"You have done everything you can. We are grateful."
Crawford departed with promises to return the following morning, and Lillian was left alone with her father in the dim, medicinal-smelling room.
She sat down on the edge of the bed, taking his hand once more. His eyes had closed while she spoke with Crawford, but they opened again at her touch.
"How bad is it?" he asked. "And please do not lie to me, Lillian. I am injured, not feeble-minded."
"Your leg is broken. Your ribs are cracked. You struck your head rather harder than is advisable."
"I gathered as much from the pain." He shifted slightly on the pillows, wincing. "And the prognosis?"
"Rest. Time. No climbing onto roofs for the foreseeable future."
"That last should not be difficult to manage." He attempted another smile. "I confess the experience has rather dampened my enthusiasm for home repairs."
"I should hope so." Lillian squeezed his hand, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. "You frightened us, Father. You frightened Mother terribly."
"I know. I am sorry for that. I thought..." He sighed, a sound that turned into a cough, which turned into a grimace of pain. "I thought I could manage it. I used to be able to manage such things. I forget, sometimes, that I am no longer the young man I once was."
"You are not old."
"I am older than I feel. And apparently more fragile." His eyes found hers, and Lillian saw the fear beneath his characteristic humor; the awareness of mortality that a brush with death inevitably brings. "I might have died, Lillian. Lying on those flagstones, looking up at the sky, I thought…I truly thought..."
"But you did not. You are here. You are alive."
"Yes." His hand tightened on hers. "Yes, I am. And I intend to remain so, if only to spare your mother the inconvenience of managing without me."
Lillian laughed despite herself; a wet, choked sound that was half sob. "She would be lost without you."
"She would manage. Your mother is stronger than she appears." He studied her face with the keen perception that injury had not dulled. "But enough about me. Why was the Duke of Wyntham escorting you home, Lillian? And do not tell me you were merely visiting Lady Rosanne. I may be bedridden, but I am not blind."
"Father..."
"I heard your mother talking to him moments ago. A duke does not escort a country girl, unless..." He trailed off, his eyes narrowing. "What is happening between the duke and you, Lillian?"
"Nothing." The word came out too quickly, too defensively. "We are….He is Rosanne's brother. I see him when I visit. That is all."
"That is not all. I have been managing people for thirty years, child. I know when someone is hiding something." He reached up with his free hand and touched her cheek. "You are flushed. Your eyes are too bright. And there is something in your expression that I have never seen before."
"I am merely worried about you."
"You are worried about me, yes. But that is not what I see." He let his hand fall back to the bed, his expression softening. "I will not press you. Whatever is happening, or not happening, between the duke and you, it is your business. But Lillian…...Be careful."
"Careful?"
"He is a duke. You are a gentleman's daughter of modest means. The world does not look kindly on such mismatches, however the hearts involved may feel."
"There is no mismatch. There is nothing."
"Lillian." His voice was gentle but firm. "I am not asking you to explain. I am only asking you to be careful. You have always led with your heart, even when your head counseled otherwise. It is one of your finest qualities, but it can also be your greatest vulnerability."
Lillian could not answer. The words caught in her throat, tangled with the memory of Daniel's lips on hers, his hand at the nape of her neck, his voice rough with wonder as he called her remarkable.
"Rest now," she said instead. "Mr. Crawford said you must sleep."
"The privilege of the infirm." Her father's eyes were already growing heavy, the exhaustion of pain and shock catching up with him at last. "Will you stay?"
"I will stay."
