Chapter Twenty-Three
The morning passed in a blur of soft laughter, warm skin, and tangled sheets.
Nicholas had never stayed in bed this long. Not in years. Not ever like this. Lydia lay curled against him, her dark hair fanned across the pillow, the ribbon she’d worn last night now wrapped loosely around his wrist like a secret only they shared.
He traced his fingers down her bare shoulder, over the curve of her back, committing the sensation to memory.
“I think we’ve officially missed breakfast,” Lydia murmured, her voice husky with sleep and something far more dangerous.
He smiled against her temple. “Then we’ll have to order breakfast in bed. Perks of being nobility.”
She turned slightly to face him. “I’ve always wanted that.”
“What? To be spoiled?” he asked, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek.
“To be… seen.” She smiled slowly, wickedly. “Though spoiled isn’t terrible.”
Nicholas raised a brow. “Seen. Spoiled. Satisfied. Is there anything else I should know about your duchess requirements?”
She stretched, pulling the sheets with her, deliberately testing his focus. “Mmm. I’ll make a list.”
He laughed, a real, unguarded sound, and rolled her beneath him. “I dare you.”
“Careful,” she whispered. “I never lose a dare.”
She looked radiant in the morning light. And utterly at ease.
There had always been fire in her, from the moment she barged into his study asking for a deal. But this… this was different. This was warmth and intimacy. Something that had no room for doubt.
They kissed again, slower this time. He ran his fingers up her leg, but then there was a knock at the door.
Nicholas groaned and pressed his forehead to hers. “Ignore it.”
Another knock. A pause. Then the muffled voice of a maid:
“Apologies, Your Grace… but Lord Greaves is here.”
“Tell him to sod off,” Nicholas said. “I am busy.”
He leaned in, biting playfully at her collarbone as she giggled.
“He says it’s urgent,” the maid said.
Nicholas exhaled and rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “Of course he does.”
Lydia smiled, brushing her hand lightly down his chest. “The world returns.”
He turned to her, gaze softening. “I’ll come back. I swear it.”
“I know,” she said.
He rose, pulling on his trousers and a shirt, already irritated with Sebastian for existing at all, though mildly curious what warranted an urgent interruption before noon.
At the door, he paused, glanced back at her, golden in the light, sheets tangled around her waist, watching him with something that looked suspiciously like affection.
He opened the door. The maid curtsied, wide-eyed and flustered.
“His Grace requests that you bring the Duchess breakfast,” Nicholas said calmly. “And be certain it’s hot. And indulgent. And served on her schedule.”
The maid nodded quickly and rushed off.
He looked back at Lydia one more time.
“Don’t go anywhere.”
She smirked. “Where would I possibly go?”
He stepped out into the hall, already regretting the loss of her warmth, already plotting how fast he could return.
***
Nicholas stalked into his study, not bothering to close the door behind him.
Sebastian was already there, lounging in the winged armchair by the fire like a man who hadn’t just ruined a perfectly blissful morning. He had a glass of port in hand and a ledger open across one knee.
“This had better be worth it,” Nicholas said, voice flat. “I left a woman in bed.”
Sebastian didn’t even glance up. “I’d ask if it was Lydia, but the bruised mouth and unbuttoned shirt tell me enough.”
Nicholas shot him a look. “Get to the point.”
Sebastian sat up and handed him a folded sheaf of papers. His tone turned serious. “I dug deeper. Into Langford.”
Nicholas scanned the top page. Shipping ledgers, dates, bank notes. “And?”
“And the man didn’t get this bold or this rich on his own.
” Sebastian leaned forward, suddenly every bit the skilled investigator he pretended not to be.
“Three months ago, Langford was small-scale.
His fabrics were second-rate. Barely relevant.
Then suddenly, he's got showrooms popping up, investors throwing money at him, and enough confidence to challenge you.”
Nicholas’s jaw tensed. “Go on.”
Sebastian pulled another note from the stack and pointed to a name at the bottom.
“Langford’s backed by four private investors. One of them is minor nobility from Surrey. One is a trade magnate out of Liverpool. One I couldn’t trace. And this one—” he tapped again, “—is Lady Beatrice Montclair Ravenshaw.”
Nicholas froze as the room seemed to grow colder.
He took in the page in silence, reading the name again and again as if it might vanish.
“She—?” His voice was quietly dangerous. “She invested in Langford?”
“She’s a silent partner,” Sebastian confirmed. “Transferred funds from her personal estate account six weeks ago. That’s when Langford leased the warehouse across from yours.”
Nicholas’s pulse thudded in his ears.
Beatrice. His aunt. The woman who had stood at his side after his father’s death. Who claimed to want the Montclair name restored.
The same woman who had sneered at Lydia’s background. Who had warned him that business was beneath a duke.
He couldn’t even see straight.
“When?” he asked. “When did you find this out?”
“This morning,” Sebastian said, leaning back again. “I waited an hour before telling you. Out of respect for your marital afterglow.”
Nicholas didn’t smile. He folded the paper carefully and slipped it into his coat pocket.
“I’m going to Surrey,” he said.
Sebastian blinked. “Now?”
Nicholas was already walking. “Today. She doesn’t get to do this.”
***
The carriage cut through the countryside like a blade.
The journey was long and jarring, the sky thick with low clouds, and Nicholas’s thoughts were darker still.
By the time the house came into view, elegant and symmetrical as ever, he was a storm behind his eyes. This place, his childhood summers, his father's funeral, the one home that had once felt safe, now sat like a monument to betrayal.
A footman opened the door. Nicholas stepped down without assistance.
“I’ll see the Baroness now,” he said flatly. “Don’t bother announcing me.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He crossed the marble floor of the entryway with the full weight of his title in every step.
Lady Beatrice Montclair Ravenshaw was seated in the small drawing room, wearing a dove-grey gown and sorting through correspondence with her usual precision. She looked up, startled, but only briefly. Her spine straightened. Her expression smoothed.
“Nicholas,” she said. “How unexpected. Is the Duchess with you?”
“No.”
“Ah.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “How domestic. I imagine she’s recovering from the grand spectacle. I did read about it in the papers. Impressive, I suppose.”
He shut the door behind him with a sharp click.
“I know,” he said.
A flicker of something passed over her face. “Know what, darling?”
“Langford. The money behind him. I know.” He stepped forward. “I know it was you.”
She blinked, just once.
“That’s a dangerous accusation.”
“It’s not an accusation. It’s a fact. Sebastian found the trail. The investment. The silent partners listed under false names. He traced the holdings. They end with you.”
Beatrice set her teacup down with deliberate calm.
“I only backed Langford to protect the Montclair name from becoming ever more entangled in this merchant business. We are not those kinds of people, Nicholas. I needed to keep our family from becoming the subject of mockery and scandal. After you made the decision to marry Lydia—”
“Don’t,” he cut in, voice low. “Don’t speak her name like that.”
“She’s a merchant’s daughter,” Beatrice said, more coolly now. “Unpolished. Unsuitable. I was trying to correct your mistake—one you made in desperation.”
“She saved us,” he said. “You nearly destroyed us.”
Beatrice stood, something flaring in her eyes. “I gave you everything after your father died. I opened my home. I paid Charlotte’s finishing tutors. And this is how you repay me?”
“No,” he said. “You gave what you could—yes. But it didn’t come with ownership of my future. Or Charlotte’s. Or Lydia’s.”
Beatrice’s voice sharpened. “She doesn’t belong in our world. She has no breeding, no legacy—”
“She has strength,” he roared. “She has intelligence. She stood in a burnt-out building and rebuilt a business from nothing. She earned her place more than half the women in your drawing rooms.”
“She’s beneath you.”
Nicholas stepped forward, eyes flashing. “And yet she’s the one wearing the Hawthorne ring. She’s the one carrying this title forward. Not you. And not Victoria.”
Beatrice drew a breath to respond, but he didn’t let her.
“I know what you told the servants. I know what you whispered behind her back. I gave you my trust, and you used it to humiliate my wife.”
Beatrice paled. “I was protecting—”
“You were protecting yourself,” he said.
“Your status. Your idea of nobility. But that’s not what matters anymore.
Lydia is my wife. My partner. And if you come near her—if you try to undermine her, or our business, or our house—again, I will ensure that every one of your social circles knows what you did. The fire. The lies. The sabotage.”
“You wouldn’t dare—”
“I would,” he said coldly. “And they would believe me. Because I have the documents.”
For the first time, she looked shaken. Just faintly. Her mouth opened, closed again. Her hands gripped the back of her chair.
“You don’t mean it,” she said finally. “You’re angry now, but—”
“I’m done,” he said. “You are no longer welcome in my home. You are no longer welcome in Charlotte’s life. And you will never speak to Lydia again.”
A silence fell. Heavy and irrevocable.
Beatrice lowered herself slowly into her chair, the fight seeping out of her posture.
“You’ve made your choice then.”
“I have,” he said. “And it is the right one.”
He didn’t bow or offer a parting word. Instead, he simply turned and walked out, the echo of his boots on the polished floor the only sound behind him.
He didn’t look back.
Lady Beatrice Montclair Ravenshaw had been like a mother to him once. But family didn’t sabotage what you loved.
Family didn’t burn what you built.
And from this day forward, she was nothing to him.