Chapter Nineteen
Hawthorne House had never been louder. Or brighter. Or more floral.
Nicholas stood at the edge of the grand staircase, watching the frenzy unfold below.
Everywhere he looked, the house was in motion.
It was an orchestra of footfalls and lifted voices, dresses and crates, ribbons and ledgers.
A florist clipped pale peonies in the foyer with the intensity of a military officer.
Two footmen stumbled in with a gilded harp between them.
Someone, he didn’t see who, was arguing with a livery coachman about the delivery of the champagne.
And at the centre of it all was Lydia.
She stood near the entry hall, holding a folded guest list in one hand, giving instructions to a pair of maids with the other.
She wasn’t barking orders, she never did, but something about the tone of her voice made people move.
Nicholas watched her as she turned to glance at a passing butler, asked a question, and then immediately shifted course to speak to a deliveryman carrying what looked like six massive bolts of silk-wrapped linen.
He exhaled slowly and descended the stairs.
The scent of fresh-cut roses met him on the landing.
Roses, lemon balm, lavender beeswax polish, and something faintly smoky, like charred wood from the hearths.
Staff buzzed in every room. The parquet floors had been scrubbed until they gleamed like glass.
Chandeliers above had been polished to a dangerous shine.
Crystal stemware stood waiting on linen-draped tables like soldiers ready for inspection.
“You’re about to lose your house to lavender,” said a dry voice at his elbow.
Nicholas turned to find Sebastian standing beside him, one brow raised, a dusty bottle of wine cradled under one arm. He looked more amused than concerned.
“It’s not my house anymore,” Nicholas muttered.
“Oh no,” Sebastian replied with a grin. “It absolutely is. But you’ve let a brilliant woman redecorate it like it’s Versailles.”
Nicholas’s mouth twitched.
Across the entry hall, Charlotte entered with a small stack of folded programs, her hair pinned in elegant coils.
She was flushed with movement but glowing.
Emma walked beside her, deep in conversation, a pencil tucked behind one ear and several loose pins stuck through her sleeve like tiny weapons.
Sebastian gave a mock salute and went to assist, or at least follow Emma around, pretending to help.
Nicholas stood for another minute, watching Lydia oversee a pair of footmen hanging garlands above the front windows.
She was a force. There was no other word for it.
She had taken an idea, barely a spark, and turned it into a ballroom.
Not just a launch, but a statement. A warning to anyone who still thought she was an outsider with a borrowed title and a silk dress.
This… this was what she did when she built something.
He hadn’t built anything in years.
A quiet moment felt impossible to steal, but he took it anyway.
Nicholas slipped away up the side stairs, past the whirring bustle of preparations, and into the quieter wing of the house. He moved down the hall, past old portraits and oil-lamp sconces, until he reached the library.
He stepped inside, shutting the heavy door behind him.
Silence.
No music, no laughter, no perfumed lilies. Just the soft tick of the mantle clock, and the faint creak of old floorboards settling.
He was just lowering himself into the chair when he saw it—a single, ivory envelope resting on the corner of his desk.
Unmarked. Except for the return seal: Langford & Co.
Nicholas’s stomach coiled.
He broke the wax with his thumb and unfolded the crisp, expensive paper.
To His Grace, the Duke of Hawthorne,
My warmest congratulations on the forthcoming launch of your new textile venture. It is always heartening to see the noble class take an active role in industry… even if such efforts require a helping hand from merchant stock.
As it happens, Langford & Co. is expanding as well. We’ve recently secured the lease to a warehouse—just three doors down from yours. A charming coincidence, is it not? We hope to unveil our new “Modern Aristocratic Line” within the same fortnight. Competition, as they say, is the soul of progress.
Do pass my regards to your new bride.
Yours in enterprise,
Henry Langford
Nicholas’s fist closed around the letter, crushing it in a slow, white-knuckled curl. He stood, jaw tight, breath hissing between his teeth.
Langford. That vulture.
Of course, he’d waited until now, until the ball was planned, until the papers were primed, until Lydia had a fragile foothold in the ton, to strike. And not with lawyers or ledgers, but with appearances.
“He’s using her name to strike at mine,” Nicholas muttered, staring down at the mangled letter.
“Ominous,” came Sebastian’s voice from the door, “but also a bit dramatic. What’s who done now?”
Nicholas glanced up as his friend strolled into the room, coat undone, holding two tumblers and a half-empty bottle of scotch.
“I brought peace offerings,” Sebastian added. “Figured you’d be hiding.”
Nicholas tossed the crushed letter onto the desk.
“Langford. He’s launching a rival line. Same week as us. Same street.”
Sebastian blinked. “That bastard.”
Nicholas said nothing.
“He’s trying to undercut her,” Sebastian continued, lowering into the chair opposite him. “Make it look like she’s copying him. Hell, make it look like you’re funding some vanity project your mistress threw together on a whim.”
“And society will eat it up,” Nicholas growled. “They’re just waiting for an excuse.”
“What does Lydia say?”
Nicholas paused. “She doesn’t know yet.”
“Well.” Sebastian poured the scotch. “That’s a conversation I’ll happily not be present for.”
Nicholas accepted the glass but didn’t drink. He was too tightly wound.
His shoulders ached. His jaw throbbed from being clenched too long. He wasn’t angry, he was… protective. A dangerous thing. He could take Langford apart with words if he had to, but it wouldn’t stop the damage already set in motion.
And Lydia, God, Lydia. She had worked too hard for this. She’d bled herself into the foundation of that building. She believed in it.
Nicholas had no intention of letting Langford tarnish her or her name.
***
The house quieted as the sun began to fall.
Nicholas remained in the study long after Sebastian had left to “accidentally” find Emma again in the ballroom. The light in the sky had shifted, blue and gold and dusty rose. Outside, the garden shadows lengthened, soft across the windowpanes.
There was a knock. Not the sharp rap of a servant, but softer and more hesitant.
He didn’t need to look to know it was her. He felt her, like heat in a room, or thunder behind a storm cloud.
She stepped inside quietly, her figure silhouetted in the golden light from the hallway. She was in soft day clothes now, her hair half-pinned, cheeks still flushed from the frenzy of the day.
“You weren’t at supper,” she said gently.
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“I heard from Bash that something happened. You’ve been shut in here for hours.”
Nicholas said nothing.
She walked further in, closing the door behind her. Her eyes landed on the crushed letter on the desk.
“It’s Langford,” he said.
“Langford?” Lydia repeated.
He looked at her in surprise.
“My father mentioned him in his ledgers,” she said softly. “I remember. He never trusted him.”
Nicholas hesitated, then finally exhaled.
“He’s launching a line. Same week. Three doors down.”
She stood there for a long moment, absorbing it. Then: “So let him.”
Nicholas raised a brow.
“Let him,” she said again, calmer now, stepping around the desk. “We’ll outdo him. We’ll have better fabrics, better designs, better patronage. We’re not imitating him—we’re replacing him.”
There was fire in her voice and in her eyes. Nicholas watched her for a long moment, his chest tight. Then, to his surprise, she stepped behind him.
“You’re tense,” she murmured.
He stilled.
“Let me,” she said quietly, already placing her hands on his shoulders.
Her fingers found the knots in his muscles with frightening precision.
He tipped his head slightly forward, eyes closed, as her hands began to knead slow circles into his neck and shoulders.
The room was silent, just the ticking of the clock and the low hum of breath between them.
“You carry the whole world,” she said softly. “But you don’t have to.”
He said nothing.
Her hands moved slower now, lower, smoothing down the tops of his shoulders. The brush of her fingertips through his shirt made him exhale, long and uneven.
She leaned forward slightly. He could feel the warmth of her breath in his ear.
“You don't always have to be in control,” she whispered.
He closed his eyes, and he felt her tongue on his neck, traveling down as her fingers slowly undid the buttons on his shirt. He groaned as her mouth moved over his chest, lower and lower still.
She knelt down on the floor between his legs, her hands reaching for the button on his pants, and he opened his eyes, reaching for her.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I want to.”
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Slowly, she opened the button on his pants. He was already hard.
She leaned in, running her tongue gently down his shaft before taking all of him into her mouth.
Nicholas moaned loudly as he wrapped his hands in her hair. All at once, the study faded into nothing but blurs of colour, as he was consumed by her in all the ways a man might be consumed.
His pleasure mounted, finally peaking, as waves of satisfaction surged through him, making him gasp for breath.
When the study came into focus again, he pulled Lydia onto his lap and into his arms. He kissed her deeply.
He had always been the one in control, but this woman, his wife, she had a way of turning the world upside down.
And he, for one, was starting to enjoy the view.