She remained at his bedside as his breathing slowed and deepened into sleep. And she thought about what he had said; about leading with her heart, about mismatches and careful calculation, about the difference between what she felt and what the world would allow.
She thought about Daniel, waiting downstairs in the parlor, out of place and awkward and utterly unwilling to leave.
And she thought, with a clarity that surprised her, that perhaps some things were worth the risk.
***
Two hours passed before Lillian emerged from her father's room.
She had sat with him while he slept, watching the rise and fall of his chest, listening to the labored rhythm of his breathing. The laudanum had done its work, his face was peaceful now, the lines of pain smoothed away by drug-induced rest, but Lillian could not quite shake the image of how he had looked when she first entered the room: pale, diminished, somehow smaller than the vigorous man who had raised her.
He would recover. Crawford had said so, and Crawford was a competent physician despite his limitations. But recovery would take time, and care, and resources that Lillian was not certain they possessed.
She descended the stairs slowly, her mind already turning to the practical considerations that awaited: the household accounts, the medical expenses, the leak in the roof that had caused this disaster and still remained unfixed. Her mother would need support. The servants would need direction. And someone would have to write to their creditors, explain the situation, request patience with payments that would inevitably be delayed.
She was so absorbed in these thoughts that she almost forgot Daniel was still there.
But he was. Sitting in the parlor exactly where her mother had left him, a cup of cold tea untouched on the table before him, his expression a careful mask of neutrality that did not quite conceal the tension in his shoulders.
He rose as she entered, and for a moment they simply looked at each other across the modest room.
"How is he?" Daniel asked.
"Sleeping. The laudanum helped." Lillian moved to the window, looking out at the garden where, only hours before, her father had lain bleeding on the flagstones. The stones had been cleaned, she noticed. Someone had scrubbed away the evidence. "Mr. Crawford says he will recover, given time and rest."
"That is good news."
"Yes." She did not turn to face him. She was afraid of what she might say if she did—afraid of the emotions that were pressing against her chest, demanding release. "You do not have to stay, Your Grace. You have done more than enough already."
"I will stay as long as you wish me to."
"My mother will talk. The servants will talk. By tomorrow, the entire county will know that the Duke of Wyntham spent an afternoon in our parlor."
"Let them talk."
Now she did turn, surprised by the quiet vehemence in his voice. Daniel was standing where she had left him, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression fierce with something that looked almost like defiance.
"This morning," he said slowly, "in the folly, I kissed you. And then I told you that whatever I felt could not lead anywhere good. Do you remember?"
"I remember."
"I was wrong." He took a step toward her, then another, closing the distance between them with deliberate intent. "I have spent my entire life being wrong about what matters. I have told myself that control is safety, that distance is protection, that the only way to avoid being destroyed by emotion is to refuse to feel at all. And then you..." He stopped, his jaw tightening. "You appeared with your muddy hems and your practical observations, and you proceeded to dismantle every lie I have ever told myself."
"Daniel..."
"Let me finish. Please." He was close now; close enough that she could see the rapid pulse beating in his throat, the fine lines of tension around his eyes. "I do not know what this is. I do not know where it leads or what it means. But I know that when I received word of your father's accident, my only thought was to be beside you. I know that sitting in this parlor for the past two hours, waiting, not knowing if you were all right..." His voice cracked, almost imperceptibly. "It was worse than anything I have ever experienced. Worse than any fear I have ever known."
Lillian felt her eyes sting with tears she refused to shed. "You barely know me."
"I know enough. I know that you are the first person in all those years who has made me want to feel something. I know that when I am with you, the walls I have built feel less like protection and more like prison. I know that you see me, truly see me, in a way that no one else ever has."
"That does not change the reality of our circumstances."
"No. It does not." He reached out, slowly, and took her hand in his. His fingers were warm, his grip gentle but secure. "But perhaps the circumstances are not as immutable as we have been taught to believe."
"What are you saying?"
"I am saying..." He paused, visibly struggling with words that did not come easily. "I am saying that if there is anything you need, anything at all, you only have to ask. If it is within my power to provide, I will provide it. No conditions. No expectations. No debt to be repaid."
