***
Three days passed.
Lillian did not return to Wynthorpe Hall. She told herself it was because she was needed at home; her father was recovering but still required attention, and her mother was exhausted from the strain of recent events. She told herself it would be inappropriate to press, that a lady did not chase after a gentleman who had made his disinterest clear.
She told herself many things. None of them felt true.
The truth was that she was afraid. Afraid of being turned away again. Afraid of the cold formality she might encounter if Daniel deigned to see her. Afraid of discovering that everything she had believed, about him, about them, about the love she had thought they shared, had been nothing more than wishful thinking.
She had received no word from him. No letter, no message, no explanation for his sudden withdrawal. The silence was deafening, and Lillian found herself interpreting it in a dozen different ways, each more painful than the last.
Perhaps he had reconsidered. Perhaps the light of day had revealed the impracticality of their situation; the gap in rank, the inevitable scandal, the obstacles that would face any match between a duke and a country gentleman's daughter. Perhaps he had decided that the cost was too high, the risk too great, and he had chosen to retreat before they went any further.
Or perhaps, and this was the thought that cut deepest, perhaps his feelings had never been as strong as she believed. Perhaps what she had interpreted as love had been merely attraction. Desire. The momentary confusion of a man unaccustomed to emotion, mistaking intensity for depth.
Perhaps she had been a fool all along.
Rosanne wrote, on the second day. A brief note, delivered by one of the Wynthorpe footmen, full of apologies and bewilderment.
Dearest Lillian,
I do not know what has happened. Daniel has locked himself in his study and will not speak to me about anything of substance. He takes his meals alone, refuses all visitors, and has become colder than I have ever seen him.
I tried to ask him about you, about what passed between you, but he shut me down with a finality that frightened me. He called it "an aberration." Can you believe it? After everything, after the way he looked at you, he called it an aberration.
I am so sorry, Lillian. I do not understand this. I thought…..I truly thought…
Please write to me. Please tell me you are well. And please do not give up on him entirely. I know my brother. I know how he responds to fear. He is running, Lillian. He is running because he does not know how to do anything else.
But I have to believe he can learn.
Your devoted friend,Rosanne.
Lillian read the letter three times, then folded it carefully and placed it in her writing desk. She did not reply immediately. She did not know what to say.
An aberration.
That was what he called it. The most significant moment of her life, the confession of love, the passionate kiss, the promise to face the future together, and he dismissed it as an aberration. A mistake. A momentary lapse of judgment to be corrected and forgotten.
She had thought she knew him. She had thought she understood the man beneath the mask—the wounded boy hiding in the folly, the lonely duke who did not know how to let anyone close. She had thought that her understanding meant something. That her love meant something.
Perhaps it did not.
Perhaps nothing meant anything at all.
Chapter Fifteen
On the morning of the fourth day, Lillian made a decision.
She would return to Wynthorpe Hall. Not because she expected Daniel to see her, she had abandoned that hope, but because Rosanne was her friend, and she would not allow Daniel's cowardice to destroy that friendship as well.
She dressed simply, without any of the care she had taken on that first morning. She did not choose colors he might notice or arrange her hair in styles he might admire. She dressed as herself, Lillian Whitcombe, practical and sensible, and she refused to feel ashamed of it.
The ride to Wynthorpe felt longer than usual. The sky was grey, heavy with the promise of rain, and the wind had a bite to it that spoke of approaching winter. Lillian pulled her cloak more tightly around her shoulders and tried not to think about the last time she had traveled this road; hopeful and nervous, so certain that she was riding toward happiness.
The butler admitted her with the same professional courtesy as always, though Lillian thought she detected a flicker of something, sympathy, perhaps, in his carefully neutral expression.
"Lady Rosanne is in the morning room, Miss Whitcombe. Shall I announce you?"
