"Yes. I suppose she will."
Neither of them moved.
"Miss Whitcombe..." He began.
"Lillian!" Rosanne's voice rang across the yard, and the moment shattered like glass. "There you are! I have been looking everywhere. The linen crisis has been resolved, and the Cook has made the most wonderful seed-cake. You must come at once."
Lillian stepped back from Minerva, smoothing her hands over her skirts in a gesture that was becoming habitual. "Of course. I was just admiring the horses."
"Yes, I can see that." Rosanne's gaze moved between Lillian and her brother with an expression of barely suppressed glee. "Daniel, how lovely that you were here to keep her company."
"I was merely passing through."
"Naturally. You are always merely passing through."
The duke shot his sister a look that promised retribution, but Rosanne was already linking her arm through Lillian's and guiding her toward the house.
"Seed-cake," she announced. "And then you must help me decide what to wear to Lady Smith's gathering. I have three gowns that might be suitable, and I cannot choose between them."
Lillian allowed herself to be led away, but she glanced back once as they crossed the yard.
The duke was still standing by Minerva's stall, watching her go.
***
The village encounter happened four days after the stable yard.
Lillian had walked to the village to purchase ribbon, a small gift for Rosanne, a thank-you for the friendship that had become unexpectedly precious to her, and she was emerging from the haberdasher's with her modest purchase when she nearly collided with the Duke of Wyntham.
He was coming out of the blacksmith's shop, and he looked quite different. His coat was slung over one arm, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, and there was a smudge of soot along his jaw that suggested he had been doing something more involved than merely placing an order.
"Miss Whitcombe." He stopped short, looking almost as surprised to see her as she was to see him.
"Your Grace." Lillian could not quite suppress her smile. "You have something on your face."
His hand went to his jaw automatically, then dropped when he realized the gesture was undignified. "I was assisting with a repair. One of the estate gates required attention."
"You were assisting the blacksmith?"
"The situation was urgent."
Lillian's smile widened. She had not imagined the Duke of Wyntham as the sort of man who rolled up his sleeves and assisted with manual labor, but she found she rather liked the image. It made him seem more human; less the untouchable aristocrat and more the capable master of a working estate.
"You have soot on your jaw," she said. "Just there." She gestured to the corresponding spot on her own face.
He scrubbed at his jaw with the back of his hand, managing only to spread the smudge further. "Better?"
"Worse, actually."
He made a sound that might, in a less controlled man, have been a laugh. "Then I shall have to trust that the population of the village is not easily scandalised by dishevelled dukes."
"I suspect they have seen worse."
"That is not reassuring."
They were smiling at each other, actually smiling, without the usual armor of formality between them, and Lillian felt something flutter in her chest. It was absurd. She was standing in the middle of the village street, exchanging pleasantries with a soot-stained duke, and she could not remember the last time she had felt so light.
"May I walk with you?" he asked. "If you are returning to Hartfield, our paths align for some distance."
