Page 6 of Duke of Fyre

It was not a promise she could keep, Lydia thought. But she would try. She would certainly try.

A soft whine drew her attention to the foot of her bed, where Mug sat watching her with soulful eyes.

"Oh, Mug," she sighed, scooping the little dog into her arms. "What are we going to do? How can I possibly be a duchess when I can barely manage to be a proper lady?"

Mug responded by licking her cheek, his unwavering affection a balm to her troubled soul. Lydia hugged him close, drawing strength from his steadfast presence.

"Well, my friend," she said, her voice growing determined, "if we're to face this challenge, we'd best be prepared. What do you say we start planning?"

With renewed purpose, Lydia returned to her desk and began to make lists. First, she wrote down everything she knew about running a large household, drawing on her years of assisting her mother. Then, she jotted down ideas for social events and charity work - things a proper duchess would be expected to oversee.

As the candle burned low and the first light of dawn began to creep through her window, Lydia finally felt a sense of calm settle over her. She may not have chosen this path, but she would walk it with dignity and grace. And perhaps, in doing so, she might finally become the woman she had always longed to be.

With a weary smile, Lydia blew out the candle and climbed back into bed, Mug curling up at her feet. As she drifted off to sleep, her last thoughts were not of fear or uncertainty, but of determination. Whatever the future held, she would face it head-on, with courage and an open heart.

For in the end, that was all anyone could really do.

CHAPTER 3

The morning of the Duke's visit dawned bright and clear, a stark contrast to the tempest of anxiety roiling within Lydia's chest. She stood before her mirror, fussing with her hair for what felt like the hundredth time, willing her trembling hands to steady.

"It will be fine," she whispered to her reflection, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Everything will be fine."

A soft whine from the corner of the room drew her attention. Mug lay curled in his basket, his dark eyes fixed on her with an uncanny intensity. The little dog had been unusually restless all morning, as if he could sense the importance of the day ahead.

"Oh, Mug," Lydia sighed, crossing to scratch behind his ears. "What am I going to do with you? You must be on your best behavior today, do you understand?"

Mug's only response was to burrow deeper into his blankets, letting out another plaintive whine.

A sharp rap at the door made Lydia jump. "Lydia!" her mother's voice called, sharp with impatience. "Are you ready yet? The Duke will be here any moment!"

"Coming, Mother!" Lydia called back, casting one last glance at her reflection. She smoothed down her gown - her finest, a pale blue silk that brought out the green in her eyes - and took a deep breath. "Well," she murmured to Mug, "here goes nothing."

As she descended the stairs, Lydia found her parents waiting in the foyer, their faces tight with barely concealed anxiety. Her father's cravat seemed to be choking him, while her mother's fingers twisted nervously in the folds of her skirt.

"There you are," Viscountess Prudence said, her eyes raking over Lydia's appearance with a critical gaze. "I suppose you'll do. Now, listen carefully, Lydia. The Duke of Fyre is a man of great importance and even greater wealth. This match could secure the future of our entire family. You must do everything in your power to please him, do you understand?"

Lydia nodded, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. "Yes, Mother. I understand."

"Good," her father added, his voice gruff. "And for heaven's sake, make sure that mongrel of yours is kept out of sight. The last thing we need is for him to offend His Grace."

Before Lydia could respond, the sound of carriage wheels on gravel reached their ears. Her mother let out a small gasp. "He's here! Quickly, Lydia, go make sure that dog is secured in your room. We can't risk him getting loose."

Lydia hurried back upstairs, her heart pounding in her chest. She found Mug pacing restlessly by the door, his ears pricked forward at the commotion below.

"Now, Mug," she said firmly, scooping him up into her arms. "You must stay here and be a good boy. No barking, no fuss. Can you do that for me?"

Mug wriggled in her grasp, letting out a series of agitated yips. Lydia struggled to keep hold of him, growing increasingly frustrated as the little dog refused to calm down.

"Mug, please," she pleaded, aware of the voices drifting up from below. "We don't have time for this. You must stay here!"

But Mug was having none of it. With a sudden burst of strength, he wriggled free from Lydia's arms and darted out the open door. Lydia let out a strangled cry, hitching up her skirts to give chase.

"Mug!" she hissed, trying to keep her voice down as she pursued the dog down the hallway. "Come back here this instant!"

But it was too late. Mug had already reached the top of the stairs, and with a series of excited yaps, he bounded down towards the foyer.

Lydia's heart sank as she heard her mother's shrill exclamation of dismay, followed by a deep, rumbling voice that could only belong to the Duke of Fyre.

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