Daniel's mouth twitched—that small tell she had learned to recognize as suppressed amusement. "I have not disapproved of anyone. Yet."
"You disapproved of Mr. Thornton before he had finished bowing."
"His waistcoat was yellow. Aggressively yellow. It suggested poor judgment."
"It suggested fashion, Daniel. Young gentlemen wear yellow waistcoats. It is the style."
"Then the style is wrong."
Lillian bit back a smile and turned her attention to the ballroom. It was a magnificent affair; Lady Barlow’s annual ball was one of the highlights of the London season, and the cream of society had turned out in force. Crystal chandeliers cast glittering light across silks and satin; the orchestra played with practiced elegance; and everywhere, young people flirted and danced and navigated the treacherous waters of courtship.
In the midst of it all, Rosanne shone.
She was wearing pale blue tonight; a color that suited her fair complexion and brought out the brightness of her eyes. Her hair had been arranged in an elaborate style that Lillian had helped select, and she carried herself with a confidence that would have been unthinkable a year ago.
The anxious girl who had clutched Lillian's hand at Lady Smith's house gathering had transformed into a young woman who could hold her own in any drawing room in London. She still had her moments of nervousness, Lillian had talked her through a minor panic just that afternoon, but she had learned to manage them. To breathe through the fear and find her footing on the other side.
"She looks happy," Lillian said softly.
"She does." Daniel's voice had lost its sardonic edge, replaced by something warmer. "I did not think…..I had not expected..."
"That she would flourish?"
"That she would enjoy it. I thought she would endure the season as a necessary trial, counting the days until she could return to the country." He shook his head slightly. "I underestimated her."
"You underestimated what she could become when she was no longer carrying the weight of your parents' expectations alone." Lillian touched his arm, feeling the tension beneath the fine wool of his coat. "She had years of believing herself inadequate, Daniel. It takes time to unlearn such lessons."
"You helped her unlearn them."
"I gave her some tools. She did the work herself."
They watched in companionable silence as Rosanne was claimed for a dance by a young gentleman in a perfectly respectable dark green waistcoat. He was perhaps twenty-three, with an open, pleasant face and the slightly nervous manner of someone who could not quite believe his good fortune.
"Mr. Fielding," Daniel murmured. "Third son of Viscount Ashby. Adequate fortune, respectable family, no obvious vices."
"You have been making inquiries."
"I have been making thorough inquiries. There is a difference."
"And your conclusion?"
"He is..." Daniel paused, as though the admission pained him. "Acceptable. As a dancing partner. Nothing more has been decided."
Lillian laughed—she could not help it. The Duke of Wyntham, terror of London society, reduced to grudging acceptance of a young man whose only crime was showing interest in his sister.
"You find my suffering amusing," Daniel observed.
"I find your sufferingdelightful. You have spent a year preparing for this season as though it were a military campaign."
"I am merely being prudent."
"You are being a stubborn brother with a sore head, and we both know it."
He turned to look at her then, and she saw the warmth beneath his feigned irritation; the love that he had learned, slowly and with considerable difficulty, to let show on his face.
"I am allowed to be protective," he said. "She is my sister. She is my only family. If some fortune-hunting scoundrel were to..."
"Mr. Fielding is not a fortune-hunter. His family has more money than ours."
