"That is terribly romantic."
"Is it? I had thought it rather pragmatic. A lifetime is a very long time to spend with someone who does not truly see you."
Rosanne was quiet for a moment, her gaze drifting toward the window. When she spoke again, her voice was softer.
"Daniel says romance is a fiction. That marriage is a contract like any other; a negotiation of benefits and obligations, to be approached with logic rather than feeling." She paused. "But I do not think he believes that. Not really. I think he is simply…. Afraid."
Lillian thought of the duke's rigid posture, his controlled expression, the way he had retreated the moment their conversation had threatened to become personal.
"Afraid of what?" she asked.
"Of becoming our parents." Rosanne's voice was barely above a whisper. "They loved each other, you know. Desperately and passionately. And it destroyed them both."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Lillian did not press for details; she sensed that Rosanne had already said more than she had intended.
"I am sorry," she said quietly. "That must have been difficult."
"It was." Rosanne's smile was sad. "But it was a long time ago. And Daniel has done his best to keep us both safe. In his way."
Before Lillian could respond, the door to the sitting room opened, and the Duke of Wyntham himself stepped inside.
***
Daniel had not intended to join them for tea.
He had, in fact, made a very deliberate decision toavoidjoining them for tea. He had work to do, there was always work to do, and the presence of Miss Whitcombe in his home was absolutely, categorically, not his concern.
And yet here he was. Standing in the doorway of the blue sitting room, watching his sister and the woman with the dirty hem, though today her hem appeared to be perfectly clean, look up at him with expressions of surprise.
"Daniel." Rosanne recovered first, her tone a careful mixture of welcome and warning. "I did not expect you."
"I was passing." This was technically true. He had been passing. He had simply been passing rather more frequently than was strictly necessary, and the blue sitting room had somehow become the fixed point around which his trajectory orbited.
He was aware of how ridiculous this was but he chose not to examine it too closely.
"Won't you join us?" Rosanne gestured toward the empty chair near the fire. "We have plenty of tea, and the Cook has made the most wonderful lemon biscuits."
"I do not care for lemon."
"You do not care for anything," Rosanne said, with a flash of sisterly exasperation. "Sit down, Daniel. You are making Miss Whitcombe uncomfortable."
He glanced at Miss Whitcombe, who did not look uncomfortable in the slightest. She looked amused. That same quiet, private amusement he had sensed at the fair, as though she were observing a particularly entertaining play and had not yet decided what she thought of the leading actor.
"I would not dream of intruding on your conversation," he said stiffly.
"You are not intruding. You are joining. There is a difference." Lillian smiled; a small, serene curve of her lips that did something unpleasant to his equilibrium. "Please, Your Grace. Sit."
It was not a command. It was barely even a request. And yet Daniel found himself moving toward the empty chair as though his legs had made the decision without consulting his brain.
He sat.
"There," Rosanne said, with evident satisfaction. "That was not so difficult, was it?"
Daniel did not dignify this with a response. He accepted a cup of tea from the maid, no sugar, no cream, nothing that might soften the bitter edge, and fixed his attention on a point somewhere between the two women, where he could observe them both without actuallylookingat either of them.
"Miss Whitcombe was just telling me about her approach to marriage," Rosanne announced, apparently determined to include him in the conversation whether he wished to be included or not.
"Rosanne…" Miss Whitcombe's voice carried a note of gentle reproach. "I do not think His Grace is interested in my opinions on matrimony."
