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She was not the only one to notice.

“He’s rather severe, is he not?” murmured a woman nearby—the baronet’s wife, Lilian thought.

Her companion, an older lady with shrewd eyes, gave a soft hum of disagreement. “I knew him… before the accident. He was different then. Quieter than his peers, certainly, but there was a warmth to him. His mother’s influence, no doubt. The late duchess was a remarkable woman.”

Lilian’s heart skipped a beat.

Accident? They must be discussing the carriage wreck that took his parents’ lives.

She leaned in slightly, eager for more information, but the two women moved away, their voices melting into the hum of the gathering, leaving her with more questions than answers.

What had changed a quiet but warm man into this self-contained, inscrutable one? Perhaps the suddenness of his parents’ deaths was simply too much for him. She could certainly understand how such a loss transformed a person.

As the evening wore on, Lilian moved through the required motions. She partook in idle conversation—a discussion of London fashions, an exchange about music, a polite inquiry about her family’s well-being.

But through it all, she remained aware of him.

She observed the way he maintained distance.

She noted the way he listened more than he spoke, his gaze intent but unreadable.

And most of all, she noticed the moments when he believed himself unobserved—how, when he thought no one was looking, weariness flickered across his features, only to be quickly suppressed.

It was during one such moment that Lilian watched him most intently.

The duke had moved toward the windows, his gaze fixed on the darkened glass, beyond which night pressed against the house.

And then, something shifted.

His shoulders dropped, just slightly. His expression softened, just enough to reveal something beneath the carefully held composure. A flicker of vulnerability. A breath of something real.

It was gone in an instant, but Lilian had seen it.

And then—

He turned.

Their eyes met.

A shock of awareness ran through her, an almost physical sensation, as though his gaze had reached across the room and touched her.

This was not the brief, perfunctory glance of earlier in the evening. This was something else.

A question. A recognition.

Something undeniable.

He did not look away, nor did she.

For a heartbeat—perhaps two—they were connected, though neither spoke a word. The surrounding room blurred, its occupants forgotten in the weight of the moment.

He gave her neither a smile nor anything easily categorized. But in his gaze, Lilian saw something she had never seen before.

Acknowledgment.

As if, in that single exchange, he saw not just the guest in his home, but the woman behind the social niceties, just as she saw the man behind the title.

Her breath caught.

Then a low-voiced greeting drew his attention, and a gentleman stepped forward, offering a firm handshake. The moment dissolved, leaving only the lingering awareness of what had passed between them.

The duke turned away, his expression neutral once more, his features smoothing into their usual impassivity. The world resumed its course, conversations continued, and the drawing room returned to its elegant, choreographed rhythm.

But Lilian knew something had happened. A lingering sensation hummed in her chest, a restless awareness she could not shake.

Her grip on the glass firmed, a steadying act against the subtle tremor in her pulse.

Had she only imagined it? That fleeting acknowledgment, the depth in his gaze that had seemed to mirror her own curiosity?

And yet, no matter how she tried to rationalize it, the feeling remained—a whisper of something significant, something unresolved.

Something she could not explain.

She closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself.

What had just occurred between them? And why had it left her so shaken?

She had danced with lords, conversed with princes, endured countless suitors before her father’s death, and yet none of them had ever unsettled her in this way.

Perhaps it was because the duke did not try.

He did not flirt or charm, nor did he offer pleasantries or empty words.

And yet, with a single glance, he had done something far more dangerous.

He had seen her.

*

As the evening progressed, Lilian found herself drawn into conversation with Lord Rees Harcourt, a pleasant gentleman whose discussion of horseflesh might have been engaging had her attention not been perpetually drawn elsewhere.

Through the shifting patterns of guests, she remained acutely aware of the duke’s whereabouts, even as she pretended otherwise.

“Lady Lilian!” Emiline appeared suddenly at her side, her eyes bright with mischief. “There’s someone you simply must meet.”

Before Lilian could protest, Emiline had taken her arm and was guiding her across the room. Her pulse quickened as their destination became clear.

“Your Grace,” Emiline curtsied before the duke, whose impassive expression revealed nothing. “May I present Lady Lilian Kingston? She’s staying with us at Quinton Moores.”

The duke’s gaze settled on Lilian, that same mesmerizing blue that had unsettled her from across the room. Up close, she noticed a small scar at his temple, partially hidden by a lock of his hair.

“Lady Lilian.” His voice was deep, with a resonance that seemed to echo in her chest. “I trust you find Exitor to your liking?”

Lilian dipped into a graceful curtsy. “Indeed, Your Grace. Though I confess I required a map to navigate my way to the drawing room.”

A flicker of something—amusement?—crossed his features. “The house has been known to confound even those born within its walls. Perhaps next time you will accept the guide I’m sure was offered.”

“And deprive myself of adventure?” Lilian countered, surprising herself with her boldness. “I discovered three rooms I suspect have not seen visitors in a decade.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Four, if you ventured beyond the east wing.”

“Five, if one counts what I believe was once a study, now colonized entirely by books.”

“Ah.” The faintest smile touched his lips. “You have found my refuge.”

The admission felt strangely intimate. Lilian sensed Emiline’s surprised glance but kept her eyes on the duke. “It seems we share a sanctuary, then. Though mine is considerably smaller.”

Something shifted in his expression—a softening, perhaps, or recognition. For a moment, Lilian felt as though they were alone in the crowded room, connected by an understanding that transcended mere pleasantries.

Then the dinner gong sounded, its resonant chime breaking the spell.

“It was a pleasure, Lady Lilian,” the duke said, bowing with perfect correctness.

As Lord Rees appeared to escort her to the dining room, Lilian found her hand placed mechanically upon his arm. Her thoughts remained with the brief exchange she’d just shared with the duke—the unexpected wit beneath his reserve, the moment of connection when she’d mentioned books.

She had come to Exitor expecting a cold, forbidding host—the severe nobleman whispered about in London’s drawing rooms. Instead, she had glimpsed something else: a man who created sanctuaries from books, who noticed intruders in his forgotten rooms, who could smile, however fleetingly.

“Are you well, Lady Lilian?” Lord Rees inquired, noting her distraction.

“Perfectly,” she assured him, composing her features. But as they entered the dining room, her gaze sought the tall figure at the head of the table, and she wondered what other surprises Griffith Wyndham might hold.