Page 7 of Duke of Fyre

Taking a deep breath, Lydia descended the stairs. Maybe if she was fortunate, the ground would open up and swallow her whole at the bottom. As she rounded the corner into the foyer, she was greeted by a scene of utter chaos.

Mug was dancing around the feet of a tall, imposing figure dressed in black, barking as if his life depended on it. Lydia's parents stood frozen in horror, their faces pale with shock and dismay.

And there, in the center of it all, stood the very stranger she had seen in the park the other day. Lydia felt the blood draining from her cheeks as the realization hit her. It was him! The handsome stranger from the park, the one who had been accosted by the very same dog that was barking at him now, was the elusive Duke of Fyre himself. Elias Blacknight cut an impressive figure, his broad shoulders filling out his perfectly tailored coat, his raven hair falling in careless waves about his face. But it was his eyes that captured Lydia's attention - those piercing blue orbs that seemed to see right through her.

For a moment, their gazes locked, and Lydia felt a jolt of electricity pass between them. She saw the Duke's eyes widenslightly, a flicker of what could only be surprise passing across his face before it settled back into its customary scowl. Lydia felt her cheeks grow warm under his intense scrutiny, and she silently cursed her fair complexion that no doubt betrayed her flustered state.

"Your Grace," Lydia said, dropping into a hasty curtsy. "I do apologize for my dog's behavior. He's not usually so... excitable."

The Duke's eyebrow arched slightly, but to Lydia's immense relief, he made no mention of their previous encounter in the park. "Indeed," he said, his voice as smooth and rich as aged brandy. "Perhaps you should consider a firmer hand in his training, Lady Lydia."

Lydia felt her cheeks flush even deeper at the barely veiled rebuke. "Yes, Your Grace. Of course."

Her father stepped forward, his face a mask of forced joviality. "Your Grace, welcome to our home. We are honored by your presence. Might I introduce my wife, Viscountess Prudence, and of course, our daughter, Lydia."

The Duke inclined his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over the family with an air of cool assessment. When his eyes landed on Lydia once more, she felt her breath catch in her throat. There was something in that gaze that made her heart race, though she could not quite place it.

"A pleasure, I'm sure," Elias said, his tone giving nothing away. "Shall we proceed to the drawing room? I believe we have much to discuss."

As they made their way into the house, Lydia scooped up Mug, who had finally ceased his barking and now seemed content to glare balefully at the Duke from the safety of her arms. She couldn't shake the feeling that she had ruined everything before it had even begun.

The drawing room seemed to shrink in the Duke's presence, his imposing figure dominating the space. Lydia perched on the edge of a delicate settee, her back ramrod straight, while her parents settled into chairs across from their guest. An uncomfortable silence descended, broken only by the ticking of the mantel clock.

"Well," Viscount Silas began, his voice unnaturally loud in the quiet room, "we are most grateful for your interest in our Lydia, Your Grace. She is a fine girl, accomplished in all the ways a lady should be."

The Duke's gaze flicked to Lydia, who fought the urge to squirm under his scrutiny. She felt as though he could see right through her, past the carefully constructed facade of the perfect lady to the , uncertain woman beneath. "Is she indeed?" he murmured, his tone giving no indication of his thoughts.

Viscountess Prudence jumped in, her words tumbling out in a nervous rush. "Oh yes, Your Grace. Lydia is an excellent pianist,and her needlework is beyond compare. She's also quite well-read for a young lady of her age."

Lydia felt her face grow hot at her mother's effusive praise. She knew it for what it was - a desperate attempt to paint her in the best possible light, to secure this match at any cost. She risked a glance at the Duke, only to find him watching her with an inscrutable expression. Was that amusement glinting in those stormy blue eyes?

The Duke, however, seemed unimpressed by her mother's litany of accomplishments. "I care little for such trivial pursuits," he said dismissively. "What I require is a woman of sense and capability, one who can manage a household and present a proper face to society when necessary."

"Of course, Your Grace," Viscount Silas rushed to agree. "Lydia is more than equal to such tasks, I assure you."

Lydia, feeling she ought to speak for herself, cleared her throat softly. "I have assisted my mother in managing our household for several years now, Your Grace. I am confident in my abilities to oversee the running of an estate."

The Duke's piercing gaze met hers, and Lydia felt a shiver run down her spine. There was something in those eyes - a coldness, yes, but also a hint of... approval? She couldn't be sure, but the intensity of his stare made her pulse quicken.

"We shall see," was all he said in response, but Lydia thought she detected a note of intrigue in his voice.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of stilted conversation and uncomfortable silences. The Duke sat ramrod straight in his chair, his posture radiating an aura of barely contained impatience. Lydia's father stumbled over his words, clearly intimidated by the nobleman's presence, while her mother fluttered about, offering tea and cakes with trembling hands.

Lydia herself felt as though she were walking on eggshells, acutely aware of the Duke's piercing gaze whenever it fell upon her. She tried to make light conversation, commenting on the weather and inquiring about his journey, but his responses were terse and cold, offering no encouragement for further discussion.

Where they sat in the parlor now, Lydia's fingers tightened imperceptibly on the teapot handle as she poured the next cup. The china clinked softly, the sound seeming to echo in the suddenly too-quiet room. She focused on the task at hand, watching the amber liquid swirl into the cup, careful not to spill a drop.

"Milk, Father?" she asked, proud of how steady her voice remained.

"Just a splash, thank you," her father replied coolly. It was the second time the Duke had visited their home - and it was clear that her parents were more than satisfied with the prospect of him as her husband, though Lydia was still quite frightened of him.

As Lydia reached for the milk jug, she caught a glimpse of the Duke in her peripheral vision. He still stood by the fireplace, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the Persian rug. She didn't dare look up, but she could feel his gaze on her, as palpable as a physical touch.

Gathering her courage, Lydia ventured a comment. "I hope your journey wasn't too taxing, Your Grace. The roads can be quite treacherous this time of year."

The Duke's response was as chilly as the winter wind. "It was staisfactory ."

Lydia's smile faltered, her cheeks flushed, and she busied herself with stirring her father's tea, the spoon clinking against the china a touch too forcefully. She held her breath, half-expecting to hear the Duke's deep voice point out some flaw in her technique.

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