"Does it?" Rosanne looked at her with sudden curiosity. "What a peculiar thought. I shall have to consider it." She shook herself, as though physically dispelling the philosophical tangent. "But come; tea is laid in the blue sitting room. It is my favourite room in the house. The light is particularly good, and one can see the gardens from the window."
She led the way through a series of corridors, chattering as she went about the history of the house which was very old, the state of the gardens that were somewhat neglected since the head gardener had retired, and the temperament of the kitchen cat which seemed mercurial at best. Lillian listened and responded at appropriate intervals, but her attention was partly occupied by the house itself; the way it seemed to grow warmer and less formal as they moved away from the public rooms, the small signs of habitation that began to appear: a book left open on a table, a shawl draped over a chair, a vase of wildflowers that looked as though someone had gathered them on impulse rather than design.
The blue sitting room, when they reached it, was indeed lovely. Smaller and more intimate than the enormous spaces they had passed through, with comfortable furniture arranged around a cheerful fire and windows that looked out over a rose garden just beginning to fade into autumn dormancy.
"This is wonderful," Lillian said, meaning it.
Rosanne glowed. "I hoped you would like it. Daniel thinks it is too small, he prefers the formal drawing room, but I find itcosy. Is cosy not a worthy aspiration?"
"I believe cozy is among the worthiest of aspirations."
They settled into chairs near the window, and a maid appeared with tea and an assortment of small cakes that looked considerably more appetizing than anything Lillian might have expected from a household as formal as this one.
"The Cook is very talented," Rosanne said, following her gaze. "She came from a great house in London; I am not supposed to know which one, but I suspect it was Lady Smith's, because the lemon biscuits taste exactly the same. Do try the lemon biscuits."
Lillian tried the lemon biscuits and they were, indeed, exceptional.
"I must confess something," Rosanne said, after they had both had sufficient time to appreciate the pastries. "I was terribly nervous about today. I have not had many.....I do not often..." She trailed off, her fingers twisting in her lap.
"You do not often have friends call?" Lillian guessed gently.
"Is that terribly pitiful?" Rosanne's voice was low. "I am the sister of a duke. I should have dozens of friends or hundreds, even. Every young lady in London should be clamouring for my attention. But somehow..." She shrugged, a helpless little gesture. "Somehow, they never seem to want to talk tome. They want to talk to Daniel, or about Daniel, or to position themselves near Daniel in hopes that he will notice them. I am merely the avenue of approach."
Lillian felt a sharp pang of sympathy. She knew what it was like to be overlooked; not through any fault of one's own, but simply because the world had decided one was not particularly interesting. It was a lonely sort of invisibility.
"That sounds exhausting," she said.
"It is. Terribly exhausting." Rosanne set down her teacup with more force than necessary. "And the worst part is that Daniel does notwanttheir attention. He does not want anyone's attention. He would be perfectly content to spend the rest of his life alone in his study with his ledgers and his books about crop rotation. But because he is a duke, young, unmarried, wealthy, with excellent teeth, every matchmaking mama in England has decided he is their particular target." She paused. "The teeth comment was perhaps odd. I apologise."
"Not at all. Dental quality is an underappreciated consideration in the marriage mart."
Rosanne laughed, a startled, delighted sound, and Lillian felt something warm unfurl in her chest. She liked making this girl laugh. She liked the way Rosanne's whole face changed when she was genuinely amused, as though someone had lit a candle behind her eyes.
"You are very easy to talk to," Rosanne said. "Has anyone ever told you that?"
"Occasionally. Though my mother would say it is because I am an excellent listener, which is simply another way of saying I am not particularly good at filling silences with my own chatter."
"I amexcellentat filling silences with my own chatter. It is one of my few talents." Rosanne reached for another lemon biscuit, then hesitated. "May I ask you something? You need not answer if it is too impertinent."
"You may ask."
"Why are you not married?"
Lillian blinked. It was not the question she had expected, though in retrospect, perhaps she should have. It was the question everyone asked, sooner or later, when confronted with an unmarried woman of three-and-twenty who was neither hideous nor obviously insane.
"I suppose I have not yet met anyone I wished to marry," she said carefully.
"But surely there have been suitors? Prospects? Young men of suitable character and adequate teeth?"
"A few." Lillian smiled slightly. "Though I confess I never thought to evaluate their teeth."
"You should. It is important." Rosanne leaned forward, her expression earnest. "But truly, was there no one? No one at all who made you feel... I do not know.Something?"
Lillian considered the question. She had received two proposals in her twenty-three years; one from a curate with damp hands and earnest sermons, the other from a widowed farmer who needed someone to care for his six children. Both had been decent men. Both had offered her security and purpose and a place in the world.
She had refused them both.
"I suppose," she said slowly, "that I have always believed marriage should be more than mere practicality. That one should feel..." She hesitated, searching for the right word. "Connection, understanding, a sense that one's life would bericherbecause of the other person's presence in it, rather than simplytolerable."
