She Kissed Him In Front Of Everyone To Save Him — Not Knowing That She Had Just Saved The Richest Duke
Chapter 5
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It stopped directly outside their window.Margaret dropped her hands. She stood and walked to the window, pulling the lace curtain back an inch. Lydia watched her sister’s back go rigid. Margaret let the curtain fall. She turned around, looking terrified."Lydia," Margaret whispered. "There is a carriage outside.""I assume someone is lost," Lydia said tiredly."It has four matching Hanoverian bays. It is black lacquer. The crest on the door..." Margaret swallowed hard. "It’s a ducal crest, crowned with strawberry leaves."Before Lydia could process the words, a heavy, authoritative knock echoed through the small house. It didn’t sound like a polite inquiry; it sounded like an eviction.The maid, a terrified girl of 16, scurried down the hall. The front door opened. Deep voices murmured in the narrow entryway. Heavy footsteps approached the parlor.The door swung open.He seemed much larger in the daylight. In the claustrophobic confines of their shabby Bloomsbury parlor, the man from the ballroom looked like a leviathan poured into a charcoal gray morning coat. His cravat was tied with stark perfection. His boots gleamed like wet obsidian. Without the shadows of the alcove, the sharp, aristocratic lines of his face were violently clear.He took off his hat. His dark hair was brushed back, save for one stubborn wave at the temple. Those gray eyes swept the room, taking in the faded wallpaper, the threadbare rug, the cold toast, before settling entirely on Lydia.Margaret dropped into a deep, trembling curtsy. Lydia remained seated. Her brain had short-circuited."Miss Lydia Thorne," the man said. It wasn’t a question; he knew exactly who she was. His voice was the same low baritone that had vibrated against her chest the night before.He didn’t look at Margaret. He walked forward, stopping just at the edge of the small dining table. He didn’t carry flowers. He didn’t look apologetic. He looked like a general surveying a battlefield."I believe formal introductions were overlooked yesterday evening," he said mildly."Who are you?" Lydia asked, her voice raspy.Margaret let out a choked noise of horror from the corner. "Lydia, have you gone mad? This is His Grace—"Lydia frowned. "His Grace?""Alistair Montgomery," the man supplied, his expression unreadable. "Duke of Westmorland."The air left Lydia’s lungs.Westmorland. It wasn’t just a title; it was an empire. The Duke of Westmorland owned shipping fleets, coal mines in the north, half the estates in Cornwall, and a terrifying amount of political influence in the House of Lords. He was notoriously reclusive, brutally private, and arguably the wealthiest unmarried man in the British Empire.Lydia stared at him. The man she had manhandled. The man she had scolded on the street. The man whose lips she had bruised with her teeth."You," Lydia breathed, the sheer absurdity of it washing over her. "You are Westmorland."