Chapter Twenty #3
“Silver,” Lydia called without looking up. “The gold clashes with the embroidery. And someone move that mirror back toward the light—it needs to catch the corner angles. It’s how my father always placed them. Trust me.”
“Got it!” Emma called, hauling the mirror herself with a groan. “If I drop this, we’re blaming Sebastian.”
“Unfair,” came Sebastian’s voice from the doorway. “I’ve done nothing but hold ribbon spools and flirt with underpaid artisans all evening.”
“You’re not holding ribbon now,” Charlotte pointed out.
Sebastian held up his hands. “I was flirting, Charlotte. That takes two hands.”
Nicholas entered behind him, looking every inch the nobleman. And just as out of place as a stag in a millinery shop. His jacket was gone. His sleeves were rolled. A long streak of charcoal dust marred his waistcoat.
He strode toward Lydia. “There’s an issue with the eastern side of the floor. The wax hasn’t dried. We’ll need to rope it off and shift the displays.”
“We can adjust the gowns to a tighter arc,” Lydia said, rising to her feet. “We’ll use the side alcove as overflow space. Are the lights hung?”
“Half of them,” Nicholas said. “Sebastian was trying to charm the steward into helping.”
“I told you,” Sebastian said. “These hands are not made for such work. Let me near the drapes and I will probably end up hanging myself.”
Lydia smiled. Despite everything, the fire, the ruin, the heartbreak, this was something real. Hers.
She moved through the room again, checking that every hem was even, every bodice cinched to perfection, every pedestal properly spaced.
Nicholas was at her side now, silent but steady.
At one point, a maid rushed over with a small box in hand. “Your Grace? These just arrived from the Bond Street printer. The cards for tomorrow’s guests.”
Lydia took one, fingers trembling slightly. Grantham & Hawthorne—embossed in silver, elegant script across a black background.
She handed it to Nicholas. “What do you think?”
He studied it. “It’s bold.”
“Too bold?”
“No.” He glanced sideways at her. “It’s perfect.”
Then a call came from the stairs. Another delivery, another roll of satin salvaged from the warehouse.
Emma was already moving to intercept, her arms full of trim.
It wasn’t until well past midnight that the house began to quiet. The ballroom was half-transformed, the chandeliers newly polished, the floor swept bare of dust. Muslin samples fluttered on gilded stands. Paintings had been removed to make space for wall hangings embroidered with Lydia’s initials.
The entire household had become a monument to resistance.
She found herself alone again. Outside now, in the gardens. The night was cool. The stars above Hawthorne House glittered like pins in black velvet. The scent of fresh rain still lingered on the stone.
Her hands were trembling. From fatigue and awe.
“You should be sleeping.”
She turned.
Nicholas stood at the edge of the terrace, his coat unbuttoned, collar undone. His shirt sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms—no cravat. Just him.
Lydia smiled faintly. “So should you.”
He crossed to her, slow and certain, his boots quiet on the flagstones.
“I couldn’t,” he said. “I kept hearing your voice echoing down the corridors. Issuing orders like a general.”
“I’m not sorry,” she said softly.
“God, I hope not.”
She turned her face away, back to the stars.
For a long moment, they stood in silence. Only the hum of crickets and the distant creak of carriage wheels in the city beyond.
“He doesn’t win,” Nicholas said finally. His voice was low, steady. “Langford. He doesn’t win unless we let him.”
Lydia nodded once, her throat tight. “And we won’t.”
He stepped beside her, and after a moment, she felt his fingers graze hers. Not a demand, just presence.
“You know,” he said after a pause, “it suits you.”
“What does?”
“That look you get. When you’ve decided to rise from the ashes and burn brighter than anyone expects.”
She let out a breath, half laugh, half sigh. “That’s poetic for midnight.”
“I’ve been told I’m full of surprises,” he murmured.
Lydia looked at him then. His face was tired, yes, but more open than she’d seen it. Not the duke. Not the brooding man who paced his study with worries stitched into his shoulders.
Just Nicholas.
“You really think we can pull this off?” she asked.
“I think we already are.”
She exhaled and leaned into him slightly, just enough for their arms to touch.
“You didn’t have to fight for this,” she said after a moment.
“Yes, I did.”
She looked up at him, confused.
“Because you’re mine, Lydia. Not a possession, but a partner. A force.”
Her heart beat unevenly.
“I can’t let them burn you down. I won’t.”
He reached for her hand again, and this time, she let him take it fully. He pressed it to his chest, just over his heart.
She could feel it. The steady, quiet rhythm.
Her voice trembled. “Tomorrow, they’ll all be watching.”
“Let them,” he said. “Let them see what happens when a duchess builds her own empire.”
Lydia smiled then. A slow, proud, wicked smile.
Let them come.
She would be ready.