Lillian thought of the duke's stern face, his clipped words, the way he had looked at her hem as though it had personally offended him.Forbiddingwas perhaps too gentle a word.
"I am not calling on the duke," she said. "I am calling on Lady Rosanne. She invited me specifically."
"Yes, but one cannot enter Wynthorpe Hall without encountering its master eventually. The man does live there." Mrs. Whitcombe picked up her embroidery again, but her eyes remained on Lillian, sharp with maternal scrutiny. "You like the girl, then?"
"She is sweet, somewhat anxious and ill-at-ease, yet possessed of a genuine kindness beneath it all."
"Poor child. Growing up in that house, with those parents." Mrs. Whitcombe shook her head. "It is no wonder she is anxious. The things one heard about the late duke and duchess..."
Lillian waited, but her mother did not elaborate. This was typical; Mrs. Whitcombe was a collector of gossip but a reluctant distributor, doling out information only when she deemed it relevant to the matter at hand.
"What things?" Lillian prompted.
"Nothing you need to concern yourself with." Mrs. Whitcombe's needle flashed through the fabric with renewed vigor. "Ancient history now. But suffice it to say that the Wynthorpe household was not a peaceful one. The children suffered, as children always do when their parents cannot behave like civilised adults."
Lillian absorbed this information, filing it away alongside her other observations about the duke and his sister. It explained some things; the tension in his shoulders, the careful blankness of his expression, the way Lady Rosanne startled at sudden noises. The marks left by an unhappy childhood were not easily erased.
"I should go," she said, glancing at the clock on the mantel. "I do not wish to be late."
"Heaven forbid." Mrs. Whitcombe rose to kiss her daughter's cheek. "Do try not to say anything too clever, darling. Dukes do not appreciate cleverness in young ladies. It makes them uncomfortable."
"I have no intention of speaking to the duke at all."
"Intentions," her mother said wisely, "rarely survive contact with reality."
***
Wynthorpe Hall was not, as Mrs. Whitcombe had suggested, particularly dusty.
It was, however, rather intimidating.
Lillian had passed the estate many times during her walks, one could hardly avoid it, given that their land comprised a significant portion of the surrounding countryside, but she had never before approached the main house. Seen from a distance, it had always struck her as impressive but remote, an imposing stone edifice that seemed to hold itself apart from the surrounding landscape.
Up close, that impression only intensified. The house was beautiful, certainly; all elegant proportions and graceful symmetry, with wide windows that caught the afternoon light and a sweeping drive lined with ancient oaks. But there was something about it that felt contained. Controlled. As though the house itself had learned to hold its breath.
Rather like its master, Lillian thought, and immediately chided herself for the comparison.
The butler who answered her knock was a thin, gray-haired man with the carefully neutral expression of someone who had seen a great deal and chosen to have opinions about none of it. He accepted her card, invited her to wait in the entrance hall, and disappeared into the depths of the house with silent efficiency.
Lillian used the opportunity to examine her surroundings. The vestibule was large and well-appointed, decorated in shades of cream and pale blue that should have felt welcoming but somehow did not. Everything was perfectly arranged, the paintings on the walls, the flowers in their vases, the polished floor, with the sort of precision that suggested constant vigilance against disorder.
It reminded her, oddly, of a stage set. Beautiful to look at, but not quite real.
"Miss Whitcombe!"
Lady Rosanne appeared at the top of the staircase, her face alight with pleasure, and hurried down to meet her with considerably more enthusiasm than the setting seemed to warrant.
"You came! I was not certain…. I hoped, but I was notsure..."
"I said I would come," Lillian reminded her gently.
"Yes, but people say things all the time that they do not mean. In London, everyone says'we must have tea sometime'and then never speaks to you again. I thought perhaps..." Rosanne stopped, color rising in her cheeks. "I am babbling. Forgive me. I am simply pleased."
"As am I." Lillian smiled, and was rewarded by Rosanne's visible relaxation. "Your home is lovely."
"Is it?" Rosanne glanced around the entrance hall with the expression of someone who had long since stopped seeing it. "I suppose it is. I confess I have never thought much about it. One grows so accustomed to one's own surroundings."
"That is true of most things. Familiarity breeds a sort of blindness."
