"I would like that."
They fell into step together, and for a few minutes they simply walked, discussing nothing of consequence. Just the weather, the harvest and the blacksmith's new apprentice, who showed promise but had much to learn.
It was easy. Surprisingly, unexpectedly easy.
"You are different here," Lillian observed, as they passed the village green. "In the village, I mean. Less..."
"Less cold?" He glanced at her sidelong. "Less forbidding?"
"I was going to say less formal. But those work as well."
"I am less formal here because the stakes are lower." He paused, seeming to weigh his next words. "In London, or at my estates, every interaction is observed and analysed. Every word I speak is repeated and interpreted. I have learned to guard myself accordingly."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is." The admission seemed to surprise him as much as it surprised her. "It is extraordinarily exhausting. But it is the price of the position."
"Must it be?"
He looked at her and Lillian saw something flicker in his eyes. Something almost like longing.
"I do not know," he said quietly. "I have never considered the alternative."
Before Lillian could respond, a voice called out from across the green.
"Your Grace! Miss Whitcombe! What a delightful surprise!"
It was Mrs. Hendricks, the wife of one of the tenant farmers, approaching with a basket on her arm and a knowing smile on her face. Lillian felt the duke stiffen beside her, his walls slamming back into place with almost audible force.
"Mrs. Hendricks." His voice was cool again, formal. "Good afternoon."
"Good afternoon, Your Grace. Taking a stroll, are we? How lovely. The weather is so fine, is it not? Perfect for a walk. With company."
The emphasis oncompanywas unmistakable. Lillian felt heat rise to her cheeks, though she could not have said whether it was embarrassment or something else entirely.
"I was returning to Hartfield," she said. "His Grace was kind enough to offer to accompany me part of the way."
"How kind indeed." Mrs. Hendricks's smile widened. "Well, I shall not keep you. Good afternoon, Your Grace. Miss Whitcombe."
She bustled off, and Lillian was left standing in the street with a duke who had gone as rigid as a statue.
"I should..." He began.
"Yes," Lillian agreed, though she did not know what she was agreeing to.
"The estate..."
"Of course."
They stood there for an awkward moment, all the easy warmth of their conversation evaporated in the face of Mrs. Hendricks's knowing smile.
"Good afternoon, Miss Whitcombe."
"Good afternoon, Your Grace."
He turned and walked away, his long stride carrying him quickly out of sight. Lillian stood where she was for a long moment, the ribbon still clutched in her hand, trying to understand what had just happened.
She had seen him, the real him, the man beneath the title, and then she had watched him disappear behind his walls again.
