She Kissed Him In Front Of Everyone To Save Him — Not Knowing That She Had Just Saved The Richest Duke
Chapter 9
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The carriage ride to Montgomery House in Mayfair was conducted in absolute silence. Lydia sat rigidly on the plush velvet cushions, watching the familiar, grimy streets of London transform into the sweeping, immaculate avenues of the elite. She belonged here now. The thought made her nauseous.Montgomery House was not a home; it was a fortress of pale Portland stone, boasting a portico that rivaled the British Museum. When the carriage pulled into the circular drive, a small army of servants stood waiting in perfect, terrifying formation.Alistair stepped out first, offering his hand. Lydia took it, her worn boots stepping onto the pristine gravel."Your Grace," the butler said, bowing deeply. He was a severe man with silver hair and eyes that missed nothing."Dawson," Alistair replied, not breaking stride as he led Lydia up the sweeping stairs. "This is the Duchess. She is the absolute authority in this house. If she asks for the roof to be painted pink, you will purchase the paint."Dawson did not bat an eye. "Very good, Your Grace. Welcome, Your Grace."Lydia felt her cheeks burn. It was a clear, brutal drawing of the lines: Alistair was daring the staff to disrespect her.The interior of the house was a suffocating display of wealth: marble floors, gilded mirrors, tapestries that looked older than the monarchy. It was cold. It lacked entirely the cramped, chaotic warmth of her Bloomsbury parlor."Your chambers are in the east wing," Alistair said, stopping at the foot of the grand staircase. He released her hand; the sudden absence of his heat left her fingers feeling hollow. "I have instructed the housekeeper to attend to your immediate needs. Dressmakers will arrive tomorrow morning. I require you to be appropriately armed before we face the wolves.""Armed?" Lydia asked, gripping the banister."Society does not forgive easily," Alistair said quietly. "They will try to tear you apart for what you did, and for what you have gained. I will not allow that." He looked at her—really looked at her—for a long moment. The harsh lines of his face softened infinitesimally. "Rest, Lydia. The war begins on Friday."He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing against the marble, leaving her utterly alone in a house of strangers.The next three days were a blur of silk, velvet, and pins.Madame Delacroix, a tyrannical dressmaker, invaded the east wing with a legion of assistants. Lydia was measured, prodded, and wrapped in fabrics so rich they felt like spun gold. Her new maid, a quiet but fiercely competent woman named Mrs. Gable, scrubbed her with rosewater and brushed her dull brown hair until it shone like polished oak.Lydia saw Alistair only at dinner. They sat at opposite ends of a mahogany table long enough to seat 20. The silence between them was not uncomfortable, but it was heavy with unspoken questions. They were two strangers chained together by a mutual enemy.On the third night, Lydia broke. She pushed away her plate of untouched roasted pheasant. The silver fork clattered loudly.