Daniel was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was softer than before.
"You have a talent for seeing things I would rather not examine."
"I apologise..."
"Do not." He looked at her, and there was something almost fierce in his expression. "Do not apologise. I have spent my entire life surrounded by people who tell me what I wish to hear, who skirt around difficult truths because they fear my reaction or desire my favour. You do neither. It is... refreshing. And terrifying. But mostly refreshing."
"I am not certain whether to be flattered or concerned."
"Both, probably. I am not an easy man to know, Miss Whitcombe. Lillian." He corrected himself deliberately, and the sound of her name in his voice, that intimate familiarity that still felt new and dangerous, made something tighten in her chest. "I have sharp edges and cold silences and a marked tendency to retreat when emotions become too close. Most people find it easier to simply... leave me alone."
"Most people are not particularly observant."
"Is that what you are? Observant?"
"It is what I have been called. Though I prefer to think of it as curious. I find people fascinating; the contradictions between what they show the world and what they hide beneath the surface. Everyone has a public self and a private self, and the places where those selves diverge are always interesting."
"And what have you observed about my public and private selves?"
The question was light, almost jesting, but Lillian sensed the genuine curiosity beneath it. He wanted to know how she saw him. Perhaps he needed to know.
"Your public self is the Duke of Wyntham," she said carefully. "Controlled, proper, distant. You speak in precise sentences and move with calculated efficiency. You give away nothing that might be used against you and expect nothing from anyone that might require you to be vulnerable. It is an impressive performance, so impressive that most people believe it is genuine."
"And my private self?"
"Your private self is the man who watches wildflowers sway in the breeze and thinks about what they might mean. The man who remembers what colour ribbons I wear and chooses a horse's decoration accordingly. The man who was so frightened when I was nearly hurt that he forgot to be dignified and called me by my Christian name while his hands were shaking." Lillian held his gaze, unflinching. "That man is passionate and caring and desperately, achingly lonely. And he has convinced himself that loneliness is the price of safety."
Daniel had gone very still. His horse shifted beneath him, sensing the tension in its rider, but he did not seem to notice.
"You see too much," he said quietly.
"Or perhaps others see too little."
"Perhaps." He looked away, his jaw tight with some emotion Lillian could not name. "We should continue. There is a place I would like to show you, if you are willing."
"Lead on."
They descended from the hill and followed a narrow path that wound through a stretch of ancient woodland. The trees here were old; oaks and beeches that had stood for centuries, their branches interlaced overhead to form a living cathedral. The light was dim and green-gold, and the air smelled of earth and decaying leaves and the peculiar sweetness of autumn.
Lillian had never been to this part of the estate. It felt removed from the orderly landscape of tenant farms and productive fields. It felt wilder, older, touched by something that resisted human management.
"This land has never been cleared," Daniel said, as though reading her thoughts. "My great-grandfather considered it, but the soil is poor and the terrain difficult. He decided it was not worth the effort. Since then, we have simply left it alone."
"It is beautiful."
"It is. In a melancholy sort of way."
They came to a stream; broader than Lillian had expected, its water rushing over stones with a cheerful burbling that seemed at odds with the shadowed stillness of the woods. The crossing was marked by a series of flat stones that created a makeshift ford, but the recent rains had swollen the water, and the stones were partially submerged.
Daniel dismounted and approached the stream, examining the crossing with a critical eye.
"It should be passable," he said. "But the footing may be uncertain. Allow me to go first and test the depth."
He remounted and guided his horse into the water with careful precision. The gelding stepped confidently, accustomed to such crossings, and reached the far bank without difficulty. Daniel turned to face Lillian, his horse standing fetlock-deep in the shallows.
"Come across slowly," he called. "Keep to the right of the large stone because the current is weaker there."
Lillian urged Minerva forward. The mare approached the water's edge with evident skepticism, her ears flattening as she examined the rushing stream.
