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T he morning at Exitor Manor dawned calm and overcast, gray light filtering through the windows and casting long shadows across the polished floors.

A hush lay over the house, a stillness thrumming with anticipation.

As Lilian moved through the quiet halls, she couldn’t help but feel something had shifted—whether it was within herself or the very walls of the manor.

Perhaps she was simply settling into the rhythms of life here.

Or perhaps it was the lingering memory of her encounters with Griffith—the way his presence seemed to stay with her, long after he had gone.

Whatever the reason, Lilian moved through the morning with heightened awareness, her thoughts repeatedly drifting to the man who had so thoroughly captured her attention.

Her curiosity about him had deepened far more quickly than she had anticipated.

At first, she had been content to observe him from a distance, to study the careful facade he presented to the world.

But now, with each passing day, she found herself yearning to understand him, to glimpse the man behind the mask.

And yet, even as that desire grew, so did her hesitation.

She remembered creeping into her father’s study long after he was gone, running her fingers over the worn leather of his favorite chair, inhaling the lingering scent of his pipe tobacco, as if she could summon him back through sheer will.

Though time had softened that ache, she knew how easily old wounds could reopen.

She had felt it keenly after her father’s passing—the way the world had dimmed, how her place in it had seemed suddenly uncertain.

Was it wise to allow herself to feel anything for someone like Griffith? A man who carried his burdens like armor, who had built walls so high she might never scale them? What if she let herself believe in something more, only to find herself alone once again?

That internal war waged as she sat in the parlor with Emiline, sipping her tea with her usual elegance. When a footman arrived with a message, her breath caught at the words. “His Grace requests a private audience with Lady Lilian Kingston.”

The teacup trembled in her grasp before she set it down. Emiline, ever perceptive, arched a brow and leaned forward. “My dear, you look unsettled. Or perhaps something far more intriguing is afoot?”

Lilian shook her head, struggling to calm her racing heart. “The duke and I have become friends.”

Emiline’s smile widened, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. She tapped her teacup, tilting her head with a playful glint in her eye. “Well, you must not keep His Grace waiting.”

Lilian sighed as uncertainty warred with something far more dangerous—anticipation. “I don’t know what to make of it.”

Emiline reached across the table, patting Lilian’s hand with affectionate reassurance. “I think it’s rather clear what he wants. Or rather, whom he wants.”

Lilian’s cheeks flushed. “Emiline, you cannot possibly—”

“Oh, but I do,” Emiline interrupted with a knowing smirk. “I’ve seen the way he watches you when he thinks no one notices. The way his gaze lingers on you across a crowded room. Believe me, Lilian, the duke is just as intrigued by you as you are by him.”

Lilian opened her mouth to protest, but the words failed her. A part of her, the part she dared not acknowledge, wanted to believe Emiline was right.

Emiline gave her hand one last squeeze. “Take the chance, Lilian. You can’t hide forever.”

Lilian found Griffith waiting for her in the gardens, his stance formal yet relaxed.

The rain left a sheen on the leaves, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and roses, grounding her in the moment.

The freshness of it all mirrored the strange, breathless anticipation that curled within Lilian—something new, something waiting just beyond her reach.

He turned at her approach, his gaze steady, unreadable.

“Lady Lilian,” he greeted, his voice measured, yet carrying an undertone of something deeper. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” she replied, smoothing her skirts, trying to ignore the way her pulse quickened. “You wished to speak with me?”

He hesitated a fraction too long. “Yes. Walk with me?”

She nodded, falling into step beside him. They strolled in silence for a while, the gravel crunching beneath their feet. A charged silence stretched between them, each waiting for the other to break it.

At last, he exhaled. “I’ve found that life often demands more of us than we are prepared to give. Those expectations shape us in ways we never intended.”

Lilian glanced at him, noting the tension in his jaw, the faint crease between his brows. “It is a heavy burden, is it not? Being what the world expects rather than who we truly are.”

His gaze flicked to her. It was as if she had laid bare a truth he had not expected her to see. “It is.”

A charged silence settled as they meandered past the koi pond, the still surface reflecting the muted sky, mirroring the tension between them.

He halted near the edge, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Lilian, I…” He trailed off, shaking his head as if frustrated by his own words.

“I wished to thank you. For listening. For… seeing me.”

Lilian’s pulse quickened at the raw honesty in his voice. “You don’t have to thank me. I know what it is to carry grief alone. To wear a mask for the world when inside, you feel unmoored.”

Something flickered across his face—recognition, perhaps even relief. “And how did you find your way through it?”

Lilian hesitated. “By choosing, every day, to find something worth holding onto. By remembering that loss does not mean the absence of life.”

He nodded slowly, as if weighing her words, then turned his gaze back to the pond. “I want to believe that.”

Lilian reached out, hesitated, then gently touched his sleeve. “Then let me help you.”

He tensed, but he did not pull away.

A drop of rain splashed onto her cheek. They looked up as the heavens opened, unleashing a warm summer downpour. A startled laugh escaped Lilian, bright and carefree.

The duke, to her astonishment, laughed as well—low, rich, and utterly unguarded.

Lilian had never heard such a sound from him before, as if, for once, he had let his carefully constructed defenses fall away.

Something warm and unfamiliar unfurled within her.

How often did he allow himself such freedom?

Such joy? She wanted to hear it again, to be the reason for that unguarded moment.

“Come,” he said, catching her hand. “Before we drown.”

They dashed toward a large oak, ducking beneath its sheltering branches. They were both drenched, their clothes clinging to them. Lilian, still breathless, turned to him—only to find him watching her with an intensity that sent warmth curling through her.

For a moment, neither spoke. The rain drummed a steady rhythm above them.

Lilian shifted slightly, drawn closer by the warmth radiating from him.

Griffith hesitated, his fingers flexing at his sides as if waging an internal battle.

His breath came unevenly, and when he finally met her gaze, raw emotion flickered in his eyes—something that sent a shiver through her, though not from the rain’s chill.

He reached out, his fingertips brushing lightly against her cheek, tracing the path of a raindrop as it slid toward her jawline. The warmth of his touch was a stark contrast to the cool rain, sending a shiver down her spine. “Lilian…”

Her heart pounded. She was sure—sure—he was about to kiss her. But before he could close the distance, the rain began to lighten, the moment slipping away like water through her fingers.

He exhaled, stepping back. “We should return.”

She swallowed against the sharp sting of disappointment. “Yes.”

As they walked back to the manor, the silence between them was no longer heavy, but charged with something unspoken. Something inevitable.

She felt the weight of his gaze even as they neared the manor, her mind replaying every word, every glance exchanged between them. The memory of his touch, however brief, lingered like a whisper against her skin, igniting something unfamiliar and exhilarating within her.

As they stepped onto the terrace, Griffith hesitated.

He turned slightly toward her, as if caught in some silent debate.

Lilian, sensing his hesitation, held her breath.

The moment stretched, anticipation coiling tight between them.

He hesitated, his fingers flexing slightly, as if fighting the urge to reach for her.

Then, with the faintest smile—a promise, a challenge, perhaps both—he inclined his head. Lilian’s pulse skittered in response, a mix of exhilaration and uncertainty coursing through her.

“Good evening, Lady Lilian.”

Her lips parted, a reply forming, but before she could speak, he was gone, disappearing into the shadows of the grand house.

Lilian exhaled, pressing a hand to her fluttering heart.

The late afternoon air was cool against her heated skin, but it did nothing to quell the restless energy coursing through her veins.

She knew sleep would not come easily tonight—not when the echoes of the evening clung to her, lingering in every thought, every breath.

The memory of his touch, the weight of his gaze—each moment wove through her thoughts.

Was she ready for this shift between them?

For the possibility of something more? The thought both thrilled and unnerved her, setting her heart to a restless rhythm.