"What do you mean?"
"I mean that a wall can be crossed without being torn down. Sometimes a door is enough. Or a window. A small opening through which something might pass, light, air, another person, without demolishing the entire structure."
"A door," he repeated slowly.
"Yes. You have spent your life believing that you must be either completely guarded or completely vulnerable. But there is a middle ground, Daniel. A place where you can choose what to let in and what to keep out. A place where you can be cautious without being closed."
She reached out then, a small gesture, almost tentative, and laid her hand on his arm. Through the layers of his coat, she could feel the tension in his muscles, the coiled readiness of a man who expected to be hurt and was bracing himself against the blow.
"I am not asking you to tear down your walls," she said. "I am only asking you to consider that they might have doors."
Daniel stared at her for a long moment, his expression shifting through emotions too complex to name. Then, slowly, deliberately, he lifted his hand and covered hers where it rested on his arm.
His palm was warm and his fingers were trembling slightly.
"You make it sound so simple," he said.
"It is not simple. But it is possible."
"How can you be certain?"
"Because you are already doing it." She smiled, though her heart was pounding hard enough to shake her entire body. "You brought me here, to this place that no one else has ever seen. You told me about your mother, your childhood, your fears. You are standing here, right now, letting me see the man behind the duke."
"Perhaps I am simply weak."
"Or perhaps you are stronger than you know. It takes far more courage to be vulnerable than to be guarded. Any coward can build a wall. It takes a brave man to open a door."
He was very close now. Close enough that she could see the individual threads of silver in his dark hair, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the rapid pulse beating in his throat. Close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body, smell the sandalwood and leather that she had come to associate with him.
Close enough to kiss.
The thought surfaced unbidden, treacherous and thrilling. Lillian felt her breath catch, her heart flutter, her entire being narrow to the few inches of space that separated them.
Daniel's hand tightened over hers. His eyes dropped to her mouth, then rose again to meet her gaze. There was a question in his expression—a wordless asking that required no words to answer.
"Lillian." His voice was rough, barely above a whisper. "I should not..."
"I know."
"This cannot lead anywhere good."
"I know that too."
"Then why?"
"Because I am tired of thinking about what should or should not happen." She held his gaze, unflinching. "And I think you are as well."
For a long, suspended moment, neither of them moved. The folly was silent around them; no birdsong, no wind, nothing but the sound of their breathing and the thunderous beating of Lillian's heart.
Then Daniel lifted his free hand.
Slowly. Deliberately. Giving her every opportunity to step back, to refuse, to retreat to the safety of propriety and distance.
But she did not move.
His fingers brushed her cheek, the lightest touch, barely there, but it sent a shiver through her entire body. He traced the line of her jaw, the curve of her ear, the place where a strand of hair had escaped its pins. His touch was reverent, wondering, as though he were mapping territory he had never expected to explore.
"You are remarkable," he said quietly. "Do you know that? You walked into my life with your muddy hems and your practical observations, and you have systematically dismantled every defence I have ever constructed."
