Chapter Eight #2
"Yes, Your Grace. Of course, Your Grace. I am so terribly..."
"Go."
The carter went, hastening back to his cart with the speed of a man who recognized when he had exhausted his welcome. Daniel watched him go, his jaw tight, his fists clenched at his sides.
"We should return to the Hall," he said, without looking at either of them. "Miss Whitcombe should be examined by a physician. That fall..."
"I am quite well," Lillian interjected. "A few bruises, nothing more."
"You do not know that. You could have injuries that are not immediately apparent. Internal damage, or..."
"Daniel." Rosanne's voice was gentle but firm. "Lillian says she is well. Perhaps we might take her word for it."
He looked at his sister then, looked at both of them, and Lillian saw the fear that still lurked beneath his rigid composure.
He was not well. Whatever had happened in those frantic seconds when he had pulled her from the path of the cart, it had shaken him in ways that went far beyond the physical danger.
"My horse," he said abruptly. "I left him...I must have..."
He turned, scanning the lane, and Lillian followed his gaze to where a handsome bay stood calmly cropping grass at the verge, its reins trailing on the ground. The horse seemed entirely unbothered by the drama that had just unfolded, its placid demeanor a stark contrast to its master's agitation.
"There, you see?" Rosanne said. "Your horse is perfectly safe. We are all perfectly safe. Perhaps we might proceed to the village as planned, and..."
"The village can wait." Daniel's voice was flat, brooking no argument. "We are returning to Wynthorpe. Miss Whitcombe will see a physician."
"Your Grace..." Lillian began.
"This is not a discussion."
He strode toward his horse, catching the reins and swinging into the saddle with a fluid motion that spoke of years of practice. From atop the bay, he looked down at them with an expression that was almost frightening in its intensity.
"Can you walk? Both of you?"
"We can walk," Rosanne confirmed. "But Daniel..."
"Then walk. I will ride ahead and send the carriage to meet you."
He was gone before either of them could protest, the bay's hooves drumming against the road as he urged the horse into a canter. Lillian watched him go, her heart still pounding, her mind struggling to process what had just happened.
"Well," Rosanne said, after a long moment of silence. "That was illuminating."
"Was it?"
"My brother just flung himself off a moving horse to save your life, Lillian.
And then he carried on as though you had broken every bone in your body rather than merely gotten a bit muddy.
" Rosanne's expression was a complicated mixture of amusement and something deeper.
"If you still believe he feels nothing for you, I fear you may be the least observant woman in England. "
Lillian did not reply. She was still watching the road, where Daniel had disappeared around the bend, and she was thinking about the way he had said her name, Lillian, with a desperate tenderness that she had never heard from him before.
She was thinking about his arms around her, strong and sure and terrified.
She was thinking about the look in his eyes when he had asked if she was hurt.
And she was beginning to believe that Rosanne might be right after all.
***
The carriage arrived within twenty minutes, and by the time they reached Wynthorpe Hall, Daniel had already summoned the local physician and was pacing the entrance hall with the barely contained energy of a caged animal.
"Miss Whitcombe. This way, if you please."
He did not wait for her response; he simply turned and led her toward the small parlor where, apparently, the physician was waiting to conduct his examination. Lillian followed, too bewildered by the speed of events to protest.
The examination itself was brief and conclusive: she was, as she had insisted, perfectly well. A few bruises on her hip and shoulder where she had landed in the ditch, but nothing that rest and a warm bath would not cure.
"The young lady is in excellent health," Mr. Morris announced, emerging from the parlor with his bag in hand. "No broken bones, no internal injuries, no cause for concern. I recommend a quiet afternoon and perhaps a glass of wine with dinner, but beyond that, there is nothing to treat."
Daniel, who had been standing rigidly by the parlor door, seemed to deflate slightly.
"You are certain?"
"Quite certain, Your Grace. Miss Whitcombe is a remarkably resilient young woman."
"Yes," Daniel said quietly. "She is."
The physician departed, and Lillian found herself alone with the duke in the entrance hall. Rosanne had been whisked away by Mrs. Gerald for tea and sympathy, leaving them in a silence that felt suddenly, impossibly heavy.
"I owe you my thanks," Lillian said finally. "If you had not been there..."
"Do not." His voice was rough. "Do not thank me."
"But..."
"I was terrified." The admission seemed to cost him something; she could see it in the tightening of his jaw, the way his hands clenched at his sides.
"When I saw the cart coming, when I saw you in its path, I was more frightened than I have ever been in my life.
And I do not..." He broke off, turning away from her. "I do not know what to do with that."
Lillian stood very still, her heart beating hard in her chest.
"You saved my life," she said softly.
"Anyone would have done the same."
"Perhaps. But you were not just anyone. You were you." She took a step toward him, then another. "And I think…..I think that matters."
He turned to face her, and Lillian saw the struggle in his expression; the war between the walls he had built and the emotions that threatened to breach them.
"Miss Whitcombe..."
"Lillian." She was close enough now to touch him, though she did not. "You called me Lillian. When you thought I might be hurt."
"That was...I should not have..."
"You should have. You should call me Lillian." She held his gaze, refusing to look away. "And I should like to call you Daniel. If you will permit it."
The silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring.
"This is not wise," he said finally.
"No. It is not."
"There are a thousand reasons why this, whatever this is, cannot end well."
"I know."
"Then why..."
"Because I am tired of being wise." Lillian's voice was barely above a whisper. "And I think, perhaps, you are too."
He did not answer. But something in his expression shifted, a crack in the wall, a glimpse of the man beneath the duke, and Lillian knew, with sudden certainty, that she was not imagining this.
Whatever this was between them, it was real.
And it was not going away.
***
That evening, a note arrived at Hartfield.
Lillian was in her room, having finally submitted to her mother's insistence that she rest after her ordeal, when the maid brought it in on a silver tray.
The Wyntham seal. The familiar angular handwriting.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
Miss Whitcombe,
I must apologise for my behaviour this afternoon. I was not myself.
Wynthorpe.
Lillian read the note once. Twice. Three times.
Then she turned it over, looking for more; for some acknowledgment of what had passed between them, some explanation of his wild fear, some hint of what he truly felt.
There was nothing.
But the paper smelled faintly of sandalwood. And when she held it to the candlelight, she could see where the pen had pressed too hard on the word myself, leaving an indent that spoke of emotion forcibly restrained.
He had written more. She was certain of it. He had written more, and then he had crossed it out, or crumpled it and started again, until only these few safe words remained.
I was not myself.
No. He had been entirely himself. That was the problem.
Lillian set the note on her bedside table and lay back against her pillows, staring at the ceiling.
Sleep was long in coming.