Chapter Five #2
But before he could move, he had heard Miss Whitcombe's voice, low and steady, calm as still water, asking a question.
What is the worst that could happen?
He had frozen in place, listening despite himself, as Miss Whitcombe walked his sister through the catastrophe she feared with the patient precision of a general surveying a battlefield.
And then?
And then?
And then?
Each question had stripped away another layer of Rosanne's panic, revealing the simple truth beneath: whatever happened, she would survive. Life would continue. The world would not end.
It was not the approach Daniel would have taken.
His instinct was always to solve problems; to identify the obstacle and remove it, to impose order on chaos.
He would have offered Rosanne practical advice: how to conduct herself at the gathering, what to say and what to avoid, how to project confidence even when she felt none.
He would not have asked and then.
He would not have known to ask.
Standing in the corridor, hidden from view, Daniel listened as his sister's breathing slowed and her voice steadied. He heard the watery laugh, the genuine gratitude, the warmth in Rosanne's tone when she said I am very glad you are my friend.
He heard Miss Whitcombe's response, I am very glad as well, and something shifted in his chest.
Miss Whitcombe had done in five minutes what Daniel had never managed in seventeen years of trying.
She had taken Rosanne's panic, that wild, spiraling terror that seized her in social situations, and she had calmed it.
Not by dismissing it, not by telling Rosanne to simply control herself, but by walking beside her through the worst of her fears and emerging on the other side.
She brings peace, he thought, the realization settling into him like a stone dropped into deep water. Somehow, impossibly, she brings peace.
He moved away from the door before he could be discovered, his footsteps silent on the polished floor. The library could wait. Everything could wait. He needed to be somewhere else; somewhere he could process this new information without the distraction of Miss Whitcombe's presence nearby.
But where in this house could he escape her?
She was everywhere now. In the morning room with Rosanne, in the gardens where they walked together, in the corridors where he encountered her on her way to or from some visit.
She had infiltrated his home with the gentle persistence of water seeping through stone, and he could not seem to support his defences against her.
She is good for Rosanne, he told himself. That is all that matters. Rosanne needs a friend, and Miss Whitcombe has proven herself to be a genuine one. Whatever inconvenience her presence causes me is irrelevant.
He almost believed it.
But beneath the rational justification, beneath the cold logic that had governed his life for so long, something else was stirring.
Something that had nothing to do with Rosanne's well-being and everything to do with the way Miss Whitcombe had looked at him yesterday, when he had acknowledged her reasoning about the oak tree.
I acknowledge your acknowledgment.
The words echoed in his mind, accompanied by the memory of that slight curve at the corner of her mouth. She had been laughing at him. Gently, perhaps, more amused than mocking, but laughing nonetheless.
And instead of irritating him, the memory made him want to see that expression again.
Stop, he commanded himself. Stop this immediately.
He was the Duke of Wyntham. He did not develop feelings for country neighbors. He did not find himself listening at doors, straining to hear a woman's voice. He did not lie awake at night replaying conversations, analyzing expressions, wondering what she thought of him.
He was controlled. He was rational. He was safe.
Miss Lillian Whitcombe was none of those things. She was a disruption, a disturbance, a crack in the walls he had spent a lifetime building. And if he allowed her to continue weakening his defences...
No.
He would not allow it. He would be polite but distant. He would avoid unnecessary contact. He would remember that she was Rosanne's friend, nothing more, and that whatever peculiar effect she had on his equilibrium was merely a temporary aberration.
It would pass.
It had to pass.
Daniel retreated to his study and closed the door firmly behind him. The drainage report awaited.
***
Later that afternoon, Lillian prepared to take her leave of Wynthorpe Hall.
The conversation with Rosanne had left her drained in a way she had not expected—not from the effort of helping, but from the unexpected intimacy of it.
She had shared things with Rosanne that she rarely shared with anyone: her philosophy of survival, her approach to fear, the practical wisdom she had accumulated through her own struggles with anxiety and uncertainty.
And Rosanne had received these offerings with such naked gratitude that Lillian had felt something crack open in her own chest; some carefully guarded place where she kept her loneliness and her longing for connection.
She was not accustomed to being needed. Her parents loved her, certainly, but they had their own lives, their own concerns; she had learned early to manage her own troubles without troubling them.
Her acquaintances in the neighborhood were pleasant enough, but none of them had ever looked at her the way Rosanne had; as though Lillian possessed something precious, something that could not be found anywhere else.
It was terrifying but it was wonderful.
She was still turning these thoughts over in her mind when she encountered the duke in the corridor.
He was standing near the entrance hall, speaking with his steward in low tones, and he looked up as she approached with an expression she could not read. Surprise, mayhap, or displeasure. With Daniel Wynthorpe, it was often difficult to tell.
"Miss Whitcombe." He inclined his head, the very picture of formal courtesy. "You are leaving?"
"I am. Rosanne and I have concluded our visit for the day."
"I trust she is well?"
There was something in his tone, a note of genuine concern beneath the stiff formality, that caught Lillian's attention. She studied him for a moment, trying to read the man behind the mask.
"She is better," Lillian said carefully. "She was quite distressed, earlier. About Lady Smith's invitation. But we discussed the matter, and I believe she feels more prepared to face it."
"Lady Smith." The duke's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Indeed. I received a letter from her. She was quite pointed in her expectations for Rosanne's attendance."
"You accepted on Rosanne's behalf?"
"I did." He did not look away, but something flickered in his eyes—something that might have been guilt. "The invitation could not be declined without causing offence. Lady Smith was a close friend of our mother's, and she has taken a particular interest in Rosanne's prospects."
"I see."
Lillian wondered what it was like to have one's social calendar dictated by other people's expectations. To be unable to decline an invitation, not because of personal obligation, but because declining would have repercussions that extended far beyond one's own discomfort.
It sounded exhausting.
"May I ask something, Your Grace?"
He looked wary, as though expecting an attack. "You may."
"Were you aware that Rosanne finds social gatherings difficult? That she experiences significant anxiety in such situations?"
The wariness in his expression deepened into something more complicated. "I am aware that she is shy. That she does not possess the natural ease that some young ladies display in company."
"It is more than shyness." Lillian kept her voice gentle, non-accusatory. "She experiences genuine panic. Physical symptoms; rapid heartbeat, trembling hands, difficulty breathing. The anticipation of Lady Smith's gathering has been causing her considerable distress."
Daniel was silent for a long moment. His face had gone very still, the way it always did when he was processing information he did not wish to acknowledge.
"I did not know," he said finally, and there was something raw in his voice, something that sounded almost like pain. "She did not tell me."
"She did not wish to burden you."
"Burden me?" A flash of something like anger or frustration crossed his features. "She is my sister. Her well-being is not a burden."
"Perhaps. But she sees how much you carry already; the estate, the responsibilities, the weight of the title. She does not wish to add to your concerns."
"That is..." He stopped, his jaw working. "That is foolish. She should have told me."
"Perhaps you might tell her that. When you have the opportunity."
Lillian had not meant the words as a rebuke, but she saw him receive them as one. His shoulders stiffened, his expression closing like a door swinging shut.
"I am grateful for your intervention," he said, and the words sounded as though they had been dragged from him by force. "Your friendship with Rosanne has been beneficial."
"It has been beneficial to me as well. Your sister is a remarkable young woman."
"Yes." His voice softened slightly. "She is."
They stood there for a moment, suspended in the strange intimacy of the conversation.
Lillian was acutely aware of his nearness; the breadth of his shoulders beneath his dark coat, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hands were clasped behind his back as though he did not trust them to remain still at his sides.
He was handsome, she realized. Not in the conventional way of London dandies, all artful curls and carefully arranged cravats, but in a starker, more severe manner.
His features were strong rather than pretty, his expression guarded rather than charming.
But there was something compelling about him nonetheless, something that made it difficult to look away.
"I should go," she said, breaking the spell. "My mother will be expecting me."
"Of course." He stepped back, the movement precise and controlled. "Good afternoon, Miss Whitcombe."
"Good afternoon, Your Grace."
She walked past him toward the entrance, and she did not look back.
But she felt his gaze on her, all the way to the door.
***
That night, Daniel sat alone in his study and thought about what Miss Whitcombe had told him.
She experiences genuine panic. Physical symptoms; rapid heartbeat, trembling hands, difficulty breathing.
He had known Rosanne was shy. He had known she found social situations uncomfortable. But panic? Genuine, physical terror?
He had not known that.
How had he not known that?
He thought of all the times he had watched his sister at balls and assemblies, pale and silent at the edges of the room. He had assumed she was merely reserved; an introvert in a world that rewarded extroversion. He had never considered that she might be suffering.
She did not wish to burden you.
The words stung more than he cared to admit. His sister, the person he loved most in the world, had been silently drowning, and she had not told him because she thought he was too burdened already.
What kind of brother did that make him?
A distant one, he thought bitterly. A cold one. A man so wrapped up in his own rigid control that his own sister did not feel she could come to him with her struggles.
He thought of Miss Whitcombe in the morning room, her calm voice asking and then? He thought of the way Rosanne's panic had eased under her gentle questioning, the way his sister had laughed by the end of the conversation.
Miss Whitcombe had done what he could not. She had reached Rosanne in a way he had never managed.
She brings peace.
The thought surfaced again, unbidden, and this time he did not push it away. It was simply true. There was something about Miss Whitcombe, her steadiness, her quiet confidence, her refusal to be ruffled by his coldness or his title, that created a kind of calm wherever she went.
Rosanne felt it. The servants felt it. Even the tenants, during the brief incident with Garrett and Hobbs, had responded to her presence with visible relief.
And Daniel...
Daniel felt it too. Though he would die before admitting it.
He felt it in the way his shoulders loosened when she entered a room, in the way his mind stilled when he heard her voice.
He felt it in the peculiar warmth that spread through his chest when she smiled; that small, private curve of her mouth that suggested she was laughing at some jest only she understood.
He felt it, and it terrified him.
Because feeling was dangerous. Feeling led to passion, and passion led to destruction. He had watched it happen with his parents, watched their great love consume everything in its path, including themselves, and he had sworn he would never follow that path.
Control was safety. Distance was protection. And Miss Lillian Whitcombe, with her steady gaze and her unsettling insights, was a threat to everything he had built.
He should avoid her. He should maintain the polite distance appropriate to their respective positions. He should remember that she was Rosanne's friend, nothing more, and that whatever peculiar effect she had on him was merely a passing aberration.
He should do all of these things.
The question was whether he could.