Page 30 of Duke of Fyre

Lydia couldn't quite suppress her smile. "You mean will I allow him his hour of play each day? Yes, Your Grace, I shall ensure he both studies and enjoys himself in appropriate measure."

Something that might have been amusement flickered in Elias's eyes. "See that you do. And try to keep that mongrel of yours from completely destroying my gardens."

"Mug is a gentleman of refined tastes," Lydia protested, her eyes dancing. "He merely appreciates the finer points of landscape decoration."

"Is that what we're calling digging holes now?" Elias's voice was dry, but Lydia could have sworn she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

Before she could respond, Peter appeared in the doorway, Mug trotting faithfully at his heels. "Father! Are you really leaving tomorrow?"

The boy's face fell as Elias nodded, and Lydia's heart ached at the careful way Peter tried to hide his disappointment.

"It's necessary," Elias said stiffly. "The estate…"

"Requires your attention, yes, I know," Peter finished, his small shoulders slumping slightly. "Will you... will you at least come see my new drawings before you go?"

Something shifted in Elias's expression – so subtle Lydia might have missed it if she hadn't been watching him so closely. "I suppose I could spare a few minutes," he said, his voice strained with an attempt to be gentle.

Peter's face lit up, and he grabbed his father's hand without thinking. Elias looked startled by the contact but didn't pull away as his son dragged him toward the schoolroom.

Lydia watched them go, her heart doing strange things in her chest. These glimpses of the man beneath the Duke's stern facade were becoming more frequent, and they were... unsettling. Much like the way she found herself missing his presence at dinner, or the way her eyes sought him out whenever he entered a room.

"This won't do at all," she muttered to herself, turning back to her flowers with perhaps more force than necessary. She was not some silly girl with atendrefor her husband. This was a marriage of convenience, nothing more.

Still, as she watched him ride away the next morning, his tall figure cutting an impressive silhouette against the dawn sky, she couldn't quite ignore the hollow feeling in her chest.

"Well," she said briskly to herself, "no use moping about. There's work to be done."

And indeed there was. Lydia had been making mental notes about the manor since her arrival – the heavy draperies that blocked out nearly all natural light, the somber color scheme that made every room feel like a mausoleum, the general air of neglect that clung to certain areas of the house.

"Mrs. Winters," she called, catching sight of the housekeeper. "Might I have a word?"

The older woman approached with obvious trepidation. "Yes, Your Grace?"

"I've been thinking about making some changes to the morning room and perhaps the small library. Nothing drastic," she added quickly, seeing the alarm in Mrs. Winters's face. "Just some lighter fabrics, perhaps some new furniture arrangements..."

"Oh, Your Grace," Mrs. Winters wrung her hands anxiously. "His Grace is very particular about changes to the manor. Perhaps we should wait for his return?"

"Nonsense," Lydia said firmly. "I am the Duchess of Fyre, and it is my duty to manage the household. Surely some fresh curtains and a bit of rearranging can't hurt?"

Over the next few days, Lydia threw herself into the renovations. She replaced the heavy velvet drapes with lighter silk ones that let in streams of sunlight. The dark furniture was rearranged and interspersed with lighter pieces she discovered in storage. Fresh flowers appeared in crystal vases, and new cushions in soft blues and greens added touches of color.

It was while she was exploring the manor's stored furnishings in a dusty attic room, that Lydia discovered a collection of paintings wrapped in protective cloth. As she unwrapped one particularly large canvas, she felt her breath catch. The portrait revealed a striking woman with delicate features, dressed in the finest silks. The late duchess, Lydia realized with a start.

She stood there for a long moment, studying the painted face. There was something both fascinating and unsettling about finally seeing the woman who had come before her. What had she been like? What mark had she left on this grand house and its inhabitants?

"Lydia?" Peter's voice broke through her reverie. "What are you looking at?"

She turned to find him watching her curiously, his head tilted to one side in a gesture that reminded her so much of his father it made her heart squeeze.

"I found some paintings," she said, carefully keeping her voice light. "Would you like to help me choose some to brighten up the morning room?"

Peter nodded eagerly, and soon they were sorting through the wrapped canvases together, exclaiming over landscapes and still lifes. If Peter recognized the woman in the portrait, he gave no sign, and Lydia didn't ask.

"This one," Peter declared, holding up a cheerful scene of the manor's gardens in full bloom. "It makes me think of our adventures with Mug."

Lydia smiled, pushing aside her earlier disquiet. "Perfect choice, darling. And look – here's one of the sea. Perfect for our pirate games, don't you think?"

They spent the afternoon arranging the paintings, and if Lydia quietly had the portrait of the late duchess hung in a lesser-used parlor, well, that was her prerogative as the current Duchess of Fyre.

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