Chapter Eighteen
Lydia awoke to the slow, golden seep of morning light through embroidered curtains.
The fire in the grate had long since gone out, but her skin still felt warm. Her breath caught as memory slid over her like silk. Nicholas’s hands, his tongue, the command in his voice…and the way she had obeyed, not from fear, but from desire, from trust.
And the way he had touched her. It has been reverent and unrelenting, as though he couldn’t quite believe she was real.
She had never known she could want like that. Or yield like that.
Not because she was weak, but because it was safe.
Nicholas, for all his power and brooding hauteur, had never made her feel small. Not when it counted. When she gave herself to him, she hadn’t felt helpless. She’d felt seen.
And perhaps, she thought as she sat up, drawing the sheet to her chest, that was the most dangerous part.
Because it meant she trusted him. And trust… was always the first price of love.
***
Later that morning, Lydia found Charlotte in the sun-warmed morning room, seated in one of the tall-backed armchairs, a stack of letters in her lap and a steaming cup of tea on the side table.
She looked up at Lydia’s entrance and smiled, soft and genuine.
“You’re up early,” Charlotte said, carefully folding a letter closed.
“Habit,” Lydia replied, settling across from her. “Though the house is oddly quiet today.”
Charlotte poured her a cup of tea, then hesitated a little too long over the sugar.
“You’ve been writing a lot lately,” Lydia said, nodding toward the pile. “Are they all from the same person?”
Charlotte’s hand paused in midair.
“Yes,” she said at last, then gave a tiny, almost guilty smile. “He writes often. He’s... thoughtful.”
“He?” Lydia said, smiling. “Does this thoughtful someone have a name?”
“Yes,” she said, then after a pause, “But I’m not telling you. Yet.”
Lydia laughed and sipped her tea.
“Where is he?”
“Just outside London. In Kent,” Charlotte replied, looking down at her folded letter. “He works in medicine.”
“A physician?”
“Of sorts. He assists in research and public health—he’s brilliant. Kind. Practical. But…” she trailed off, eyes flicking toward the door.
“But not titled,” Lydia finished gently.
Charlotte gave her a wry, sad little smile.
“And now that the estate is recovering, Nicholas has begun to speak of—of balls. Introductions. Eligible gentlemen.”
“He wants you to debut properly,” Lydia guessed.
“He wants me to marry advantageously,” Charlotte said. “And I know he means well. But—”
“He doesn’t understand.”
Charlotte shook her head.
“He thinks affection is a luxury. He doesn’t believe it lasts. I think… I think he’s forgotten what it feels like.”
Lydia reached across and gently placed her hand over Charlotte’s.
“He hasn’t. He just doesn’t trust it anymore.”
Charlotte blinked at her, startled.
Lydia gave her a small, conspiratorial smile.
“I won’t tell him. About your letters. Or Kent. Or medicine. And I’ll try to speak to him about the title nonsense.”
“He won’t listen.”
“He might,” Lydia said softly. “He listens more than he pretends to.”
Charlotte exhaled, her shoulders loosening slightly.
“He’s lucky to have you.”
Lydia looked down into her tea, swirling the spoon once.
She didn’t answer.
***
Later that same day, the scent of beeswax and coal drifted faintly through the hall as Lydia passed a row of tall windows, her shoes clicking softly against the polished floor. Morning light filtered through the glass, spilling pale warmth onto the marble tiles.
She paused near the east corridor, where the household staff had gathered in quiet conversation. A cluster of maids stood near the silver service cart, carefully arranging polished trays and utensils.
“Good morning,” Lydia said warmly.
The maids stiffened, spines straightening as if caught doing something improper.
“I only stopped to admire the shine on that candelabra,” she added, nodding toward it. “It’s exquisite.”
A beat of silence. Then one of the younger girls, a blonde with ink on her fingers, flushed pink and bobbed a clumsy curtsy.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured. “And… I’m sorry.”
Lydia tilted her head. “Sorry?”
“For how we were. When you first came. Cold. Unhelpful.”
Another maid, older, stepped in.
“We thought you’d be like—well…” She faltered, then tried again. “You’re not what we expected. You’re fair. You ask questions. You listen.”
Lydia’s throat tightened unexpectedly.
“That’s kind of you to say,” she replied gently.
The younger maid looked down, twisting the corner of her apron between her fingers.
“We didn’t know what to believe,” she said in a rush. “Her ladyship said… you told her we were lazy. That you didn’t trust the staff.”
A sharp hush fell. One of the older women snapped, “Hush, Agnes—”
But Lydia had already gone still.
“Her ladyship,” she repeated. “Lady Beatrice?”
The maids exchanged glances, but no one answered. Still, the truth hung there between them, stark and undeniable.
Lydia excused herself with a nod, heart pounding. She moved briskly down the corridor, skirts whispering against the walls, mind racing.
Lady Beatrice.
Of course, she had something to do with it.
The resistance. The whispering. The glances from the staff when she entered the room. It hadn’t been entirely about class.
It had been seeded.
Lydia made for the older wing of the house, where Lady Beatrice kept her things, but when she arrived, the chambers were empty. The trunks were gone. The dressing table stripped of its silver combs. Not even a teacup on the tray.
She’d already left.
Frustration bloomed hot in her chest. She turned on her heel and strode to the study.
Nicholas looked up from behind a spread of correspondence when she entered. The fire crackled low behind him, casting a soft amber glow over his dark coat.
He didn’t smile, but he didn’t ask why she was here, either.
“She’s gone,” Lydia said, not bothering to sit. “Your aunt Beatrice. Packed up. No note. No goodbye.”
Nicholas exhaled, long and slow. He leaned back slightly, fingertips tapping the armrest of his chair.
“I told her last night,” he said finally. “About the business. That I was registering it under your name. That we’d be co-owners. Publicly.”
Lydia’s brow rose. “You did?”
“She said it was a disgrace to the title. That Hawthornes had survived war and scandal but would not survive trade.” His mouth twisted faintly. “She packed by morning.”
Lydia took a slow breath.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I wasn’t sure it mattered.”
She stepped closer.
“It matters,” she said softly.
He looked at her then. Really looked.
“I won’t apologize,” he said. “Not for making this real. Not for giving your name a place beside mine.”
The words hit her somewhere deep. Deeper than she expected.
“Are you all right?” she asked, quietly.
Nicholas’s expression didn’t shift. But something in his shoulders seemed to stiffen.
“She’s family,” he said. “But so are you now.”
Lydia nodded slowly. She didn’t press.
“I’ve been thinking,” he added, standing. “We should launch properly. Host a ball here at Hawthorne House. Invite investors, partners, and society figures. Introduce the business with champagne and chandeliers.”
Lydia blinked. “A ball?”
“Let them gossip,” he said. “Let them speculate. But let them see what we’ve built.”
Lydia smiled, small at first, then wider. Something warm flared in her chest.
“Then we’ll give them something to talk about.”