"Do you know anything of Lord Blackwood's son?"
"Only that he is young, wealthy, and considered quite handsome by those who value such things." Rosanne shrugged. "He may be perfectly pleasant. Or he may be dreadful. Lady Smith's taste in potential husbands is not always reliable."
Lillian murmured something noncommittal and turned to look out the window. The countryside was rolling past; familiar fields and hedgerows giving way to less familiar terrain as they traveled further from Hartfield.
She had not seen Daniel since that terrible encounter in the morning room. She had not expected to, he had made his desire for distance abundantly clear, but some small, foolish part of her had hoped he might come to see them off. That he might appear at the carriage door, might say something, anything, that would help her understand what had happened between them.
He had not appeared. Of course he had not appeared. He was probably in his study right now, reviewing accounts or reading reports, perfectly content in his solitude.
She was nothing to him and she had to accept that.
"Lillian." Rosanne's voice broke into her thoughts. "I know I promised not to speak of him, but..."
"Then don't." Lillian's voice was gentler than her words. "Please, Rosanne . I cannot bear it."
"I just wanted you to know... he came to the window. When you were leaving. He watched the carriage until it was out of sight."
Lillian closed her eyes. The information was both a comfort and a torture—knowing that he cared enough to watch her go, but not enough to actually stop her.
"It does not matter," she said quietly.
"But..."
"It does not matter." She opened her eyes and forced a smile. "Now, tell me more about Lady Smith. What must I know to survive her gathering?"
Rosanne hesitated, clearly wanting to say more, but something in Lillian's expression must have convinced her to let the matter drop. She began to speak of Lady Smith, her pretensions, her preferences, her many peculiarities, and Lillian listened with half her attention.
The other half remained fixed on a window, watching the road that led back to Wynthorpe, where a man she had loved stood alone in his study, surrounded by ledgers and reports and the cold comfort of his own carefully constructed isolation.
She would not cry. She would not look back.
But as the carriage carried her further and further from everything she had hoped for, Lillian felt something in her chest close like a door, shutting away the warmth she had briefly allowed herself to feel.
It was better this way. Safer.
It had to be.
Chapter Sixteen
"Lady Rosanne! My dear girl, you have arrived at last. And looking positivelythin—have they not been feeding you at home? I shall have to speak to your brother about the management of his kitchens."
Lady Smith descended upon them before they had even fully emerged from the carriage, her imposing figure swathed in purple silk that rustled with every decisive movement. She was perhaps sixty-five, with silver hair arranged in an elaborate style that must have required two maids and considerable engineering, and eyes that missed nothing; sharp, calculating eyes that were already assessing Lillian with the practised efficiency of a woman who had made matchmaking her life's work.
"Lady Smith." Rosanne curtsied with creditable composure, though Lillian could feel the tension in her friend's frame. "Thank you for your kind invitation. May I present my companion, Miss Lillian Whitcombe?"
Those sharp eyes turned to Lillian, and she felt herself being catalogued, evaluated, and filed away in some mental registry of marriageable young women.
"Miss Whitcombe." Lady Smith's voice carried the particular inflection of someone placing a specimen under examination. "The Whitcombes of Hartfield, yes? Your mother was a Thornton before her marriage; the Thorntons of Devonshire, not the Yorkshire branch. Good family. Modest circumstances, but respectable."
"You are well informed, Lady Smith." Lillian kept her voice steady, refusing to be cowed by the interrogation masquerading as small talk.
"I make it my business to be well informed. Knowledge is the foundation of successful social management." Lady Smith's gaze traveled from Lillian's bonnet to her boots, taking in every detail of her modest traveling costume. "Your father was injured recently, I understand? A fall from a roof? How unfortunate. Men of a certain age should not be climbing ladders."
"He is recovering well, thank you."
"Good." Lady Smith turned back to Rosanne with the air of someone who had completed a necessary but tedious task. "Come, my dear. I have put you in the blue room; your mother's favourite when she visited, may she rest in peace. Miss Whitcombe will share your accommodations, of course."
She swept toward the house, clearly expecting them to follow. Lillian exchanged a glance with Rosanne, equal parts alarm and dark amusement, and they fell into step behind their formidable hostess.
