He was standing near the entrance hall, speaking with his steward in low tones, and he looked up as she approached with an expression she could not read. Surprise, mayhap, or displeasure. With Daniel Wynthorpe, it was often difficult to tell.
"Miss Whitcombe." He inclined his head, the very picture of formal courtesy. "You are leaving?"
"I am. Rosanne and I have concluded our visit for the day."
"I trust she is well?"
There was something in his tone, a note of genuine concern beneath the stiff formality, that caught Lillian's attention. She studied him for a moment, trying to read the man behind the mask.
"She is better," Lillian said carefully. "She was quite distressed, earlier. About Lady Smith's invitation. But we discussed the matter, and I believe she feels more prepared to face it."
"Lady Smith." The duke's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Indeed. I received a letter from her. She was quite pointed in her expectations for Rosanne's attendance."
"You accepted on Rosanne's behalf?"
"I did." He did not look away, but something flickered in his eyes—something that might have been guilt. "The invitation could not be declined without causing offence. Lady Smith was a close friend of our mother's, and she has taken a particular interest in Rosanne's prospects."
"I see."
Lillian wondered what it was like to have one's social calendar dictated by other people's expectations. To be unable to decline an invitation, not because of personal obligation, but because declining would have repercussions that extended far beyond one's own discomfort.
It sounded exhausting.
"May I ask something, Your Grace?"
He looked wary, as though expecting an attack. "You may."
"Were you aware that Rosanne finds social gatherings difficult? That she experiences significant anxiety in such situations?"
The wariness in his expression deepened into something more complicated. "I am aware that she is shy. That she does not possess the natural ease that some young ladies display in company."
"It is more than shyness." Lillian kept her voice gentle, non-accusatory. "She experiences genuine panic. Physical symptoms; rapid heartbeat, trembling hands, difficulty breathing. The anticipation of Lady Smith's gathering has been causing her considerable distress."
Daniel was silent for a long moment. His face had gone very still, the way it always did when he was processing information he did not wish to acknowledge.
"I did not know," he said finally, and there was something raw in his voice, something that sounded almost like pain. "She did not tell me."
"She did not wish to burden you."
"Burden me?" A flash of something like anger or frustration crossed his features. "She is my sister. Her well-being is not a burden."
"Perhaps. But she sees how much you carry already; the estate, the responsibilities, the weight of the title. She does not wish to add to your concerns."
"That is..." He stopped, his jaw working. "That is foolish. She should have told me."
"Perhaps you might tell her that. When you have the opportunity."
Lillian had not meant the words as a rebuke, but she saw him receive them as one. His shoulders stiffened, his expression closing like a door swinging shut.
"I am grateful for your intervention," he said, and the words sounded as though they had been dragged from him by force. "Your friendship with Rosanne has been beneficial."
"It has been beneficial to me as well. Your sister is a remarkable young woman."
"Yes." His voice softened slightly. "She is."
They stood there for a moment, suspended in the strange intimacy of the conversation. Lillian was acutely aware of his nearness; the breadth of his shoulders beneath his dark coat, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hands were clasped behind his back as though he did not trust them to remain still at his sides.
He was handsome, she realized. Not in the conventional way of London dandies, all artful curls and carefully arranged cravats, but in a starker, more severe manner. His features were strong rather than pretty, his expression guarded rather than charming. But there was something compelling about him nonetheless, something that made it difficult to look away.
