Epilogue
One Year Later
"You are staring."
"I am not staring. I am observing. There is a distinction."
Lillian raised an eyebrow at her husband, who had positioned himself against a pillar at the edge of Lady Barlow’s ballroom with the clear intention of watching his sister's every movement for the duration of the evening. "The distinction being?"
"Staring implies fixation. Observation implies purpose." Daniel's gaze did not waver from where Rosanne stood in conversation with a cluster of young ladies, her fan moving with easy grace, her laughter carrying across the room. "I am fulfilling my fraternal duty."
"You are hovering like a particularly well-dressed gargoyle."
"Gargoyles serve an important architectural function. They direct rainwater away from masonry."
"And you are directing eligible gentlemen away from your sister through the sheer force of ducal disapproval."
Daniel's mouth twitched—that small tell she had learned to recognize as suppressed amusement. "I have not disapproved of anyone. Yet."
"You disapproved of Mr. Thornton before he had finished bowing."
"His waistcoat was yellow. Aggressively yellow. It suggested poor judgment."
"It suggested fashion, Daniel. Young gentlemen wear yellow waistcoats. It is the style."
"Then the style is wrong."
Lillian bit back a smile and turned her attention to the ballroom.
It was a magnificent affair; Lady Barlow’s annual ball was one of the highlights of the London season, and the cream of society had turned out in force.
Crystal chandeliers cast glittering light across silks and satin; the orchestra played with practiced elegance; and everywhere, young people flirted and danced and navigated the treacherous waters of courtship.
In the midst of it all, Rosanne shone.
She was wearing pale blue tonight; a color that suited her fair complexion and brought out the brightness of her eyes. Her hair had been arranged in an elaborate style that Lillian had helped select, and she carried herself with a confidence that would have been unthinkable a year ago.
The anxious girl who had clutched Lillian's hand at Lady Smith's house gathering had transformed into a young woman who could hold her own in any drawing room in London.
She still had her moments of nervousness, Lillian had talked her through a minor panic just that afternoon, but she had learned to manage them.
To breathe through the fear and find her footing on the other side.
"She looks happy," Lillian said softly.
"She does." Daniel's voice had lost its sardonic edge, replaced by something warmer. "I did not think…..I had not expected..."
"That she would flourish?"
"That she would enjoy it. I thought she would endure the season as a necessary trial, counting the days until she could return to the country." He shook his head slightly. "I underestimated her."
"You underestimated what she could become when she was no longer carrying the weight of your parents' expectations alone." Lillian touched his arm, feeling the tension beneath the fine wool of his coat. "She had years of believing herself inadequate, Daniel. It takes time to unlearn such lessons."
"You helped her unlearn them."
"I gave her some tools. She did the work herself."
They watched in companionable silence as Rosanne was claimed for a dance by a young gentleman in a perfectly respectable dark green waistcoat. He was perhaps twenty-three, with an open, pleasant face and the slightly nervous manner of someone who could not quite believe his good fortune.
"Mr. Fielding," Daniel murmured. "Third son of Viscount Ashby. Adequate fortune, respectable family, no obvious vices."
"You have been making inquiries."
"I have been making thorough inquiries. There is a difference."
"And your conclusion?"
"He is..." Daniel paused, as though the admission pained him. "Acceptable. As a dancing partner. Nothing more has been decided."
Lillian laughed—she could not help it. The Duke of Wyntham, terror of London society, reduced to grudging acceptance of a young man whose only crime was showing interest in his sister.
"You find my suffering amusing," Daniel observed.
"I find your suffering delightful. You have spent a year preparing for this season as though it were a military campaign."
"I am merely being prudent."
"You are being a stubborn brother with a sore head, and we both know it."
He turned to look at her then, and she saw the warmth beneath his feigned irritation; the love that he had learned, slowly and with considerable difficulty, to let show on his face.
"I am allowed to be protective," he said. "She is my sister. She is my only family. If some fortune-hunting scoundrel were to..."
"Mr. Fielding is not a fortune-hunter. His family has more money than ours."
"That is not the point."
"What is the point, then?"
Daniel was silent for a moment, watching Rosanne move through the figures of the dance. Mr. Fielding was gazing at her with an expression of transparent admiration, and Rosanne, Lillian noted with interest, was not looking away.
"The point," Daniel said quietly, "is that I spent so many years failing her.
Hiding in my study while she struggled alone.
Letting my own fears prevent me from being the brother she needed.
" He paused. "I cannot undo those years.
But I can try to ensure that whatever comes next, whoever she chooses, is worthy of her. "
Lillian felt her heart clench with the familiar ache of loving him—this complicated, difficult, impossibly dear man who still did not entirely believe he deserved happiness.
"You did not fail her," she said. "You were struggling too. You were both children trying to survive the aftermath of something you did not create and could not control."
"That does not excuse..."
"It does not excuse, but it explains. And Rosanne understands that.
She has told me so, more than once." Lillian moved closer, lowering her voice so that only he could hear.
"She does not blame you, Daniel. She never has.
She only wanted you to stop hiding from her; and you have.
You are here, at a ball you would once have avoided at any cost, watching her dance with young men in acceptably-coloured waistcoats. That is not failure. That is love."
Daniel looked at her, and something in his expression shifted. The guarded tension eased, replaced by the vulnerability he had learned to show her in private.
"I still do not like yellow waistcoats," he said.
"No one is asking you to like them. Merely to refrain from glaring at their wearers."
"I make no promises."
The dance ended, and they watched as Mr. Fielding escorted Rosanne back to her chaperone; a sensible widow whom Lillian had helped select for precisely this purpose.
The young man bowed with evident reluctance to depart, and Rosanne's smile as she watched him go was soft and private and full of possibility.
"She likes him," Daniel observed, his tone suggesting this was a development of considerable concern.
"She does. Is that so terrible?"
"It is not terrible. It is merely... rapid. They have known each other for three weeks."
"Some people fall in love quickly. It is not a character flaw."
"I did not fall in love quickly. It took me months of stubborn resistance and a considerable amount of denial."
"Yes, and that approach served you so well." Lillian smiled up at him. "Perhaps your sister has learned from your mistakes."
"Perhaps." Daniel's gaze returned to Rosanne, who was now deep in conversation with her chaperone—likely receiving an assessment of Mr. Fielding’s suitability. "Or perhaps I should speak with her. Offer some... guidance."
"No."
"No?"
"Absolutely not. You will not interfere, Daniel. You will not offer guidance, or warnings, or brotherly wisdom. You will allow your sister to navigate her own courtship at her own pace, making her own decisions."
"But..."
"Those are the terms." Lillian fixed him with a steady look.
"Rosanne has spent her entire life being managed by your parents, by society, by her own fears.
She has finally found her footing. She deserves the chance to see where it leads without her brother looming in the background, cataloguing the waistcoat choices of every man who looks at her. "
Daniel was silent for a long moment. Then, with a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep within him: "You are right. Of course you are right. You are always right."
"I am glad you have finally noticed."
"I noticed within a week of meeting you. I simply chose not to acknowledge it because it was extremely inconvenient."
Lillian laughed, and she saw his expression lighten in response—the pleasure he took in making her laugh, even now, even after a year of marriage.
"Dance with me," he said.
"What?"
"Dance with me." He held out his hand. "I have spent the entire evening lurking by this pillar like a…..What was it you said? A well-dressed gargoyle. I should like to do something other than lurk."
"You hate dancing."
"I hate dancing with strangers. I hate the obligation of small talk and the performance of social grace." He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "I do not hate dancing with you."
Lillian felt heat rise to her cheeks; absurd, after a year of marriage, that he could still make her blush with nothing more than proximity and intention.
"People will talk," she said. "A duke dancing with his own wife. It will be considered singular."
"Let them talk. I have spent my entire life worrying about what people would say, and it brought me nothing but loneliness." He took her hand, his thumb tracing a gentle circle against her palm. "I would rather be singular with you than conventional without you."
She let him lead her onto the floor.