Chapter Six #2
"Yes, I can see that." Rosanne's gaze moved between Lillian and her brother with an expression of barely suppressed glee. "Daniel, how lovely that you were here to keep her company."
"I was merely passing through."
"Naturally. You are always merely passing through."
The duke shot his sister a look that promised retribution, but Rosanne was already linking her arm through Lillian's and guiding her toward the house.
"Seed-cake," she announced. "And then you must help me decide what to wear to Lady Smith's gathering. I have three gowns that might be suitable, and I cannot choose between them."
Lillian allowed herself to be led away, but she glanced back once as they crossed the yard.
The duke was still standing by Minerva's stall, watching her go.
***
The village encounter happened four days after the stable yard.
Lillian had walked to the village to purchase ribbon, a small gift for Rosanne, a thank-you for the friendship that had become unexpectedly precious to her, and she was emerging from the haberdasher's with her modest purchase when she nearly collided with the Duke of Wyntham.
He was coming out of the blacksmith's shop, and he looked quite different. His coat was slung over one arm, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, and there was a smudge of soot along his jaw that suggested he had been doing something more involved than merely placing an order.
"Miss Whitcombe." He stopped short, looking almost as surprised to see her as she was to see him.
"Your Grace." Lillian could not quite suppress her smile. "You have something on your face."
His hand went to his jaw automatically, then dropped when he realized the gesture was undignified. "I was assisting with a repair. One of the estate gates required attention."
"You were assisting the blacksmith?"
"The situation was urgent."
Lillian's smile widened. She had not imagined the Duke of Wyntham as the sort of man who rolled up his sleeves and assisted with manual labor, but she found she rather liked the image. It made him seem more human; less the untouchable aristocrat and more the capable master of a working estate.
"You have soot on your jaw," she said. "Just there." She gestured to the corresponding spot on her own face.
He scrubbed at his jaw with the back of his hand, managing only to spread the smudge further. "Better?"
"Worse, actually."
He made a sound that might, in a less controlled man, have been a laugh. "Then I shall have to trust that the population of the village is not easily scandalised by dishevelled dukes."
"I suspect they have seen worse."
"That is not reassuring."
They were smiling at each other, actually smiling, without the usual armor of formality between them, and Lillian felt something flutter in her chest. It was absurd.
She was standing in the middle of the village street, exchanging pleasantries with a soot-stained duke, and she could not remember the last time she had felt so light.
"May I walk with you?" he asked. "If you are returning to Hartfield, our paths align for some distance."
"I would like that."
They fell into step together, and for a few minutes they simply walked, discussing nothing of consequence. Just the weather, the harvest and the blacksmith's new apprentice, who showed promise but had much to learn.
It was easy. Surprisingly, unexpectedly easy.
"You are different here," Lillian observed, as they passed the village green. "In the village, I mean. Less..."
"Less cold?" He glanced at her sidelong. "Less forbidding?"
"I was going to say less formal. But those work as well."
"I am less formal here because the stakes are lower." He paused, seeming to weigh his next words. "In London, or at my estates, every interaction is observed and analysed. Every word I speak is repeated and interpreted. I have learned to guard myself accordingly."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is." The admission seemed to surprise him as much as it surprised her. "It is extraordinarily exhausting. But it is the price of the position."
"Must it be?"
He looked at her and Lillian saw something flicker in his eyes. Something almost like longing.
"I do not know," he said quietly. "I have never considered the alternative."
Before Lillian could respond, a voice called out from across the green.
"Your Grace! Miss Whitcombe! What a delightful surprise!"
It was Mrs. Hendricks, the wife of one of the tenant farmers, approaching with a basket on her arm and a knowing smile on her face. Lillian felt the duke stiffen beside her, his walls slamming back into place with almost audible force.
"Mrs. Hendricks." His voice was cool again, formal. "Good afternoon."
"Good afternoon, Your Grace. Taking a stroll, are we? How lovely. The weather is so fine, is it not? Perfect for a walk. With company."
The emphasis on company was unmistakable. Lillian felt heat rise to her cheeks, though she could not have said whether it was embarrassment or something else entirely.
"I was returning to Hartfield," she said. "His Grace was kind enough to offer to accompany me part of the way."
"How kind indeed." Mrs. Hendricks's smile widened. "Well, I shall not keep you. Good afternoon, Your Grace. Miss Whitcombe."
She bustled off, and Lillian was left standing in the street with a duke who had gone as rigid as a statue.
"I should..." He began.
"Yes," Lillian agreed, though she did not know what she was agreeing to.
"The estate..."
"Of course."
They stood there for an awkward moment, all the easy warmth of their conversation evaporated in the face of Mrs. Hendricks's knowing smile.
"Good afternoon, Miss Whitcombe."
"Good afternoon, Your Grace."
He turned and walked away, his long stride carrying him quickly out of sight. Lillian stood where she was for a long moment, the ribbon still clutched in her hand, trying to understand what had just happened.
She had seen him, the real him, the man beneath the title, and then she had watched him disappear behind his walls again.
It should not have hurt as much as it did.
***
The library encounter was the last.
Lillian had arrived at Wynthorpe Hall to find Rosanne occupied with her dressmaker, final adjustments to the gown she would wear to Lady Smith's gathering, and had been directed to wait in the library.
The library at Wynthorpe was magnificent. Two stories of books, accessible by a spiraling staircase and a gallery that ran along the upper level. Lillian had wandered its shelves on previous visits, selecting volumes on agriculture and estate management that Rosanne found extremely dull.
Today, she had chosen a treatise on soil composition and was curled in a window seat, entirely absorbed in a chapter on the benefits of marl, when the door opened.
She looked up.
The duke stood frozen in the doorway, clearly not expecting to find anyone in residence. He was dressed for work rather than receiving visitors, his coat slightly rumpled, his cravat loosened, and there was an ink stain on his right hand that suggested he had been dealing with correspondence.
"Miss Whitcombe."
"Your Grace." She did not rise from the window seat, though propriety suggested she should. "Forgive me. I did not mean to intrude on your sanctuary."
"My sanctuary?"
"The library. Is it not where you retreat when you wish to escape company?"
He was silent for a moment, and Lillian wondered if she had overstepped. But then the corner of his mouth twitched, almost, almost a smile, and he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.
"It is. Though I find I am not as eager to escape as I once was."
He moved toward her, stopping at a respectful distance but close enough that Lillian could see the detail of his features; the dark eyes that watched her so intently, the strong line of his jaw, the faint furrow between his brows that seemed to be his permanent expression.
"What are you reading?" he asked.
She held up the book, showing him the spine. "Soil composition. The chapter on marl is particularly interesting."
"You are reading about marl."
"I told you I was boringly practical."
"And I told you that you were not boring." He moved closer, glancing at the page she had been reading. "This is rather technical material."
"I find I enjoy technical material. It gives me the sense that problems can be solved. That there are answers, if one is willing to look for them."
"Not all problems have answers."
"No. But more, than most people assume, do."
He looked at her then and Lillian felt the weight of his attention like a physical thing. There was something in his expression that she had not seen before, something that went beyond casual interest or polite curiosity.
"You are unlike anyone I have ever met," he said quietly.
"Is that a compliment?"
"It is an observation. Whether it is a compliment depends on one's perspective."
"And what is your perspective, Your Grace?"
The question hung between them, laden with implications neither of them was quite ready to acknowledge. Lillian's heart was beating faster than it should, faster than a simple conversation about books and soil composition could justify.
"My perspective," he said slowly, "is still forming."
"That is a very diplomatic answer."
"I am a duke. Diplomacy is among my few talents."
"I suspect you have more talents than you acknowledge."
"And I suspect you see more than you should."
It was the most honest thing he had ever said to her. Lillian felt her breath catch, her chest tightening with something that felt dangerously like hope.
"Perhaps," she said, "we are both guilty of seeing too much."
Before he could respond, the library door swung open and Rosanne burst in, flushed with excitement.
"Lillian! My gown is finished, and it is beautiful. You must come and see it immediately. Daniel, do not monopolise my friend. She was here to see me, not to discuss whatever dusty tome you are trying to foist upon her."
The duke stepped back, the walls slamming down so quickly Lillian almost heard them crash.
"Of course," he said, his voice cool and formal once more. "I would not dream of monopolising Miss Whitcombe's time."
He glanced at her once more, a quick, unreadable look, and then walked past Rosanne and out of the room.
Lillian watched him go, her heart still beating too fast.
"Was he being terrible?" Rosanne asked, linking her arm through Lillian's. "He was probably being terrible. He does not know how to be otherwise."
"He was not terrible," Lillian said quietly. "He was…….Unexpected."
Rosanne's eyes sharpened with interest, but she did not press. Instead, she simply squeezed Lillian's arm and led her toward the door.
"The gown," she announced. "And then tea. And then you must tell me everything."
Lillian went with her, and she did not look back at the empty library.