Chapter Eight
"And when Lady Smith asks about my accomplishments, I shall simply smile mysteriously and change the subject. That is what sophisticated young ladies do, is it not? Smile mysteriously?"
Lillian laughed, watching Rosanne attempt to arrange her features into an expression of sophisticated mystery. The effect was more comical than alluring, and Rosanne herself dissolved into giggles after a moment.
"I believe sophisticated mystery requires rather more practice than we have time for," Lillian said. "Perhaps we might focus on a different approach."
"Such as?"
"Such as honesty. When Lady Smith asks about your accomplishments, you might simply tell her the truth; that you paint watercolours with enthusiasm if not precision, that you read widely and think deeply, and that you have no interest in performing like a trained animal for the amusement of your social betters. "
Rosanne's eyes widened. "I cannot say that."
"Perhaps not in those exact words. But the sentiment, suitably softened, might serve you well.
" Lillian linked her arm through Rosanne's as they walked along the lane toward the village.
The morning was bright and crisp, the hedgerows glittering with the remnants of an early frost. "Lady Smith respects confidence.
If you approach her gathering as though you have nothing to prove and no one to impress, she will find you far more interesting than if you try to be something you are not. "
"You make it sound so simple."
"It is not simple. But it is true."
They walked in companionable silence for a moment, their footsteps crunching on the gravel lane.
The village was perhaps a mile ahead, and they had decided to walk rather than take the carriage; partly for the exercise, partly for the privacy it afforded them away from the watchful eyes of servants.
"Lillian?" Rosanne's voice had gone quieter, more uncertain.
"Yes?"
"May I ask you something? You need not answer if it is too personal."
"You may ask."
"Last night. After the dinner. When I left you alone with Daniel." Rosanne hesitated, her fingers tightening on Lillian's arm. "Something happened, did it not? Between you and my brother?"
Lillian felt her cheeks warm despite the cool morning air. She had been expecting this question, dreading it, in truth, ever since she had emerged from the sitting room to find Rosanne waiting in the hall with an expression of barely contained curiosity.
"Nothing happened," she said carefully. "We spoke briefly. Then I departed."
"But the way he looked at you..."
"Your brother looks at everyone that way. It is his natural expression."
"It is not." Rosanne stopped walking, turning to face Lillian with an intensity that was almost startling. "I have known Daniel my entire life. I have seen him at balls, at dinners, at every manner of social gathering. He does not look at other women the way he looks at you."
"Rosanne..."
"He watches you, Lillian. When you enter a room, his attention goes to you and stays there.
When you laugh, he leans toward the sound without seeming to realise he is doing it.
When you leave, he..." She broke off, shaking her head.
"He is not subtle. For a man who prides himself on his control, he is remarkably transparent when it comes to you. "
Lillian did not know what to say. She had noticed, of course, but she had told herself it meant nothing.
That the duke was simply unused to her presence in his household, that his attention was watchfulness rather than interest, that whatever awareness seemed to crackle between them was merely her imagination.
But Rosanne was confirming what Lillian had been afraid to believe.
"Even if what you say is true," she said slowly, "it does not change the reality of our situation. Your brother is a duke. I am a country gentleman's daughter of modest means. Whatever he might feel, if he feels anything at all, is irrelevant."
"Why?"
"Because he would never act on it. Because society would never accept it. Because..."
"Because you are afraid."
The words landed with unexpected force. Lillian stared at Rosanne, startled by the perception behind the gentle accusation.
"I am not afraid."
"You are. You are afraid to hope for something that seems impossible, because hoping for impossible things only leads to disappointment.
" Rosanne's expression softened. "I understand that fear, Lillian.
I live with it every day. But I have learned, from you, in fact, that survival is possible even when the worst happens.
That life continues even when our hopes are dashed. "
"This is not the same."
"Is it not?" Rosanne resumed walking, and Lillian fell into step beside her, her thoughts churning.
"My brother is not happy, Lillian. He has not been happy for as long as I can remember.
He keeps himself locked away in his control and his duty and his endless estate business, and he tells himself that this is enough.
But it is not. Anyone with eyes can see it is not. "
"And you believe I could make him happy?"
"I believe you already have. More than you know."
Lillian opened her mouth to respond, to protest, to deflect, to retreat behind the same practical resignation that had governed her life for so long, when the sound of hoof-beats broke through the quiet morning.
She looked up.
A cart was coming around the bend ahead—moving too fast, the horse's hooves pounding against the hard-packed road with a rhythm that spoke of panic rather than purpose. A man was hauling on the reins, his face white with strain, but the horse was beyond his control.
"Move!" Lillian grabbed Rosanne's arm and pulled her toward the hedgerow. "Move, now!"
They stumbled off the road, Rosanne's foot catching on a root as they scrambled for safety. Lillian shoved her toward the relative protection of the hedge and turned back.
The horse was rearing. The cart was swinging. The world was a chaos of movement and sound and the terrible certainty that she was not going to get out of the way in time.
And then...
Arms around her waist. The ground rushing past. The impact of a body against hers, bearing her sideways and down, rolling them both into the ditch at the side of the road as the cart careened past in a thunderous blur of wood and iron and terrified animal.
Lillian lay in the mud, gasping for breath, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
Someone was on top of her. Someone solid and heavy and warm, his arms still locked around her waist, his breath harsh against her hair.
"Are you hurt?" The voice was rough, ragged, barely recognizable. "Lillian, are you hurt?"
Lillian.
She knew that voice. She knew the arms that held her, the broad shoulders that blocked out the sky, the familiar scent of sandalwood and leather that surrounded her.
"Your Grace?" she whispered.
Daniel, for it was undeniably, impossibly Daniel, lifted his head and looked down at her. His face was pale, his eyes wild, his expression stripped of every defence he had ever constructed.
He was terrified. Absolutely terrified.
"Are you hurt?" he repeated, and his voice cracked on the question like ice fracturing under pressure.
"I am...I am well. I think." Lillian tried to move, to assess her own condition, but his arms tightened around her, refusing to release their grip. "Your Grace...Daniel...I cannot breathe."
The use of his Christian name seemed to shock him back to himself. He released her immediately, rolling away and scrambling to his feet with a grace that belied the violence of their fall. His coat was torn, his cravat ruined, his dark hair disordered and dotted with leaves and mud.
He had never looked more human. Or more devastatingly handsome.
"What on earth happened?" He was not looking at her now; he was scanning the road, the hedgerow, the retreating form of the cart as the driver finally regained control and brought the panicked horse to a halt some distance away. "Rosanne? Where is Rosanne?"
"I am here." Rosanne emerged from behind the hedge, pale but uninjured.
"I am perfectly well. Lillian pushed me out of the way before.
.." She stopped, taking in the scene before her: her brother standing wild-eyed in the road, Lillian struggling to rise from the ditch, both of them covered in mud and looking as though they had barely survived a battle.
"Daniel." Rosanne's voice was strange. "How did you… You were not with us. How did you come to be here?"
It was a fair question. Lillian found herself wondering the same thing. They had walked from Wynthorpe Hall; there had been no sign of the duke when they departed. And yet here he was, appearing as if from nowhere at the precise moment when his presence was most desperately needed.
"I was riding." Daniel's voice had regained some of its customary control, though his hands were still shaking. "I saw the cart coming. I saw you on the road. I..." He stopped, swallowing hard. "It does not matter. What matters is that you are both uninjured."
"Thanks to you," Lillian said softly.
She had risen to her feet, unsteadily, her legs not quite willing to cooperate, and now stood facing him across the few yards that separated them.
The carter was approaching, babbling apologies and explanations, but Lillian barely heard him.
Her attention was fixed on Daniel, on the raw emotion that still flickered beneath the surface of his expression.
He had saved her life. He had appeared from nowhere and flung himself into danger to protect her.
That was not how a man reacted to a casual acquaintance.
"Your Grace." The carter had reached them now, cap in hand, his weathered face crumpled with distress. "I am so sorry, the horse is young, barely trained, and something spooked him, I could not hold him."
"See to your animal," Daniel said shortly. "And thank whatever providence watched over us that no one was killed."