in the game. Word is her sketches are brilliant. She’s got that merchant fire, just like him.”
Nicholas said nothing for a beat.
The word brilliant settled in his chest.
She’d done this. She’d carved a path through his ruin with only ink, cloth, and ambition, and she hadn’t even bragged.
“We’ll need a formal launch plan,” Henley continued. “And a list of seamstresses she trusts. But with your name and her talent, Your Grace... this could be more than survival. It could be a bloody fortune.”
Nicholas only nodded, distracted now.
His feet were already carrying him from the room and upstairs to Lydia’s chambers. It was dusk now, the first stars appearing in the darkening sky.
The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of soft golden lamplight spilling into the dim corridor. Nicholas hesitated for a moment, one knuckle grazing the door.
Then he pushed it open without knocking. She was at her writing desk, her back to him.
She only wore her shift.
The silk was ivory, sleeveless, and scandalously sheer against her skin. The bodice clung to her bosom, the neckline low enough to reveal the delicate slope of her collarbones. Her hair had been unpinned, a tumble of dark curls spilling down her back.
He exhaled shakily, desire coursing through his veins.
She turned with a start, and her eyes widened, lips parting.
Then her expression shuttered, and she stood up, folding her arms across her breasts.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, not looking away.
There was a beat of silence.
Nicholas stepped in and let the door fall shut behind him with a soft click.
“What is it?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”
“No.”
They fell silent again, but it was charged.
Then, Nicholas crossed the room, closing the space between them.
Lydia didn’t step back as she looked up at him with her dark eyes wide, pulse fluttering at her throat like a trapped bird.
He lifted a hand, brushed a curl from her cheek. He’d come to tell her about Henley, about their meeting, but in that moment, everything else disappeared from his thoughts. Only she remained.
“You are something else,” he said softly.
And then he kissed her, and the scent of her skin, jasmine and ink and heat, made him press his lips into her harder, deeper, hungrier.
Her fingers curled into his shirt as she clung to him, and his hands slid to her waist, then lower, fisting in the silk of her gown.
The kiss devoured them both.
She opened to him, mouth yielding, breath trembling against his. He felt her press into him, chest to chest, the thin barrier of fabric offering nothing.
He deepened the kiss more still, growling low in his throat as her nails raked lightly up his spine.
His hands cupped her hips as he drew her closer. He was hard, and he knew she felt it.
And still—she didn’t pull away.
Until she did.
She broke the kiss like surf against rock. It was sudden, breathless, shaken.
“No,” she said, backing away. “We can’t.”
His breath was ragged. “Lydia—”
“Don’t.” Her voice cracked, but she held firm. “Don’t look at me like that. Don’t kiss me like that unless you mean to stay.”
He stared at her. He knew why she was pulling back, because he had on every other occasion.
She smoothed a hand down her arm, doing her best to compose herself.
“I won’t be a convenience. Not in business, not in your bed.”
“I didn’t think you were—”
“You did.” Her chin lifted. “Or you wouldn’t have come in here with that look and kissed me like it solved something.”
He took a step forward, and she took a step back.
“We’re business partners,” she said, voice sharper now. “We made a deal. Let’s not blur the terms.”
He looked at her, really looked. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair tousled, and her lips swollen from his kiss. And something hot and angry moved through his chest. Because he wanted her and she wanted him.
But she was right.
He wasn’t ready for it, to be all in, and he knew that was what she wanted from him.
So he let her walk away.
She disappeared into the adjoining room, the soft fall of her slippers the only sound left behind.
Nicholas stood there for a long time.
Left with the heat of her still on his mouth and the shape of her pressed into his hands. And the cold, maddening knowledge that he’d started something he couldn’t quite finish.
Not without unravelling everything he thought he was.
Nicholas looked away, jaw tightening.
Getting too close to anyone had never ended well. Not with Victoria. Not with his father. And certainly not with the few others who had tried to reach past the walls he’d carefully built. They either left, betrayed him, or saw him as nothing more than a title wearing a man’s skin.
Lydia was supposed to be different.
A practical arrangement. Clean. Contained.
But she didn’t behave like a woman who’d married for convenience. She challenged him. Questioned him. Surprised him.
And worst of all… she made him feel.
When she looked at him with that sharp, assessing gaze—like she saw things no one else had the nerve to name—something in him recoiled.
Because part of him wanted her to keep looking. To see all of it, and that was not safe.
Not for her. And certainly not for him.
So, he had to stay distant. Keep the boundaries firm. Cold and unyielding.
It was better that way.
It had to be.