The Hartwell twins, identical red-haired girls with sharp eyes and sharper tongues, examined her with undisguised curiosity. Sir William Drake, a portly man in his fifties, assessed her figure with a frankness that made her skin crawl. Miss Phoebe Smith favored her with a single contemptuous glance before dismissing her as beneath notice.
Through it all, Rosanne clung to her side like a drowning woman to a piece of driftwood, her face pale but her composure holding.
And then she was introduced to Mr. Edward Potter.
He was standing near the fireplace when Lady Smith summoned him over—a tall young man, with fair hair that caught the candlelight and warm brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. His features were pleasant rather than striking, his bearing relaxed rather than commanding, his entire demeanor suggesting a man who was comfortable in his own skin and did not feel the need to prove anything to anyone.
"Mr. Potter, may I present Lady Rosanne Wynthorpe and her companion, Miss Lillian Whitcombe." Lady Smith's voice carried the particular inflection of a chess player making an important move. "Lady Rosanne is the sister of the Duke of Wyntham; you know of the family, of course."
"Of course." Mr. Potter bowed with easy grace. "Lady Rosanne, Miss Whitcombe; a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I hope your journey was not too arduous?"
"Not at all, thank you." Rosanne's voice was barely above a whisper, her shyness asserting itself in the face of this unknown gentleman.
"The roads from Hertfordshire were quite good," Lillian added, stepping in to cover her friend's awkwardness. "We made excellent time."
Mr. Potter's attention shifted to her, and Lillian found herself the subject of a gaze that was warm, interested, and entirely without the predatory calculation she had seen in Sir William Drake's eyes.
"Miss Whitcombe. The Whitcombes of Hartfield, I understand? My uncle has an estate not far from there; Thornbury House. I have visited several times and always found the countryside most agreeable."
"It is a beautiful part of the country," Lillian agreed. "Though I confess I am partial, having lived there all my life."
"Partiality to one's home is hardly a fault. I am quite ridiculously attached to Wiltshire, where I spent most of my childhood." He smiled, and the expression transformed his face from merely pleasant to genuinely attractive. "Do you ride, Miss Whitcombe? The hunting in your part of land is said to be excellent."
"I do ride, though I confess I have no great love for hunting. I prefer a quiet ramble through the countryside to the chaos of the chase."
"As do I, in truth. The ritual of the hunt has always struck me as rather excessive; dozens of people on horseback, packs of hounds, all in pursuit of a single unfortunate fox. It seems an inefficient use of resources."
Lillian laughed despite herself. "An economist's view of sport, Mr. Potter."
"I have been accused of excessive practicality before. It is the curse of the second son; we are expected to make something of ourselves rather than simply existing decoratively, as our elder brothers do." His eyes twinkled with self-deprecating humor. "My brother finds my interest in agricultural improvement deeply tedious. He cannot understand why I would wish to read treatises on crop rotation when I could be gambling away my allowance in London like a proper gentleman."
"And do you? Read treatises on crop rotation?"
"Religiously. I am particularly fond of Thomas Coke’s work—though I suspect that makes me impossibly dull company for a house gathering."
Lillian felt something shift in her chest. A spark of interest that had nothing to do with obligation or circumstance. Here was a man who read agricultural treatises for pleasure, who mocked his own practicality, who spoke to her as though her opinions mattered.
"Not dull at all," she said. "I have read Thomas Coke myself. My father has been implementing some of his methods on our estate, with considerable success."
Mr. Potter's expression brightened. "Truly? You have actually read Coke? Not merely heard him summarized by some gentleman at a dinner gathering?"
"I have read him. Cover to cover, in fact, though I confess some of the technical passages required multiple readings."
"Miss Whitcombe, I believe you may be the most interesting person I have met in years." He spoke with an enthusiasm that seemed entirely genuine. "Tell me, what do you think of his approach to the four-course rotation? My uncle's steward is skeptical, but I am convinced it would improve yields substantially."
They fell into conversation as though they had known each other for years rather than minutes. Lillian found herself explaining her father's experiments with turnip cultivation, debating the merits of different varieties of clover, discussing the challenges of convincing tenant farmers to adopt new methods. Mr. Potter listened with genuine attention, asked intelligent questions, and offered his own observations with a humility that was refreshing after years of listening to men expound upon subjects they barely understood.
She was so absorbed in the discussion that she almost forgot where she was, forgot the watching eyes of Lady Smith, forgot the whispers of the other guests, forgot everything except the pleasure of talking to someone who actually understood what she was saying.
It was Rosanne's gentle touch on her arm that recalled her to her surroundings.
"Lillian," she murmured. "Dinner is about to be announced."
Lillian blinked, returning to the present. Mr. Potter was looking at her with an expression she could not quite read; something between surprise and admiration, as though she had exceeded expectations he had not even known he held.
"Forgive me," she said. "I did not mean to monopolize the conversation."
"On the contrary, Miss Whitcombe, I cannot remember when I have enjoyed a conversation more." He bowed slightly. "I hope we might continue this discussion at dinner. If you would not find it tedious."
