***
Daniel did not stop walking until he reached the far edge of the green, where a low stone wall marked the boundary between the village and the fields beyond. He placed both hands on the rough surface and breathed.
In, and out.
In, and out.
It was a technique he had developed in childhood, during the worst of his parents' arguments; a way of steadying himself when the world felt as though it were tilting beneath his feet. He had not needed it in years. He certainly should not need it now, standing alone at a village fair while his tenants made merry behind him.
And yet here he was. Breathing. Because a young woman with a dirty hem and an unsettling gaze had smiled at his sister.
Ridiculous.
He was being ridiculous. Miss Whitcombe was nothing; a neighbor's daughter, a passing acquaintance, a person of no particular consequence to his life. She would call on Rosanne, or perhaps Rosanne would call on her, and they would drink tea and discuss whatever it was that young ladies discussed when left to their own devices. And then she would fade back into the background of his existence where she belonged.
There was no reason, no reason at all, for the strange tightness in his chest, the peculiar awareness that had prickled along his skin when she had looked at him and the way his mind kept returning, again and again, to the curve of her mouth when she smiled.
Your hem is dirty.
He had said that. To a woman he had just met. As though he were some sort of deranged man who had temporarily forgotten how human conversation worked.
Daniel closed his eyes and resisted the urge to bang his head against the stone wall.
His mother's voice echoed in his memory:Cold, Daniel. You are so cold.
But that was not quite right, was it? He was not cold. He was simply contained and controlled. He kept himself at a distance because distance wassafe, because emotions were dangerous, because he had watched his parents tear each other apart with their grand passions and their violent reconciliations and their endless, exhaustingdrama.And he had sworn, sworn on everything he held dear, that he would never, ever become them.
Control was not coldness. Control wassurvival.
And if that meant he occasionally said foolish things to young women at village fairs, well, that was simply the price of maintaining his equilibrium.
He would not think about Miss Whitcombe. He would return to the fair, fulfill his remaining duties, and then retire to his study with a glass of brandy and a book about agricultural improvements. Tomorrow, he would review the estate accounts and meet with his steward and write a strongly worded letter to his solicitor about the drainage problem in the east fields.
He wouldnotthink about the way Miss Whitcombe had looked at him; as though she could see straight through his carefully constructed walls to the chaos he kept hidden beneath.
He absolutely would not think about that.
Daniel took one more breath, pushed himself away from the wall, and walked back toward the fair.
The meat pie sat like a stone in his stomach the entire way.
Chapter Two
"You are certain I look presentable?"
"Lillian, you have asked me that four times in the past ten minutes. If you ask again, I shall be forced to lie."
Lillian smoothed her hands over her skirt, a nervous habit she had thought herself cured of, and fixed her mother with a look of mild reproach. "I am merely concerned about making a proper impression. Wynthorpe Hall is not the vicarage."
"No," Mrs. Whitcombe agreed, setting down her embroidery to give her daughter a considering look. "Wynthorpe Hall has considerably more dust, if the rumours are to be believed. And considerably fewer cheerful people wandering about."
"Mama."
"I am simply observing. The late duchess was not known for her domestic enthusiasm, and the current duke is..." She paused, searching for a diplomatic phrase.
"Forbidding?" Lillian supplied.
"I was going to sayparticular. But forbidding will do."
