Page 34 of Duke of Fyre

That single word, spoken so softly she almost missed it, stopped her cold. It sounded foreign on his tongue, as if he had to drag it up from some deep, unused place within himself. Lydia felt her fingers relax almost involuntarily, shocked by the naked emotion in that simple syllable.

For a long moment, they stood frozen - his large hands cradling her smaller ones, her pulse racing at the unprecedented contact. Elias seemed equally stunned by his own actions, his thumbs moving in small, unconscious circles across her knuckles as if to soothe away any potential harm.

"If you wish to make changes," he said finally, his voice low and carefully controlled, "you need only inform me first."

"Inform you?" she shot back, her voice suddenly as cold as his own. "And when do you suppose I do that since you lack the will to see me at all?"

"I am busy," he countered, but Lydia shook her head.

"It seems to me, Your Grace," she challenged now, "that you are uncomfortable in your own house. And here I thought you a courageous man."

To her surprise, Elias refused to let himself react. When he answered, he kept his voice carefully measured. "We will... we will take breakfast together each morning. You can tell me your plans then."

Lydia nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She was acutely aware of every point of contact between them - the slight calluses on his fingers, the warmth of his palms, the gentle but firm way he held her as if she might shatter or flee at any moment.

Suddenly seeming to realize he was still holding her hands, Elias released them and stepped back. The loss of his touch left Lydia feeling strangely bereft, though she would rather die than admit it.

He turned to leave but paused at the door. "The other changes..." he said without looking at her, "they're... acceptable. Just have the portrait removed."

Then he was gone, leaving Lydia standing in the middle of her sitting room feeling as though a storm had just passed through. She sank into a nearby chair, her legs suddenly unsteady beneath her.

A soft knock drew her attention to the door, where Peter stood hesitating on the threshold. "Lydia? Is everything alright? I heard raised voices..."

"Come here, darling," she said, opening her arms. Peter rushed into them, burying his face in her shoulder as Mug pressed against their legs.

"Father's very angry, isn't he?" Peter's voice was small against her neck.

Lydia stroked his curls, considering her answer carefully. "He's... adjusting," she said finally. "Change isn't easy for any of us, but especially not for your father, I think."

Peter pulled back slightly, his face serious. "But you're not leaving, are you? Even though he's angry?"

"Oh, my darling boy." Lydia hugged him close again. "No, I'm not leaving. It takes more than a little ducal thunder to frighten me away."

"Good," Peter said firmly. "Because I drew something for Father, and I want you to help me give it to him at dinner."

Lydia smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Then we'd better make sure you're properly dressed for the occasion, hadn't we?"

As she helped Peter prepare for dinner, Lydia's hands still tingled with the memory of Elias's touch. That moment of connection had revealed something - a crack in his carefully maintained facade, a glimpse of the man beneath the ducal mask.

There were depths to Elias Blacknight that she was only beginning to understand. That quiet "please" had told her more than hours of conversation might have - about his capacity for gentleness, about the vulnerability he kept so carefully hidden, about the man he might be if he ever allowed himself to truly feel.

"Lydia?" Peter's voice broke through her thoughts. "Do you think Father might smile tonight? Just a little?"

She thought of Elias's final words, the way his voice had softened when he spoke of the changes being acceptable. "You know what, darling? He just might."

She was still not certain that he would – though for the first time since she'd moved into Fyre Manor, she found herself hoping at least, in the possibility.

Dinner that evening was a curiously tense affair. Lydia sat at her usual place, vividly aware of Elias's presence at the head of the table. He seemed equally conscious of her, though he maintained a studied focus on his plate that might have fooledanyone who hadn't noticed the way his eyes flickered toward her when he thought she wasn't looking.

Peter, bless his heart, did his best to fill the silence with cheerful chatter about his lessons and the new herb garden plans. Lydia noticed how carefully he watched his father's reactions, hope warring with anxiety in his young face.

"And Miss Nancy says my Latin is improving," Peter ventured, sneaking another glance at Elias. "Would you like to hear some, Father?"

Elias looked up from his plate, and Lydia held her breath, silently willing him to recognize the olive branch their son was extending.

"Perhaps... perhaps after dinner," Elias said, his voice gentler than she'd expected. "In the library?"

Peter's face lit up with such joy that Lydia felt her heart squeeze. "Yes, please! And... and maybe I could show you my new drawings too?"

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