Chapter Two
"You are certain I look presentable?"
"Lillian, you have asked me that four times in the past ten minutes. If you ask again, I shall be forced to lie."
Lillian smoothed her hands over her skirt, a nervous habit she had thought herself cured of, and fixed her mother with a look of mild reproach. "I am merely concerned about making a proper impression. Wynthorpe Hall is not the vicarage."
"No," Mrs. Whitcombe agreed, setting down her embroidery to give her daughter a considering look. "Wynthorpe Hall has considerably more dust, if the rumours are to be believed. And considerably fewer cheerful people wandering about."
"Mama."
"I am simply observing. The late duchess was not known for her domestic enthusiasm, and the current duke is..." She paused, searching for a diplomatic phrase.
"Forbidding?" Lillian supplied.
"I was going to say particular. But forbidding will do."
Lillian thought of the duke's stern face, his clipped words, the way he had looked at her hem as though it had personally offended him. Forbidding was perhaps too gentle a word.
"I am not calling on the duke," she said. "I am calling on Lady Rosanne. She invited me specifically."
"Yes, but one cannot enter Wynthorpe Hall without encountering its master eventually. The man does live there." Mrs. Whitcombe picked up her embroidery again, but her eyes remained on Lillian, sharp with maternal scrutiny. "You like the girl, then?"
"She is sweet, somewhat anxious and ill-at-ease, yet possessed of a genuine kindness beneath it all."
"Poor child. Growing up in that house, with those parents." Mrs. Whitcombe shook her head. "It is no wonder she is anxious. The things one heard about the late duke and duchess..."
Lillian waited, but her mother did not elaborate. This was typical; Mrs. Whitcombe was a collector of gossip but a reluctant distributor, doling out information only when she deemed it relevant to the matter at hand.
"What things?" Lillian prompted.
"Nothing you need to concern yourself with.
" Mrs. Whitcombe's needle flashed through the fabric with renewed vigor.
"Ancient history now. But suffice it to say that the Wynthorpe household was not a peaceful one.
The children suffered, as children always do when their parents cannot behave like civilised adults. "
Lillian absorbed this information, filing it away alongside her other observations about the duke and his sister.
It explained some things; the tension in his shoulders, the careful blankness of his expression, the way Lady Rosanne startled at sudden noises.
The marks left by an unhappy childhood were not easily erased.
"I should go," she said, glancing at the clock on the mantel. "I do not wish to be late."
"Heaven forbid." Mrs. Whitcombe rose to kiss her daughter's cheek. "Do try not to say anything too clever, darling. Dukes do not appreciate cleverness in young ladies. It makes them uncomfortable."
"I have no intention of speaking to the duke at all."
"Intentions," her mother said wisely, "rarely survive contact with reality."
***
Wynthorpe Hall was not, as Mrs. Whitcombe had suggested, particularly dusty.
It was, however, rather intimidating.
Lillian had passed the estate many times during her walks, one could hardly avoid it, given that their land comprised a significant portion of the surrounding countryside, but she had never before approached the main house.
Seen from a distance, it had always struck her as impressive but remote, an imposing stone edifice that seemed to hold itself apart from the surrounding landscape.
Up close, that impression only intensified.
The house was beautiful, certainly; all elegant proportions and graceful symmetry, with wide windows that caught the afternoon light and a sweeping drive lined with ancient oaks.
But there was something about it that felt contained.
Controlled. As though the house itself had learned to hold its breath.
Rather like its master, Lillian thought, and immediately chided herself for the comparison.
The butler who answered her knock was a thin, gray-haired man with the carefully neutral expression of someone who had seen a great deal and chosen to have opinions about none of it.
He accepted her card, invited her to wait in the entrance hall, and disappeared into the depths of the house with silent efficiency.
Lillian used the opportunity to examine her surroundings.
The vestibule was large and well-appointed, decorated in shades of cream and pale blue that should have felt welcoming but somehow did not.
Everything was perfectly arranged, the paintings on the walls, the flowers in their vases, the polished floor, with the sort of precision that suggested constant vigilance against disorder.
It reminded her, oddly, of a stage set. Beautiful to look at, but not quite real.
"Miss Whitcombe!"
Lady Rosanne appeared at the top of the staircase, her face alight with pleasure, and hurried down to meet her with considerably more enthusiasm than the setting seemed to warrant.
"You came! I was not certain…. I hoped, but I was not sure..."
"I said I would come," Lillian reminded her gently.
"Yes, but people say things all the time that they do not mean. In London, everyone says 'we must have tea sometime' and then never speaks to you again. I thought perhaps..." Rosanne stopped, color rising in her cheeks. "I am babbling. Forgive me. I am simply pleased."
"As am I." Lillian smiled, and was rewarded by Rosanne's visible relaxation. "Your home is lovely."
"Is it?" Rosanne glanced around the entrance hall with the expression of someone who had long since stopped seeing it. "I suppose it is. I confess I have never thought much about it. One grows so accustomed to one's own surroundings."
"That is true of most things. Familiarity breeds a sort of blindness."
"Does it?" Rosanne looked at her with sudden curiosity.
"What a peculiar thought. I shall have to consider it.
" She shook herself, as though physically dispelling the philosophical tangent.
"But come; tea is laid in the blue sitting room.
It is my favourite room in the house. The light is particularly good, and one can see the gardens from the window. "
She led the way through a series of corridors, chattering as she went about the history of the house which was very old, the state of the gardens that were somewhat neglected since the head gardener had retired, and the temperament of the kitchen cat which seemed mercurial at best. Lillian listened and responded at appropriate intervals, but her attention was partly occupied by the house itself; the way it seemed to grow warmer and less formal as they moved away from the public rooms, the small signs of habitation that began to appear: a book left open on a table, a shawl draped over a chair, a vase of wildflowers that looked as though someone had gathered them on impulse rather than design.
The blue sitting room, when they reached it, was indeed lovely. Smaller and more intimate than the enormous spaces they had passed through, with comfortable furniture arranged around a cheerful fire and windows that looked out over a rose garden just beginning to fade into autumn dormancy.
"This is wonderful," Lillian said, meaning it.
Rosanne glowed. "I hoped you would like it. Daniel thinks it is too small, he prefers the formal drawing room, but I find it cosy. Is cosy not a worthy aspiration?"
"I believe cozy is among the worthiest of aspirations."
They settled into chairs near the window, and a maid appeared with tea and an assortment of small cakes that looked considerably more appetizing than anything Lillian might have expected from a household as formal as this one.
"The Cook is very talented," Rosanne said, following her gaze. "She came from a great house in London; I am not supposed to know which one, but I suspect it was Lady Smith's, because the lemon biscuits taste exactly the same. Do try the lemon biscuits."
Lillian tried the lemon biscuits and they were, indeed, exceptional.
"I must confess something," Rosanne said, after they had both had sufficient time to appreciate the pastries. "I was terribly nervous about today. I have not had many.....I do not often..." She trailed off, her fingers twisting in her lap.
"You do not often have friends call?" Lillian guessed gently.
"Is that terribly pitiful?" Rosanne's voice was low.
"I am the sister of a duke. I should have dozens of friends or hundreds, even.
Every young lady in London should be clamouring for my attention.
But somehow..." She shrugged, a helpless little gesture.
"Somehow, they never seem to want to talk to me.
They want to talk to Daniel, or about Daniel, or to position themselves near Daniel in hopes that he will notice them. I am merely the avenue of approach."
Lillian felt a sharp pang of sympathy. She knew what it was like to be overlooked; not through any fault of one's own, but simply because the world had decided one was not particularly interesting. It was a lonely sort of invisibility.
"That sounds exhausting," she said.
"It is. Terribly exhausting." Rosanne set down her teacup with more force than necessary.
"And the worst part is that Daniel does not want their attention.
He does not want anyone's attention. He would be perfectly content to spend the rest of his life alone in his study with his ledgers and his books about crop rotation.
But because he is a duke, young, unmarried, wealthy, with excellent teeth, every matchmaking mama in England has decided he is their particular target.
" She paused. "The teeth comment was perhaps odd. I apologise."
"Not at all. Dental quality is an underappreciated consideration in the marriage mart."