Chapter Fifteen
On the morning of the fourth day, Lillian made a decision.
She would return to Wynthorpe Hall. Not because she expected Daniel to see her, she had abandoned that hope, but because Rosanne was her friend, and she would not allow Daniel's cowardice to destroy that friendship as well.
She dressed simply, without any of the care she had taken on that first morning. She did not choose colors he might notice or arrange her hair in styles he might admire. She dressed as herself, Lillian Whitcombe, practical and sensible, and she refused to feel ashamed of it.
The ride to Wynthorpe felt longer than usual.
The sky was grey, heavy with the promise of rain, and the wind had a bite to it that spoke of approaching winter.
Lillian pulled her cloak more tightly around her shoulders and tried not to think about the last time she had traveled this road; hopeful and nervous, so certain that she was riding toward happiness.
The butler admitted her with the same professional courtesy as always, though Lillian thought she detected a flicker of something, sympathy, perhaps, in his carefully neutral expression.
"Lady Rosanne is in the morning room, Miss Whitcombe. Shall I announce you?"
"Thank you, yes."
She followed him through the familiar corridors, her heart heavy in her chest. She had walked these halls so many times over the past months, growing more comfortable with each visit, more at ease in this house that had begun to feel almost like a second home.
Now it felt foreign. Hostile. The elegant wallpaper and gleaming furniture seemed to mock her presumption; the country neighbour who had dared to imagine she might belong here.
Rosanne was waiting in the morning room, her face pale and anxious. She rose as Lillian entered, crossing the space between them with quick, urgent steps.
"Lillian. Oh, Lillian, thank goodness you have come." She took Lillian's hands in hers, squeezing tightly. "I have been so worried. When you did not reply to my letter..."
"I apologise. I did not know what to say."
"There is nothing to apologise for. This is Daniel's doing, not yours." Rosanne's expression darkened. "I could murder him, Lillian. I truly could. After everything…..To treat you like this….."
"Rosanne." Lillian freed her hands gently and moved to sit on the settee. "Please. I did not come to discuss your brother."
"But we must discuss him. Someone must make him see reason..."
"No." The word came out sharper than Lillian intended, and she saw Rosanne flinch. She softened her tone. "I appreciate your concern. Truly, I do. But I cannot force a man to feel what he does not feel, and I will not demean myself by trying."
"But he does feel."
"Does he?" Lillian met her friend's eyes steadily.
"He told me he loved me, Rosanne. He held me in his arms and made me believe that what we felt was real and significant and worth fighting for.
And then, less than a day later, he refused to see me.
He has sent no word, no explanation, no acknowledgment that I exist."
"Because he is frightened."
"I know he is frightened. I have always known he was frightened.
But there comes a point when fear ceases to be an explanation and becomes merely an excuse.
" Lillian's voice trembled slightly, but she pressed on.
"I cannot build a life with a man who runs every time emotion becomes too intense.
I cannot spend my years waiting for him to decide whether his love for me outweighs his terror of feeling anything at all. "
Rosanne was silent for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice was subdued.
"I understand. I do not agree, but I understand.
" She sank onto the settee beside Lillian, her shoulders slumping.
"I had such hopes, you know. When I saw how he looked at you, when I realised that you had somehow breached those terrible walls of his, I thought perhaps.
.." She trailed off, shaking her head. "But it does not matter what I thought. What matters is what you need."
"What I need is to stop hoping for things that are not going to happen." Lillian reached out and took Rosanne's hand. "But that does not mean our friendship must end. You are dear to me, Rosanne —quite apart from any feelings I may have had for your brother. I would not wish to lose you."
"Nor I you." Rosanne squeezed her hand, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "You are the best friend I have ever had, Lillian. The only person who has ever seen me as myself, rather than as the Duke of Wyntham’s anxious little sister."
"Then let us speak no more of dukes and their foolishness. Tell me—what news of Lady Smith's house gathering? Has she sent the details of your arrival?"
The change of subject was deliberate, and Rosanne accepted it gratefully. They spent the next hour discussing the upcoming gathering, the guests who would attend, the activities that would be offered, Rosanne's anxieties about navigating the social complexities of such an event.
It was almost comfortable. Almost normal. If Lillian did not allow herself to think about the man closeted in his study a few corridors away, she could almost pretend that nothing had changed.
Almost.
***
They were deep in discussion of appropriate dinner conversation when the door opened and Daniel walked in.
Lillian's heart stopped.
He looked terrible. That was the only word for it.
His face was pale, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion, his usually immaculate appearance showing small signs of neglect; a cravat not quite perfectly tied, a coat that did not sit quite right on his shoulders.
He looked like a man who had not slept in days, who had been fighting a battle with himself and losing.
He also looked like a man who had not expected to find her here.
"Lillian." Her name escaped him before he could stop it—Lillian, not Miss Whitcombe, that intimate familiarity that he had earned and then abandoned. His expression flickered, and she saw him struggle to compose himself, to rebuild the walls that her presence had momentarily breached.
"Your Grace." She rose, her movements stiff with the effort of maintaining her composure. "I apologise for intruding. I was not aware you would be joining us."
"I was not…...I had thought…." He stopped, his jaw tightening. "I came to speak with Rosanne. I did not know you were here."
"Clearly." Lillian was proud of how steady her voice sounded, how devoid of the hurt that was clawing at her chest. "I shall leave you to your conversation."
"There is no need..."
"There is every need." She turned to Rosanne, who was watching the exchange with wide, anxious eyes. "I will call again tomorrow, if that is convenient. We can finish discussing the arrangements for your journey."
"Lillian, wait."
But Lillian was already moving toward the door, her steps measured and deliberate. She would not run. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her flee. She would walk out of this room with her dignity intact, even if her heart was shattering into a thousand pieces.
She had almost reached the threshold when his voice stopped her.
"Miss Whitcombe."
She paused but did not turn around. "Yes, Your Grace?"
A long silence. She could feel him behind her, she could feel the weight of his gaze on her back and she could sense the words he was struggling to form and failing to speak.
"I hope your father continues to improve."
The banality of it nearly broke her. After everything, after the declarations and the kisses and the promises, that was what he had to say to her. A polite inquiry about her father's health, delivered in the same tone he might use with any casual acquaintance.
"He does, Your Grace. Thank you for asking."
She walked out without looking back.
***
Lillian made it to the entrance hall before the tears came.
She pressed her hand against her mouth, stifling the sob that threatened to escape, and forced herself to keep walking. The butler was approaching, no doubt to see her out, and she could not, and would not, let him see her crying.
"Miss Whitcombe." His voice was gentle, surprisingly so. "Shall I call for the gig?"
"Yes. Thank you." She did not trust herself to say more.
She waited in the entrance hall, her face turned toward the window, her hand still pressed against her trembling lips. The grey light of the overcast day seemed to seep into her bones, leaving her cold and hollow.
I hope your father continues to improve.
That was all she was to him now. A neighbor to be politely inquired after. An acquaintance to be greeted with formal courtesy and dismissed without thought.
She had been a fool. She had allowed herself to believe that she was special; that she, Lillian Whitcombe, had somehow managed to breach the defenses of the Duke of Wyntham.
She had convinced herself that the kisses meant something, that the declarations meant something, that the man who had held her in his arms and called her remarkable truly saw her as such.
But she was not remarkable. She was merely convenient; a distraction from his loneliness, a momentary relief from the cold prison of his own making. And now that the moment had passed, she was nothing at all.
The gig arrived, and Lillian climbed in without assistance. She could not bear to have anyone touch her right now, not even in kindness.
As the vehicle began to move, she allowed herself one final glance back at Wynthorpe Hall. The grey stone facade looked the same as always; imposing and utterly indifferent to the small dramas played out within its walls.
And in one of the upper windows, half-hidden by the curtain, she caught a glimpse of a figure watching her departure.
Daniel.
She turned away before she could see more, before she could read his expression or interpret his posture or torture herself with speculation about what he might be feeling.
It did not matter what he was feeling. He had made his choice, and she had to accept it.