Chapter 4
Four
“Drink your medicine, April,” her mother said, bustling about the bedchamber like a general preparing for battle. “The sooner you are better, the sooner you can attend the assemblies and find a husband.”
April coughed weakly into her handkerchief. “Of course, Mama,” she said between exaggerated wheezes. “I shall take every last drop.”
Dorothy, Duchess of Wildmoore, flitted to the window and drew the curtains back an inch before letting them fall again with a snap. “You must not miss another opportunity, April. Every day in bed is a day lost!”
“I am terribly distressed,” April said, trying not to smile.
Her mother leaned in, adjusting the blankets with frantic tugs. “You are very pale.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“And your voice is quite hoarse.”
“Indeed, Mama.”
Satisfied she had done her duty, Dorothy smoothed her skirts and swept toward the door. “May! June! Come along!”
May lingered for a moment, giving April a knowing glance, and as she stepped through the door, she winked over her shoulder.
April waited until the last footstep echoed down the hallway before she sat up at once, flinging off the covers. Suppressing a giggle, she darted to the window. Peeking through the heavy drapes, she saw the family carriage rumble down the drive and disappear into the night.
“They’re gone,” she whispered, hurrying to her dressing room.
Inside, Miss Evans, her lady’s maid, stood ready with a simple but elegant pale blue evening dress.
“I suppose your cough has miraculously improved, My Lady?” Miss Evans said, her mouth twitching.
April grinned. “A complete recovery.”
The maid helped her into the dress with quick efficiency. “Are you certain about this?” Miss Evans asked, fastening the last button. “Sneaking out to meet a gentleman—”
“Not just any gentleman,” April replied, adjusting her sleeves. “The Duke of Stone.”
Miss Evans lifted a brow. “And Her Grace—your mother—must know nothing of the engagement?”
“No,” April said, smoothing her skirts. “She mustn’t. At least, not yet.”
The maid looked at April through the looking glass as she took a seat before the vanity. “If she found out—”
“She would insist I marry him immediately,” April explained, fastening her pearl earring. “I need to be certain it is what I want.”
Miss Evans nodded. “Very wise, My Lady.” She finished styling April’s hair into a chignon and stepped back. April glanced at her reflection. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with excitement. Freedom, she thought, was indeed a rare, precious thing.
“Slip into bed after I leave,” April instructed as she stood, and Miss Evans wrapped a cloak around her shoulders. “If anyone checks, pretend you are me.”
Miss Evans laughed softly. “I shall snore convincingly.”
“No, cough profusely, and good luck,” April whispered before slipping out into the darkened hallway.
Downstairs, the butler, Mr. Whitley, waited by the front door. “The carriage from Stone Hall is ready for you, My Lady,” he said, opening the door with a slight bow.
April smiled warmly. Everyone in this house is a conspirator, she thought fondly. Arranging this with her sister and the servants had been very easy, and she was confident not a soul would tell her mother.
Mr. Whitley had always indulged her and her sisters—quite like an uncle—and he would help them hide sweet treats they got from the kitchens whenever their mother would not allow them.
To have him agree with her plan tonight, April had to explain why she did not want her mother knowing and getting excited about the Duke.
Stepping outside, she saw the Duke standing beside a sleek, closed carriage, dressed in dark evening clothes that only emphasized his striking presence. As she approached, he inclined his head slightly, and to her astonishment, he took her gloved hand and brushed his lips lightly over her knuckles.
April’s breath hitched. Heavens, why does a simple courtesy feel so dangerous when he does it?
“Where is your chaperone?” he asked, releasing her hand.
April lifted her chin. “I thought it best to leave society behind this evening.”
Something like approval glinted in his eyes though his expression remained as unreadable as ever. Without a word, he helped her into the carriage, his hand firm and steady at her back.
They settled into the plush interior, and April, feeling both bold and reckless, decided to probe further.
“How was your day, Your Grace?” she asked sweetly, settling back against the cushions, her gloved fingers toying with the trim of her cloak.
“Productive,” he said, his gaze fixed steadily out the window.
April sucked in her breath, undeterred. “And what, pray tell, did you produce?”
“Estate matters.”
She bit back a smile. “You must be positively thrilling at dinner parties.”
He turned his head slightly, meeting her gaze. “I do not attend dinner parties.”
She leaned in. “What are your thoughts on the new canal projects Parliament is funding?”
“Useful.”
April frowned. “The debate over the Reform Bill?”
“Complicated.”
She let out a soft laugh. “You are a master of understatement, Your Grace.”
“Precision,” he corrected, one brow lifting the slightest fraction.
April studied him, the flickering lamplight casting deep shadows across his sharp features. “Do you ever say more than one word when answering a question?”
“When warranted as you have no doubt observed earlier.”
She pressed a hand to her heart. “I may swoon from this bounty of conversation.”
He watched her, utterly unmoved by her theatrics. April tried again, smiling mischievously this time. “What about poetry? Are you a secret admirer of sonnets?”
“Rarely.”
“Byron? Wordsworth?”
“Neither.”
She gasped, clutching her cloak dramatically. “You are determined to be the most stubborn man I have ever met!”
A faint glint of amusement shone in his eyes, but his mouth remained unsmiling. “Determination is a virtue, and loquaciousness is not.”
“Is that directed at me?”
“Yes, Lady April.”
“Am I to understand that you find me…”
“Loquacious, yes.”
“Not something you wish for in your bride, is it?” She folded her arms across her chest in challenge, hoping he might begin to rethink their engagement due to her qualities—or lack thereof.
“I might have use for it.”
Drat him! April huffed. “You will find it very lonely if you continue to answer every question with less enthusiasm than a marble statue.”
The corner of his mouth almost, but not quite, quirked. “Yet you persist.”
“I must,” she said brightly, “for I am determined to uncover at least one of your secrets tonight.”
He leaned back slightly, his arm resting lazily along the back of the seat, his posture relaxed yet commanding. “Then I pray luck smiles upon you.”
April was about to tease him further when the carriage began to slow.
She glanced out the window and saw the grand facade of King’s Theater coming into view, ablaze with golden light. Now, our adventure has only just begun.
The Duke alighted and helped her down, his gloved hand steadying her as they entered the grand marble foyer. April’s heart danced in her chest, half from excitement, half from nerves.
“Is this your box, Your Grace?” she asked as they ascended the sweeping staircase lined with gilded railings and glittering chandeliers.
“It is,” he said, offering no embellishment.
“Do you frequent the opera often?” she pressed, glancing around at the sea of fashionable people already finding their seats.
“Rarely,” he answered, his tone as smooth and immovable as polished stone.
April wrinkled her nose, her curiosity piqued. “Then why keep a box you hardly use?”
He paused at the entrance to a private tier, unfastening her cloak with precise movements. As he drew it away, his fingers brushed the bare skin at the back of her neck, sending a sharp shiver down her spine. He leaned closer, his voice brushing her ear.
“For evenings like this.”
April’s breath caught. She turned toward him, lifting a brow in mock suspicion. “You sound almost as if you planned this evening with more in mind, Your Grace.”
He leaned closer, his voice a soft rumble. “Would that trouble you, Lady April?”
“That depends,” she said, tilting her head as if considering him like a puzzle. “Is this part of a grand romance?”
“It could be,” he murmured, his gaze steady on hers.
Her pulse stumbled. She gave a light, teasing laugh, brushing imaginary dust from her glove. “I thought you disagreed with romance.”
“I disagree with love.”
“They are intrinsically tied, Your Grace.”
“They are not, and you will learn that in due course.” The gleam in his eyes drew her in.
She touched the base of her throat where her pulse was most frantic. “I shall have to be on my guard then.”
“I should hope not,” he said, offering his arm once more with a look that made her heart misbehave.
Before she could gather a reply, she slipped her hand in the crook of his arm, allowing him to guide her to the two velvet-covered chairs of the private box. As she arranged her skirts and sat, he lowered into the seat beside her with an effortless, commanding grace.
Before the orchestra struck its first note, he turned his head slightly toward her. “Why the opera, Lady April?”
She smiled, demure and sly. “You shall see.”
The house lights dimmed, and a hush fell over the grand hall. The curtains parted with a soft whisper, revealing the first act of Isabella’s Lament, a tragedy renowned for reducing even the stoniest hearts to tears.
The opening notes of the orchestra swelled, melancholy and rich. Isabella appeared, clad in a simple white dress, her voice trembling with innocence and longing.
April leaned forward, anticipation crackling through her. She stole a glance at the Duke. He sat immaculately still, his face a study in stoicism.
The story unfolded: Isabella, betrayed and abandoned by her beloved on the eve of their elopement, wandered barefoot through wild moors and stormy fields, clutching a letter of farewell that she refused to believe.
April pressed a hand to her heart, already feeling the first sting of tears. She turned her head slightly, peeking at the Duke. Not a muscle moved in his jaw.
The second act deepened the tragedy. Isabella, near death, found brief shelter with a kindly farmer who sang her a lullaby as she faded into delirium. Her beloved appeared at last, drawn by guilt—only to be too late. She died with his name on her lips, forgiveness spilling from her final breath.
April sniffed quietly, dabbing at her tears with her handkerchief. She glanced at the Duke and found him watching her instead of the opera.
Her brows furrowed. “You’re not even watching.”
He didn’t blink. “I find the performance here”—he nodded faintly toward her tear-streaked cheeks—“far more captivating.”
April’s mouth parted in offense—or perhaps surprise. “You mock me for being moved?”
“I would never dare,” he said mildly, “though I admit, I hadn’t expected such a dramatic reaction before the heroine even began dying.”
She decided to ignore his remark and concentrate on the scene below.
When Isabella collapsed beneath a barren tree, alone and forsaken, the sob that tore from April’s throat could not be contained. She turned to him fully, her cheeks wet with tears.
Nothing. No flicker of pain, no clenching of his fists. Only quiet, unreadable stillness.
The curtain fell. Applause thundered through the hall.
April turned on him at once, fury and disbelief tightening her throat.
“How can you not be moved by that?” she demanded, her voice low and fierce.
He met her gaze calmly. “It was moving.”
“You have no tears—no reaction—nothing!”
“It was a performance,” he said, his voice steady, even as his brow crinkled. “Not real.”
“But the betrayal—the sacrifice—the tragedy!” she insisted, her fingers clutching the damp handkerchief.
He tilted his head slightly. “Highly improbable. No man would abandon his intended without grave cause. And she wandering barefoot through the moors? Reckless beyond reason.”
April stared at him, aghast. “You are supposed to feel, not dissect!”
He considered her, his face unreadable. “And ignore reason entirely?”
She shook her head, frustration knotting her stomach. “I genuinely do not understand how you can sit there—claim to enjoy it—and not shed a single tear!”
A flicker—barely there—of something dangerously close to a smile tugged at his mouth. He turned away before it could fully form.
April felt irrationally cheated.
“Tears,” he said, his voice low and controlled, “are bodily reactions. They can be controlled.”
April clutched the handkerchief in her lap, staring at him. Who would want to control that kind of pain? Who could?
As the applause faded and couples began filing out of the theater, April remained frozen in her seat, her mind spinning.
What happened to him? she wondered, heart aching in a way she could not explain. What hurt him so badly that he taught himself not to feel?