Chapter Seven
"The seating arrangement, Your Grace. Mrs. Gerald requires your approval before the place cards can be written."
Daniel looked up from his correspondence to find Simmons standing in the doorway, a sheet of paper in his hand and an expression of patient expectation on his face.
The harvest dinner. Of course. He had nearly managed to forget about it, or rather, he had deliberately avoided thinking about it, which was not quite the same thing but served a similar purpose.
"Place it on the desk," he said. "I shall review it presently."
"Mrs. Gerald did emphasize that presently should mean within the hour, Your Grace. The penman has been engaged for this afternoon, and she wishes to avoid any last-minute alterations."
Daniel suppressed a sigh. The harvest dinner was one of Wyntham’s oldest traditions; an annual gathering where the duke hosted his senior tenants, the local vicar, and various other worthies of the neighborhood for an evening of food, conversation, and the careful maintenance of social bonds that kept the estate running smoothly.
His father had loathed the event; his mother had treated it as a theatrical production in which she was the undisputed star.
Daniel merely endured it, as he endured most social obligations, with grim efficiency and a fervent wish for it to be over.
This year, however, the dinner carried an additional complication.
He took the seating chart from Simmons and examined it with more attention than such a document typically warranted.
The names were arranged in neat columns, Mr. and Mrs. Garrett, Mr. and Mrs. Hobbs, the vicar and his wife, various other tenant families, with blank spaces indicating where Daniel and Rosanne would be positioned at the head of the table.
And there, nestled between Rosanne and Mrs. Garrett, was the name that had been occupying far too much of his attention in recent weeks.
Miss Lillian Whitcombe.
"I was not aware Miss Whitcombe had been included on the guest list," he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
"Lady Rosanne requested her inclusion, Your Grace. She indicated that Miss Whitcombe's presence would provide her with…… Moral support, I believe was the phrase used."
Of course Rosanne had requested it. His sister had become increasingly transparent in her efforts to throw Daniel and Miss Whitcombe together, manufacturing excuses for shared company.
The painting lessons, the walks that somehow always coincided with his inspections of the grounds, the convenient headaches that required her to lie down, leaving Daniel alone with her friend.
He should put a stop to it. He should make it clear to Rosanne that her matchmaking efforts were neither welcome nor appropriate.
He should do many things.
"The placement seems adequate," he said, setting down the chart. "You may inform Mrs. Gerald that she has my approval."
"Very good, Your Grace. And may I say, it is gratifying to see Wynthorpe hosting more varied company than in previous years. Miss Whitcombe has been a pleasant addition to the household."
Daniel looked up sharply, but Simmons's expression was blandly professional, revealing nothing of what he might be implying beneath the surface.
"That will be all, Simmons."
"Your Grace."
The steward departed, and Daniel was left alone with the seating chart and the uncomfortable awareness that even his servants had begun to notice his preoccupation with Miss Lillian Whitcombe.
This would not do.
He returned the chart to the corner of his desk and picked up his quill pen, determined to focus on the correspondence that awaited his attention.
A letter from his solicitor regarding the Sussex property.
A request from a London acquaintance seeking his support for some parliamentary initiative.
An invitation to a hunting gathering that he had no intention of accepting.
Normal matters, mundane matters, matters that had nothing whatsoever to do with a certain country neighbor with steady eyes and a disconcerting habit of seeing straight through him.
The quill pen hovered over the paper but the words did not come.
Daniel set down the quill pen with rather more force than necessary and stared at the wall.
The harvest dinner was in three days. He would be required to host, to converse, to fulfill his duties as a Duke with appropriate grace and dignity. Miss Whitcombe would be present. She would sit at his table, eat his food, exist in his space for an entire evening.
He could manage one evening. Surely he could manage one evening.
The question was whether he could manage it without betraying the unwelcome awareness that had taken root in his chest; the awareness that noticed when she entered a room, that tracked her movements without his conscious permission, that catalogued the precise shade of her eyes and the exact quality of her laugh.
It was intolerable and it was inappropriate. It was, if he was being entirely honest with himself, becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
Daniel retrieved the seating chart and examined it once more. Miss Whitcombe was placed near Rosanne, as was proper, since she was a guest of his sister's, seated in proximity to her hostess. But the arrangement also placed her directly in his line of sight from the head of the table.
He should move her. He should place her somewhere less visible. Somewhere he would not be forced to look at her every time he raised his eyes from his plate.
His quill pen hovered over her name.
He could move her next to the vicar's wife, a pleasant but voluble woman whose constant chatter would prevent any meaningful conversation.
Or beside old Mr. Garrett, who was nearly deaf and required one to shout to be heard.
Or at the far end of the table, where she would be lost among the tenant farmers and their wives.
The pen remained suspended because he did not make the alteration.
Instead, he found himself moving her name closer; not to Rosanne's seat, but to his own. One place removed from his right hand, where he would be able to hear her voice, observe her expressions, perhaps even exchange a word or two during the meal.
He stared at the revised arrangement for a long moment.
Then, with a muttered oath that would have scandalized his late mother, he crossed out the change and moved her back to her original position.
Mrs. Gerald could have her seating chart. And Daniel could have the small comfort of knowing that he had not entirely lost his senses.
Not entirely.
Not yet.
***
The evening of the harvest dinner arrived with the sort of crisp autumn weather that seemed designed to remind the English countryside of its own picturesque beauty.
The trees had begun their transformation from green to gold, the air carried the scent of wood smoke and fallen leaves, and the great hall of Wynthorpe had been polished and prepared until it gleamed in the candlelight like something from a painting.
Daniel stood at the entrance, greeting his guests as they arrived, and tried very hard not to watch the door for one particular figure.
"Your Grace, how kind of you to continue this tradition." Mrs. Garrett pressed his hand with maternal warmth. "Mr. Garrett speaks of your father's dinners often; though I must say, the arrangements this year are far more elegant. Your mother's influence, no doubt."
"My sister's influence, more accurately," Daniel replied. "Rosanne has taken a particular interest in the preparations."
"Lady Rosanne is a credit to the family. Such a sweet girl. And I understand she has made a new friend? Miss Whitcombe from Hartfield?"
"Yes. They have become quite close."
"How lovely. Miss Whitcombe is a delightful young woman. So practical and sensible. Not at all like some of these London misses with their airs and affectations." Mrs. Garrett patted his arm with comfortable familiarity. "You could do far worse, Your Grace."
Daniel stiffened. "I beg your pardon?"
"For Lady Rosanne's companion, I mean. A steadying influence. That is what young girls need, is it not? A steadying influence."
"Ah. Yes. Quite."
Mrs. Garrett moved on, and Daniel was left to wonder whether her comment had been as innocent as it appeared or whether the entire county had begun speculating about his interest in Miss Whitcombe.
The vicar arrived next, followed by his wife and a parade of tenant families in their finest clothes.
Daniel greeted each with appropriate courtesy, exchanging pleasantries about the harvest, the weather, the general state of the neighborhood.
It was precisely the sort of social performance he had spent a lifetime perfecting; warm enough to convey goodwill, distant enough to maintain proper boundaries.
And then, at last, the door opened once more.
Rosanne entered first, radiant in pale pink silk that made her look younger than her seventeen years.
She was smiling, genuinely smiling, not the nervous grimace she typically wore at social gatherings, and Daniel felt a surge of gratitude toward whatever influence had produced such a transformation in his anxious sister.
Behind her, dressed in a gown of deep blue that made her eyes seem almost luminous in the candlelight, was Miss Lillian Whitcombe.
Daniel's breath caught.
He had seen her many times now. In the morning room, in the gardens, in the library where she read his books without permission. He should be accustomed to her appearance, immune to whatever effect she had on his composure.
But he was not.
Tonight, she looked different. Not more beautiful, precisely, she had always been beautiful, in her quiet, unassuming way, but more present. More vivid. As though someone had taken a slightly faded portrait and restored it to its original brilliance.
"Daniel!" Rosanne swept toward him, her hand extended. "Is everything not wonderful? Lillian helped me arrange the flowers this afternoon. She has the most exquisite eye for colour."