Page 57 of Duke of Fyre

A dark frown settled between Elias's brows.

"He ought to be asleep by now," he said darkly and Lydia felt her lip curl into something akin to a pout.

"But… Couldn't we just tell him that we are home?" she dared. Elias, however, shook his head firmly.

"I understand that you are eager to see him," he attempted to explain, "But we cannot change his routine."

Lydia sighed deeply and nodded. "I understand," she said, her tone almost sad. "It is just that he would have been so excited to see us."

"He'll be just as excited tomorrow," Elias said quietly, a gentle smile playing around his lips. His voice was gentle, but there was an underlying weariness to it that made Lydia pause. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of the man beneath the duke's mask—someone who perhaps carried his own burdens, his own fears. Someone who might understand the ache in her heart at not being able to see Peter immediately.

"Yes," she said softly, not trusting herself to say more. The simple word hung between them, weighted with all the things they hadn't said during their journey. Through the window, she could see servants emerging from the house, their lanterns bobbing like fireflies in the gathering dusk.

The carriage door opened, letting in a rush of cool evening air that carried the scent of roses from the garden. She stepped down, accepting the footman's assistance, her legs slightly unsteady after the long journey. The gravel shifted beneath herfeet, and she took a moment to steady herself, breathing in the familiar scents of home—the roses her predecessor had planted, the ancient stone of the manor itself, the subtle hint of smoke from the kitchen chimneys.

When she turned back, she caught Elias watching her, his expression unreadable in the gathering darkness. For a moment, she thought he might say something, might acknowledge the charged conversation they'd shared on the journey. His hands twitched at his sides, as if he might reach for her.

But before either of them could speak, Mrs. Winters appeared at the top of the steps, her practical figure illuminated by the light spilling from the entrance hall. The housekeeper's grey hair was, as always, perfectly arranged beneath her cap, and her black dress seemed to absorb the remaining light. "Your Grace," she addressed Elias, bobbing a quick curtsy, "a moment of your time regarding tomorrow's arrangements? There are quite a number of documents that came for you, each marked more urgent than the rest. The business seems to be doing quite well right now according to Mister Taylor- he believes your marriage all but recreated a significant amount of interest in you and the company. "

And just like that, the moment shattered. Lydia watched as Elias's shoulders straightened, his duke's mask sliding firmly back into place. The transformation was subtle but complete—the vulnerable man from the carriage disappeared, replaced by the composed aristocrat she had first married.

"Of course, Mrs. Winters. I'll be right there." His tone was perfectly cordial, perfectly distant. He glanced briefly at Lydia, inclining his head slightly. "Good evening, Your Grace. I trust you'll rest well after our journey."

The formality in his voice made something in Lydia's chest ache. How could he do that? How could he switch so easily from the man who had confessed to wanting her, to this polite stranger? But then, wasn't that exactly what she had agreed to when she married him? A proper duke, who knew his duties and maintained appropriate distance?

She didn't wait to hear more. She made her way inside, her steps measured and careful, though her heart was racing. The familiar halls of Fyre Manor seemed different somehow, as if the tension between her and Elias had changed the very air within its walls. The portraits of past Fyres watched her passage, their painted eyes seeming to hold new judgment. Had any of them ever found themselves in such a situation? Had any of their carefully arranged marriages ever transformed into something more complicated, more dangerous?

Sarah was already waiting in her bedchamber and Lydia flashed the girl a grateful smile.

"A bath, Your Grace?" Sarah asked, already moving toward the copper tub that had been brought in. Steam rose from the water, scented with the lavender oil Lydia preferred. "The journey must have been tiring."

Lydia nodded, grateful for the suggestion. Perhaps the warm water would help ease the tension that had settled between her shoulders. Sarah helped her out of her traveling clothes, each movement practiced and efficient. The routine should have been soothing, but Lydia found herself utterly sensitive to every touch, every sound. Her skin felt too tight, as if it could barely contain the emotions churning beneath.

As she sank into the bath, she closed her eyes, trying to sort through the tumult of her thoughts. The water was perfect—hot enough to pink her skin, but not scalding. Usually, this was her favorite time of day, when she could let the warmth seep into her bones and wash away any troubles. But tonight, not even the familiar comfort of her evening routine could quiet her mind.

Sarah worked silently, washing Lydia's hair with gentle hands. The scent of lavender filled the air, mixing with the steam. Through the closed door, Lydia could hear the distant sounds of the household settling for the night—footsteps in the corridor, the faint clink of china as the last of the dinner services were put away, the soft thud of doors closing.

"Cook kept some supper warm for you, Your Grace," Sarah said as she began to dry Lydia's hair. "Shall I have it brought up?"

The thought of food made Lydia's stomach turn. "No, thank you, Sarah. Just some tea, perhaps." She couldn't imagine eating, not with her nerves still jangling from the day's events.

As Sarah worked, Lydia's thoughts drifted to Peter. By now, he would be deep in sleep in the nursery wing, perhaps clutchingthe stuffed bear she had given him on her last birthday. She had missed him fiercely during their time in London, missing his morning visits to her sitting room, his excited chatter about his lessons, the way he sometimes fell asleep in her lap during evening stories. She had never expected to love him so much when she agreed to this marriage, had never imagined how completely he would capture her heart.

And now, with these new feelings for Elias threatening to complicate everything, what would happen to Peter? If she and Elias couldn't maintain their careful balance, if their arrangement fell apart... would she lose Peter too? The thought made her chest tight with panic.

Sarah finished with her hair and helped her into her nightgown, the silk cool against her bath-warmed skin. "Will that be all, Your Grace?" her maid asked softly, concerned eyes studying Lydia's face.

"Yes, thank you, Sarah. You must be tired after the journey as well. Get some rest." Lydia managed a small smile for her maid, grateful for the woman's quiet efficiency and discretion.

Long after Sarah had gone, Lydia lay awake in her bed, the moonlight casting soft shadows through her window. Her thoughts wouldn't quiet, spinning between the memory of their kiss at the ball, the intensity of their conversation in the carriage, and the way he had looked at her as they arrived home. She closed her eyes, but the quiet rhythm of the manor outside only deepened her restlessness.

From somewhere in the house came the muffled sound of footsteps—probably Elias, still awake, still working. His study was almost directly below her chambers, and sometimes late at night, she could hear him pacing there, dealing with the endless responsibilities of the duchy. She wondered if he was thinking of her, if he was as unsettled by their conversation as she was. The thought made her pulse quicken.

She rolled onto her side, watching the moonlight move across the wall. The manor had its own nighttime symphony—the soft groan of old timbers settling, the whisper of wind through the ivy that climbed the east wall, the distant hoot of an owl in the woods. Usually, these sounds lulled her to sleep. Tonight, they seemed to mock her wakefulness.

The clock in the hall struck midnight, its deep tones reverberating through the quiet house. Lydia counted each strike, remembering the old stories about midnight being the hour when the veil between worlds was thinnest. Right now, she felt as if she stood on some threshold herself, caught between the safe, known world of her marriage of convenience and something darker, more dangerous, but infinitely more alluring.

Sleep, when it finally came, was fitful and strange. Her dreams were a confusion of memories and fears, all centered around Elias. She dreamed they were dancing again, but this time they were alone in a vast, empty ballroom. The music was distorted, too slow and somehow threatening. The candlelight cast strange shadows on the walls, shadows that seemed to move independently of their source. Her ball gown, the same one she'd worn the night of their kiss, felt too tight, constricting her breathing.

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