"She did. Without trying, without any apparent effort; she simply looked at me, and I could not hide anymore." He paused, searching for words to describe what Lillian had done to him. "She sees me, Lady Smith. Not the title, not the mask I have constructed but just me. And instead of being repelled by what she found, she offered me her heart."
"Which you rejected."
"Which I threw back at her, because I was terrified of what accepting it might mean." Daniel heard his own voice crack and did not try to conceal it. "I hurt her. I know I hurt her. And I am here because I cannot bear the thought of losing her forever without at least attempting to prove that I can be different."
Lady Smith studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she rose, moving to the window with the careful grace of a woman who refused to acknowledge the limitations of age.
"I have hosted a great many house gatherings, Your Grace. I have watched young people fall in and out of love with the regularity of the changing seasons. Most of them are playing at emotion—enjoying the drama of courtship without any real understanding of what they are committing to."
She turned to face him, and her expression had softened; not dramatically, but enough to be noticeable.
"You are not playing. That much is clear." She paused. "I will not throw you out, Your Grace. You may remain for the duration of the gathering. But understand this: Miss Whitcombe is under my protection while she is here. If you hurt her again, if you retreat into your castle of ice and leave her to suffer the consequences, I will make my displeasure known in every drawing room from here to Edinburgh. Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly clear, Lady Smith."
"Good." She returned to her chair, her manner becoming brisk once more. "Now, there is the matter of appearances to consider. Your arrival has caused considerable speculation among my guests. If you wish to minimize the damage to Miss Whitcombe's reputation, I suggest you conduct yourself with impeccable propriety for the remainder of your stay. No private conversations, no midnight assignations, nothing that might provide fodder for the gossips."
"I understand."
"Do you? I wonder." Her eyes narrowed. "You are accustomed to doing as you please, Your Grace. The privileges of your rank have insulated you from the consequences that ordinary people must face. But Miss Whitcombe does not have that protection. Any scandal attached to her name will follow her for the rest of her life, while you will emerge relatively unscathed. Remember that, when you are tempted to act on your feelings rather than your judgment."
Daniel absorbed this, recognizing the truth in her words. He had been so focused on proving himself to Lillian that he had not fully considered what his presence here might cost her.
"You are right," he said quietly. "I had not thought..."
"No. Men seldom do." But there was no real censure in her voice; only the weary resignation of a woman who had observed masculine thoughtlessness for too many years to be surprised by it. "Go now. Conduct yourself appropriately. And for heaven's sake, do something about that cravat—you look as though you dressed in the dark."
Daniel rose, bowing with the formality the situation demanded. "Thank you, Lady Smith. For your honesty, and for your forbearance."
"Do not thank me yet, Your Grace. The forbearance is conditional on your behaviour."
He left the sitting room with her warning echoing in his mind, and he found himself, for perhaps the first time in his life, genuinely grateful for the interference of a society matron.
***
The drawing room that evening was a battlefield of carefully concealed observation.
Lillian had spent the afternoon avoiding both Daniel and Edward; the former because Lady Smith's warnings about propriety had reached her through Rosanne, the latter because she had no desire for further conversation. But dinner was unavoidable, and the gathering afterward even more so.
She found herself seated near the fireplace, engaged in conversation with Mrs. Hartwell while her twin daughters whispered nearby. The topic was innocuous, the unseasonably warm weather, the prospects for the winter social season, but Lillian was aware, with every fiber of her being, of Daniel's presence across the room.
He was speaking with Lord Hartwell and Sir William Drake, his posture correct, his expression attentive. To a casual observer, he appeared entirely at ease; the Duke of Wyntham engaging in the ordinary social commerce of a house gathering.
But Lillian knew better. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the careful control in every gesture. He was performing, as he had performed his entire adult life; but this performance was different. This time, he was not hiding behind the mask. He was using it as a tool, maintaining appearances while remaining present, engaged,there.
She watched as Sir William launched into yet another interminable story about his hunting exploits. She watched Daniel listen with apparent interest, offering appropriate responses at appropriate moments. She watched him not retreat, not escape, not find some excuse to remove himself from a conversation that had to be desperately tedious.
He was staying. Just as he had promised.
"Miss Whitcombe." Mrs. Hartwell’s voice broke through her observations. "You seem distracted this evening. I hope nothing is amiss?"
"Not at all, Mrs. Hartwell. I was merely….. Wool-gathering."
"Ah." The older woman's eyes followed Lillian's gaze to where Daniel stood. "I see. The Duke of Wyntham is quite a striking figure, is he not? Though I confess his sudden arrival has been the subject of considerable speculation."
"Has it?"
"Oh, indeed. The general consensus is that he has come to pay court to some young lady, though opinions differ as to which young lady has captured his interest." Mrs. Hartwell’s tone was light, but her eyes were sharp. "You would not happen to have any insight into the matter, Miss Whitcombe?"
