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M orning light streamed through the mullioned windows, casting golden patterns across the polished floor. A warm breeze stirred the lace curtains. The crisp freshness of late spring lingered in the air, promising the full bloom of summer just on the horizon.

Miss Lilian Kingston let her gaze drift over the manicured gardens, where sunlight glinted off dew-laden roses and jasmine climbing the trellis.

The countryside had always been a place of solace, a retreat from the stifling weight of London’s ballrooms, yet today, even the serenity of the sprawling estate did little to quell the ache lingering in her chest.

Her fingers traced idle patterns along the edge of her pale-blue muslin gown, a habit she had adopted to keep her hands occupied when her thoughts strayed.

More often than not, it drifted to thoughts of what her life might have been like had her mother been different—had she chosen to stay, to be present rather than forever chasing the allure of London’s gaiety or the intrigue of foreign shores. Would Lilian have felt less adrift?

A year and a half had passed since her father’s death, shifting the foundation of her world and leaving her abandoned in a life she no longer recognized.

Her mother, though grieving in her own way, had thrown herself into the diversions of London and the grand tour of the continent, leaving Lilian to navigate her loss alone.

The occasional letters from Paris or Rome, filled with dazzling accounts of soirees and operas, only reinforced what Lilian had long known—her mother thrived in a world of glittering distraction, not in the quiet intimacy of home.

It made Lillian miss her father all the more.

She could still recall the timbre of his laughter when he read aloud from her favorite novels, the scent of his tobacco lingering in the study long after he had gone, and the reassuring weight of his hand upon hers whenever she sought his guidance.

The ache of his absence had dulled, but the void remained, an ever-present shadow in the quiet moments.

She had learned to move through her days with a practiced composure, to school her features into a mask of quiet dignity, but beneath the veneer of calm lay an emptiness she had not yet filled.

She had come to Lord and Lady Morton’s estate in search of peace.

And she had found it. There were no whispered condolences, no lingering stares of pity, no relentless inquiries into when she would return to the marriage mart, as if a husband might somehow remedy the loss of her father.

Here, she could simply exist, free from society’s expectations.

But even as she told herself she was content in her solitude, a part of her longed for something more—though what, exactly, she could not say.

Was it companionship? A sense of purpose beyond quiet resignation?

Or perhaps, deep down, she wished for a connection she had only ever glimpsed in fleeting moments—one not dictated by duty or expectation, but by choice and desire.

A brisk knock at the door disrupted her reverie, and she turned just as Emiline Quinton, Countess Morton, swept into the room in a whirl of silk and boundless energy.

“Lilian, my dear,” Emiline began, her voice brimming with warmth and familiarity, “tell me you have not been sitting in this very spot all morning, staring wistfully out the window like a tragic heroine from a Gothic novel.”

Lilian giggled. “Perhaps I have.”

“Scandalous!” Emiline declared, moving to perch on the edge of the settee.

“This simply will not do. I insist you accompany me for a walk in the gardens. The roses are in full bloom, and I am in desperate need of intelligent conversation before I am forced to endure Leonard’s endless commentary on agricultural reforms.”

A familiar warmth spread through Lilian’s chest at the mention of Lord Morton, Emiline’s husband. He had been nothing but kind to her since her arrival, treating her with the same gentle protectiveness he might afford a younger sister.

“You give him too little credit,” Lilian said, rising from her seat. “I happen to find his discussions on crop rotation rather enlightening.”

Emiline rolled her eyes. “Yes, well, if you wish to hear about the superiority of Norfolk’s wheat yield and the unparalleled virtues of turnip cultivation, then, by all means, subject yourself to the torment in my place.

But don’t expect me to rescue you if you become overwhelmed by statistics on soil fertility.

” She laughed. “Truly, though, you must get out of this room for a while. You have been keeping far too much to yourself, and that is simply unacceptable.”

Lilian allowed herself to be led from the room, and as they stepped into the corridor, the scent of polished wood and faint traces of lemongrass oil—a hallmark of their housekeeper—lingered in the air.

They descended the staircase, their steps echoing through the grand hall, and soon emerged onto the terrace, where the morning sun had warmed the stone beneath their feet.

Emiline sighed contentedly as she took in the scene before them.

“This,” she declared, gesturing to the rolling green fields and flowering hedgerows, “is what life should be. Simple, beautiful, unburdened by tedious gossip or—” she paused dramatically, lowering her voice—“the expectations of insufferable dowagers who insist we must all be married before our youth flees.”

Lilian arched a brow. “You, who married quite well, have no right to complain.”

“Yes, but I married on my own terms,” Emiline countered. “And no meddling matrons can take credit for that.”

Lilian smiled, but before she could reply, the sound of approaching footsteps drew her attention. A footman, dressed in deep-green livery, carried a silver tray toward them, upon which rested a single folded letter sealed in deep-blue wax.

Emiline’s eyes lit with intrigue as she plucked it from the tray.

“Ah, correspondence!” she mused, breaking the seal with a deft flick of her fingers. “And from—oh!” Her expression shifted, her excitement unmistakable. “Lilian, my dear, we have been invited to a house party.”

Lilian stiffened. “A house party?”

“Yes, and not just any house party.” Emiline turned the letter toward her with an impish grin. “The Duke of Exitor summoned us to his estate.”

Lilian’s pulse quickened at the name. Griffith Wyndham, Duke of Exitor.

A subtle chill ran down her spine, though whether it was trepidation or intrigue, she could not say.

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, as if bracing for something unseen.

A man whose name carried an air of mystery, withdrawn from society since tragedy had struck his family.

Though their paths had never crossed, she had heard whispers—of a once-carefree lord who had retreated from society, of a man cloaked in shadows and silence.

A man who, like her, had suffered a great loss.

She hesitated. “Emiline, I do not—”

Emiline silenced her with a knowing look.

“I know what you are about to say, but hear me out. This is not London. This is no grand season of tiresome matchmaking attempts. This is an intimate gathering, a chance to step beyond the walls of this estate without being thrown back into the fire of society.”

Lilian swallowed, turning her gaze toward the distant hills.

A part of her wanted to refuse. To remain in the safety of her solitude, where she would not have to face the unspoken expectations, the lingering glances of those who wondered if she would ever truly move on.

But another part of her, the part that longed for something beyond grief, whispered that perhaps it was time to step beyond the walls she had built around herself.

To try.

To see what lay beyond her sorrow.

Finally, she met Emiline’s gaze and exhaled. “Very well.”

Emiline beamed with triumph. “Splendid. Now, let us go inside and begin packing—and I shall regale you with all I know about our most enigmatic host.”

As they turned back toward the house, the morning sun bathed the world in warmth, and for the first time in months, Lilian felt something stir in her chest—unfamiliar and unsettling, yet impossible to ignore.

For so long, she had guarded herself against hope, against the unknown, yet now, standing on the precipice of something she could not name, she felt a flicker of something dangerously close to excitement.

A step toward something new.

Something unknown.

And perhaps, just perhaps—something worth discovering.

*

Two days later, the carriage wheels crunched over the gravel drive, drawing Lady Lilian Kingston closer to the looming estate ahead.

She peered out the window, her heart fluttering with a curious mix of anticipation and trepidation.

The Duke of Exitor’s estate emerged through the mist, its silhouette stark against the shifting sky—an imposing edifice of stone and shadow.

A prickle of unease danced along Lilian’s spine, the sheer scale of it both awe inspiring and intimidating.

The estate loomed like a fortress of secrets, its towering presence pressing upon her as if weighing her arrival with silent judgment.

A fleeting urge to retreat gripped her, but she pushed it aside, reminding herself that she had chosen to be here.

It was breathtaking—an exquisite facade masking an unyielding presence, too grand to be real, too imposing to be welcoming.

Lilian pressed her gloved fingers against the cool glass, her gaze tracing the imposing lines of the estate.

It was not the elegant Palladian design so often favored by the nobility, but something older—more formidable.

Turrets and parapets loomed against the sky, with remnants of medieval grandeur softened by later refinements.

In places, ivy clung to the outer walls, creeping over the weathered stone as though nature itself sought to reclaim the structure.