"I have done nothing of the sort. I have simply seen you."
"Yes. That is precisely what I mean."
His fingers stilled at her temple, then slid back to cup the nape of her neck. Lillian's breath caught. His hand was warm, his grip gentle but secure, and she was acutely aware of every point of contact between them; his palm against her neck, his other hand still covering hers on his arm, their bodies so close that she could feel the heat of him through her riding habit.
"Daniel..."
"I am going to kiss you," he said, and it was not a question but a statement, delivered with the same quiet authority he brought to everything. "If you do not want me to, you should say so now."
Lillian's answer was to rise slightly on her toes, closing the last of the distance between them.
Their lips met.
It was not the passionate, consuming kiss of novels and daydreams. It was softer than that; tentative, almost questioning, a first exploration rather than a declaration. His mouth was warm against hers, gentle but present, and when she responded, leaning into him, her free hand coming up to rest against his chest, she felt him shudder.
For a long moment, they remained suspended in that kiss—two people on the edge of something vast and terrifying and wonderful, testing the waters before committing to the dive. Lillian could feel his heart pounding beneath her palm, the slight tremor in the hand that cupped her neck, and she could feel the carefully maintained control that was fracturing with every passing second.
Then he deepened the kiss.
His arm came around her waist, pulling her closer, and Lillian went willingly; pressing herself against him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his coat. The tentative questioning became something fiercer, more urgent, a conversation conducted in breath and touch rather than words.
She had been kissed before. Once, at a country assembly, by a young man whose name she could no longer remember. It had been pleasant enough, warm and slightly clumsy but utterly unremarkable.
This was not that.
This was fire and ice and the slow unwinding of something that had been held tight for far too long. This was Daniel Wynthorpe, Duke of Wyntham, kissing her as though she were the answer to a question he had been asking his entire life. This was the crumbling of walls and the opening of doors and the terrifying, exhilarating knowledge that nothing would ever be quite the same again.
When they finally broke apart, Lillian was breathing as though she had run a mile, and Daniel looked as though someone had struck him over the head with something heavy.
"I….."He began.
A shout echoed through the woods.
They sprang apart as though burned, the spell shattered by the intrusion of the outside world. Lillian's heart, which had been racing for altogether pleasant reasons, now hammered with something closer to alarm.
"Your Grace!" The shout came again, closer now. "Your Grace, are you there?"
Daniel's expression had transformed in an instant from vulnerable to guarded, the familiar mask slamming back into place with an almost audible click. He stepped away from Lillian, putting proper distance between them, and called back. "Here! We are here!"
A moment later, a groom burst into the clearing, his horse lathered and his face flushed with exertion.
"Your Grace, Miss Whitcombe, thank Heavens I have found you."
"What is it?" Daniel's voice was sharp. "What has happened?"
The groom turned to Lillian, and she saw something in his expression that made her blood run cold.
"It is your father, miss.”
There has been an accident at Hartfield. He has fallen from the roof, the extent of his injuries is not yet known, your mother has sent for you urgently."
Lillian did not hear the rest. The words seemed to come from very far away, filtered through a sudden roaring in her ears. Her father. An accident. Fallen from the roof.
"Lillian."
Daniel's voice cut through the fog, and she looked up to find him standing before her, his hands on her shoulders, his expression fierce with concern.
"Lillian, look at me. Can you ride?"
