"Clearly." Lillian was proud of how steady her voice sounded, how devoid of the hurt that was clawing at her chest. "I shall leave you to your conversation."
"There is no need..."
"There is every need." She turned to Rosanne, who was watching the exchange with wide, anxious eyes. "I will call again tomorrow, if that is convenient. We can finish discussing the arrangements for your journey."
"Lillian, wait."
But Lillian was already moving toward the door, her steps measured and deliberate. She would not run. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her flee. She would walk out of this room with her dignity intact, even if her heart was shattering into a thousand pieces.
She had almost reached the threshold when his voice stopped her.
"Miss Whitcombe."
She paused but did not turn around. "Yes, Your Grace?"
A long silence. She could feel him behind her, she could feel the weight of his gaze on her back and she could sense the words he was struggling to form and failing to speak.
"I hope your father continues to improve."
The banality of it nearly broke her. After everything, after the declarations and the kisses and the promises, that was what he had to say to her. A polite inquiry about her father's health, delivered in the same tone he might use with any casual acquaintance.
"He does, Your Grace. Thank you for asking."
She walked out without looking back.
***
Lillian made it to the entrance hall before the tears came.
She pressed her hand against her mouth, stifling the sob that threatened to escape, and forced herself to keep walking. The butler was approaching, no doubt to see her out, and she could not, and would not, let him see her crying.
"Miss Whitcombe." His voice was gentle, surprisingly so. "Shall I call for the gig?"
"Yes. Thank you." She did not trust herself to say more.
She waited in the entrance hall, her face turned toward the window, her hand still pressed against her trembling lips. The grey light of the overcast day seemed to seep into her bones, leaving her cold and hollow.
I hope your father continues to improve.
That was all she was to him now. A neighbor to be politely inquired after. An acquaintance to be greeted with formal courtesy and dismissed without thought.
She had been a fool. She had allowed herself to believe that she was special; that she, Lillian Whitcombe, had somehow managed to breach the defenses of the Duke of Wyntham. She had convinced herself that the kisses meant something, that the declarations meant something, that the man who had held her in his arms and called her remarkable truly saw her as such.
But she was not remarkable. She was merely convenient; a distraction from his loneliness, a momentary relief from the cold prison of his own making. And now that the moment had passed, she was nothing at all.
The gig arrived, and Lillian climbed in without assistance. She could not bear to have anyone touch her right now, not even in kindness.
As the vehicle began to move, she allowed herself one final glance back at Wynthorpe Hall. The grey stone facade looked the same as always; imposing and utterly indifferent to the small dramas played out within its walls.
And in one of the upper windows, half-hidden by the curtain, she caught a glimpse of a figure watching her departure.
Daniel.
She turned away before she could see more, before she could read his expression or interpret his posture or torture herself with speculation about what he might be feeling.
It did not matter what he was feeling. He had made his choice, and she had to accept it.
The gig carried her away from Wynthorpe, and Lillian did not look back again.
