Silence fell between them, thick with everything that remained unspoken. Lillian found herself studying the blue ribbon on Minerva's bridle as though it were a text requiring careful analysis.
"I thought you might prefer Minerva," Daniel said, breaking the quiet. His voice was a shade too casual, a shade too controlled. "You seemed to have an understanding, when you met her in the stable yard some time ago. She can be temperamental with unfamiliar riders, but she appeared to take to you."
"You remembered."
"I remember most things." A pause. "It is a curse of a methodical mind. Details accumulate whether one wishes them to or not."
Lillian looked up at him and found him watching her with an expression she could not quite decipher. There was something beneath the careful neutrality—something that looked almost like hope, or perhaps like fear. With Daniel, she was beginning to realize, the two emotions might be closer than one would expect.
"The ribbon is a nice touch," she said, because she had to say something, and the truth seemed as good an option as any.
Color crept along his cheekbones. It was, Lillian thought, possibly the most endearing thing she had ever seen.
"That was…… The groom must have..." He stopped, apparently recognizing the futility of denial. "I noticed you favour blue. In your gowns. Your ribbons. I thought Minerva might appreciate the coordination."
"Minerva might appreciate it."
"She is a horse of discriminating taste."
"Naturally."
The corner of his mouth twitched; not quite a smile, but the suggestion of one, hovering at the edges of his expression like a guest uncertain of its welcome. Lillian felt something warm unfurl in her chest.
"Shall we?" he asked, gesturing toward the horses.
"By all means."
A groom appeared to help Lillian mount, and she settled into the saddle with the ease of long practice. Minerva shifted beneath her, testing this new rider, and Lillian took a moment to establish her seat; firm but not rigid, confident but not domineering. The mare's ears flicked back, listening, and then forward again, apparently satisfied.
"She likes you," Daniel observed, swinging onto his own mount with a fluid grace that Lillian tried very hard not to notice. "That is unusual. She barely tolerates most of my grooms."
"Perhaps she senses a kindred spirit. We are both, after all, creatures of discriminating taste."
This time, the twitch at the corner of his mouth deepened into something that was almost, very nearly, a genuine smile.
"Indeed," he said. "Shall we proceed? I thought we might ride through the eastern portion of the estate; the wilder land, away from the tenant farms. The views are particularly fine at this time of year, and we are less likely to encounter..."
He trailed off, but Lillian understood what he did not say. They were less likely to encounter other people. Witnesses. The curious eyes and wagging tongues that would transform a morning ride into a subject for gossip.
"That sounds lovely," she said.
They set off at a walk, the horses' hooves crunching softly on the gravel path that led away from the stables. The morning was beautiful; one of those perfect autumn days when the sky was so blue it seemed almost impossible, and the trees were dressed in their finest gold and crimson, and the air held just enough chill to make the sunlight feel like a blessing.
For several minutes, they rode in silence. It was not an uncomfortable silence, Lillian had grown accustomed to Daniel's economy with words, but it was weighted with anticipation. They were alone now, truly alone, for the first time since... Since ever, really. Every previous interaction had been mediated by Rosanne's presence, or the formal structure of a social gathering, or the interruption of servants and duties and the thousand small intrusions of daily life.
Here, on this quiet path through the golden woods, there was no one else. No escape. Nothing but the two of them and whatever was growing between them.
"I should apologise," Daniel said abruptly.
Lillian glanced at him. "For what?"
"For yesterday. For the..." He made a vague gesture that seemed to encompass their entire conversation in the green sitting room. "I said things that were perhaps too..."
"Too honest?"
He was quiet for a moment. "Yes. That."
"I was not aware that honesty required an apology."
