Chapter Six
"What a remarkable coincidence, Daniel. We were just discussing hedgerows."
"Were you?"
"We are now."
Lillian pressed her lips together to suppress a smile as Rosanne beamed at her brother with the innocent expression of a girl who was fooling absolutely no one.
They had been walking the grounds of Wynthorpe Hall, enjoying the crisp afternoon and the last of the summer wildflowers, when the Duke of Wyntham had materialized on the path ahead of them like a particularly well-dressed ghost.
He was, according to his own account, inspecting the boundary hedges.
This explanation might have been more convincing if the boundary hedges in question had not been inspected, by Lillian's count, at least three times in the past fortnight, and if the duke had not been walking in their precise direction rather than examining the shrubbery.
"The hedges appear to be in excellent condition," Lillian observed, keeping her voice carefully neutral. "Your steward must be commended."
"Simmons is a capable man." The duke's tone was stiff, formal, betraying nothing. But there was a faint color along his cheekbones that Lillian had learned to recognize as discomfort; the closest thing to embarrassment his rigid control would permit.
"Indeed he is. Though I confess I am curious about the specific nature of your concerns. Are hedgerows prone to particular maladies at this time of year?"
"Maladies." He repeated the word as though testing it for hidden meanings. "I would not call them maladies, precisely. There are considerations of growth patterns, boundary maintenance, pest management..."
"Pest management," Rosanne interjected, with suspicious brightness. "How fascinating. You must tell us more about pest management, Daniel. I am certain Miss Whitcombe would find it riveting."
"I would not wish to bore Miss Whitcombe with the details of estate management."
"You would not bore me at all, Your Grace.
" Lillian met his gaze directly, enjoying the flicker of surprise that crossed his features.
He was so accustomed to people accepting his dismissals without question; it seemed to disconcert him when someone pushed back.
"I have a genuine interest in practical matters.
Yesterday I read a treatise on crop rotation that I found quite engaging. "
"Did you?" Something shifted in his expression; not quite a softening, but a lessening of the rigid wariness. "Which treatise?"
"Thomas Coke's observations on the crop rotation. I found his arguments regarding turnips particularly compelling."
Daniel stared at her for a long moment, and Lillian had the disconcerting sense that she had said something unexpected. Which was absurd, she had merely mentioned a book, but he was looking at her as though she had said something unbelievable.
"You have read Coke's observations," he said.
"I have. Your library is quite extensive, and Rosanne was occupied with correspondence."
"You borrowed a book from my library."
"I did not realise I required permission." Lillian kept her voice light, though inwardly she was beginning to wonder if she had committed some social transgression she was unaware of. "If I have overstepped..."
"No." The word came out more forcefully than he seemed to have intended, and he moderated his tone with visible effort. "No, you have not overstepped. I am merely surprised. Most young ladies do not express interest in agricultural improvement."
"Most young ladies have not spent their lives on a modest country estate watching their fathers wrestle with the practical challenges of land management.
" Lillian smiled. "I am afraid I am rather boringly practical, Your Grace.
I find it difficult to work up enthusiasm for watercolours and pianoforte when there are more pressing matters to consider. "
"Boringly practical." He repeated the phrase slowly, as though turning it over in his mind. "I would not have described you as boring, Miss Whitcombe."
"How would you have described me?"
The question hung between them, charged with something Lillian could not quite name. Rosanne had fallen conspicuously silent, her gaze darting between them with barely concealed fascination.
"I would have described you as..." The duke paused, his brow furrowing. "Unexpected."
"Unexpected." Lillian considered this. "I suppose that is better than boring."
"Considerably better."
Was that almost a smile at the corner of his mouth? Lillian could not be certain, the expression was so fleeting, so quickly suppressed, but for just a moment, she thought she had seen it.
"Well," Rosanne announced, breaking the peculiar tension that had settled over them, "this has been a delightful discussion of hedgerows and agricultural improvement, but I find myself suddenly fatigued.
Lillian, would you mind terribly if we returned to the house?
Daniel, you are welcome to continue your inspection. "
"I believe I have inspected sufficiently for one afternoon."
"Then you shall walk with us. How lovely."
The duke looked as though he wanted to protest, but whatever objection he might have raised died before it reached his lips.
Instead, he fell into step beside them, beside Lillian, specifically, as Rosanne had somehow maneuvered herself to the far side of the path, and they walked in what might generously be called companionable silence.
Lillian was acutely aware of his presence at her side.
He was tall enough that she had to tilt her head slightly to meet his eyes, and broad enough that he seemed to occupy more space than strictly necessary.
There was something almost magnetic about him; a gravitational pull that she felt despite herself.
This is foolish, she told herself firmly. He is a duke. You are a country neighbor of modest means. Whatever this is, this awareness between you, it cannot lead anywhere sensible.
But sensibility, she was beginning to realize, was less straightforward than she had always assumed.
They walked the rest of the way in silence, and if Daniel's pace matched hers exactly, if he shortened his stride to accommodate her steps, if his arm occasionally brushed against hers as they navigated the uneven ground, neither of them mentioned it.
***
Three days later, Lillian arrived at Wynthorpe Hall to find Rosanne delayed by a crisis involving the housekeeper and a shipment of linens that had gone inexplicably astray.
A flustered maid directed Lillian to wait in the morning room, but Lillian, restless after the walk from Hartfield and disinclined to sit in a chair doing nothing, decided to wander instead.
She found herself in the stable yard.
It was a beautiful space; clean and well-maintained, with stalls lining both sides of a cobbled courtyard. The smell of hay and horse was warm and familiar, reminding Lillian of the stables at Hartfield before her father had been forced to sell off their better mounts.
She was examining a handsome bay mare when a voice behind her said, "she is called Minerva. After the goddess."
Lillian turned. The duke was standing at the entrance to the yard, dressed in riding clothes, his dark hair slightly disordered as though he had just dismounted. There was a smudge of something on his glove, dirt, perhaps, or leather oil, that made him look unexpectedly human.
"She is beautiful," Lillian said, reaching out to stroke the mare's velvet nose. Minerva accepted the attention with queenly condescension. "Does she ride well?"
"Excellently. Though she can be temperamental with unfamiliar handlers."
"She seems perfectly docile to me."
"She does, doesn't she?" The duke moved closer, his footsteps quiet on the cobblestones. "She does not usually take to strangers so readily. You must have a way with horses."
"I grew up around them. My father used to say I was born in the saddle." Lillian smiled at the memory. "That was an exaggeration, of course, but I was riding before I could walk. Or so the family legend claims."
"You ride, then?"
"I did. We sold our horses several years ago, when..." She hesitated, uncertain how much to reveal. "When circumstances required it."
The duke was quiet for a moment, and Lillian thought she saw something flicker across his face; sympathy, perhaps, or understanding. He knew, of course, that her family's circumstances were modest. It was impossible to live in the same county without knowing such things.
"If you wish to ride," he said, "you need only ask. My stables are at your disposal."
The words came out stiff, formal, as though he were offering the use of his stables to a casual acquaintance rather than extending a genuine kindness. But there was something in his eyes, something almost tentative, that suggested the offer meant more than his tone implied.
"That is very generous, Your Grace."
"It is merely practical. Horses require exercise, and my grooms can only ride so many at once."
"Of course. Practical."
"Entirely practical."
They looked at each other across the space of the stable yard, and Lillian felt that peculiar electricity again; that awareness that seemed to crackle between them whenever they were in proximity.
"I would like that very much," she said quietly. "Thank you."
He nodded, a short, sharp movement, and looked away. "Rosanne will be wondering where you are."
"Yes. I suppose she will."
Neither of them moved.
"Miss Whitcombe..." He began.
"Lillian!" Rosanne's voice rang across the yard, and the moment shattered like glass. "There you are! I have been looking everywhere. The linen crisis has been resolved, and the Cook has made the most wonderful seed-cake. You must come at once."
Lillian stepped back from Minerva, smoothing her hands over her skirts in a gesture that was becoming habitual. "Of course. I was just admiring the horses."