Chapter 7
Seven
“There is my spring flower,” her father said as April entered the bedchamber, his smile cutting through the pallor of his face.
April crossed swiftly to him and pressed a kiss to his forehead, her heart twisting as she took his hand.
“How is your Season progressing, my girl?” he asked, adjusting his pillows with a wry look.
April tucked her skirts beneath her as she sat. “Full of gentlemen who are very good at speaking and very poor at interesting me,” she said, smoothing the fabric of her dress.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Running from boredom as you always do.”
“I do not deny it,” she confirmed, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve.
He tilted his head, studying her closely, but she forestalled any deeper inquiry by rising and reaching for a book.
“Shall I read to you?”
“Please.”
Selecting a familiar volume from the nightstand, she opened it and began to read aloud.
A few pages in, the door creaked open. May and June tiptoed in, their faces alight with mischief.
“There you are,” May said, settling herself on the bed with a flourish.
June followed, smoothing her skirts carefully. “You would not believe the latest scandal, Papa,” she said. “Lady Danforth’s dog chased the Bishop’s horse halfway down St. James’s.”
Their father let out a soft laugh, his eyes brightening.
“London sounds more exciting than I remember,” he observed, his mouth curving into a smile.
“Only because you are not there to restore order,” May replied, nudging him gently.
They lingered, trading tales and soft laughter, until their father’s eyelids began to flutter shut.
One by one, they kissed his forehead—April lingering, brushing his hand lightly before she rose.
In the hallway, May caught April’s arm.
“Ready for chaos?” she whispered, her eyes sparkling.
April grinned, tugging her hand free. “More than ready.”
Suppressing their laughter, they hurried down to the kitchens.
“Oh, he will hate us,” June said, pressing a hand to her mouth.
“That is the very aim,” April replied, lifting a tray of chocolate scones cooling by the hearth.
May seized the spicy pepper jar and liberally sprinkled it into the batter. They all sneezed violently, clinging to the counter for support between bouts of laughter.
“Pass me the salt,” April gasped, reaching for the lemonade jug.
May handed it over, still hiccupping with mirth.
April tipped an alarming quantity into the lemonade then swirled it with a wooden spoon.
“We are dreadful,” June said, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve.
“Utterly dreadful,” April agreed. “And to complete our villainy—matching dresss.”
“Again?” May protested though she was already moving toward the stairs.
“It unsettles people,” April explained, grinning. “Especially the gentlemen.”
Laughing, they hurried to change into identical pale blue muslin dresss, tying the same ivory sashes about their waists.
As they descended the stairs, their mother’s voice rang out.
“Why are you dressed alike?”
They turned in perfect unison, their smiles bright and innocent.
April suppressed a grimace. She had spent her youth in identical clothing, paraded about like a matched set. It had been a small, hard-won victory to wear what she pleased this Season. Now, she bore it again—but only for necessity’s sake.
“We are feeling especially fond of one another,” April explained, curtsying prettily.
Their mother’s face lit with delight. “Oh, how I wish you would do this more often.”
April kept her expression pleasant though inwardly she sighed.
“Mama,” June said, stepping closer, “perhaps you might remain with Papa today.”
“Nonsense,” her mother replied briskly, gathering her shawl. “He took his medicine an hour ago. He will sleep until dinner.”
The sisters exchanged looks of pure despair.
“We thought to give you a quiet afternoon,” May suggested, trying again.
“Nonsense,” her mother repeated, bustling toward the door.
Their plan was crumbling rapidly, but there was no dissuading her.
With no other choice, they piled into the carriage—the disastrous feast tucked beneath the seats—and set out for Hyde Park, laughter bubbling beneath the surface, ready to unleash chaos upon an unsuspecting Duke.
Hyde Park was teeming with afternoon strollers and riders when they arrived, the sun glinting off the lake and bathing the manicured lawns in a golden haze. April adjusted the disastrous picnic basket with a resigned sigh as their footmen spread out the heavy blankets under a wide oak.
Though daughters of a duke would hardly be expected to prepare their own fare, April had insisted—rather forcefully—on overseeing it herself.
Much to the cook’s distress and the staff’s horrified amusement, she and her sisters had interfered shamelessly, ensuring no hand but theirs had spoiled the food beyond recognition.
May and June darted about, directing the servants with far too much enthusiasm while their mother fussed over the arrangement of the scones, oblivious to the culinary sabotage.
“It looks perfect,” May observed, stepping back to admire their handiwork.
“It looks suspicious,” June muttered under her breath.
Before April could reply, a ripple of awareness spread through the nearby crowd. The Duke of Stone had arrived.
The Duke approached on horseback, dismounting with effortless grace. His coat, a deep blue that nearly matched his eyes, was immaculate despite the dusty ride.
April felt her heart beat faster—though whether from nerves or anticipation, she could not say.
He greeted her mother first, bowing over her hand.
“Duke,” her mother said with giddy reverence, “how good of you to join us.”
“The pleasure is mine, Duchess,” Stone replied smoothly, releasing her hand with courtly precision.
His eyes settled on April, and he stepped forward. “Lady April,” he said, bowing over her hand, allowing his lips to linger for a fraction of a moment which sent warmth up her cheeks.
He then turned to May and June, studying them for a long moment.
“Lady June,” he said, addressing May with a polite bow.
May burst into giggles, covering her mouth with her hand. “I am Lady May, Your Grace.”
June curtsied prettily. “And I am Lady June.”
Stone inclined his head. “Forgive me, ladies.”
April’s stomach fluttered when she saw how he confused her sisters but knew exactly who she was. He knows me. Only me.
They settled onto the blankets. The Duke sat beside April, his posture relaxed but attentive.
“Do partake,” her mother urged, waving toward the towering plates.
May, her eyes gleaming wickedly, added, “Lady April made the scones especially for you.”
April bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
Stone selected a scone without hesitation, biting into it with the same calm precision he showed in every action.
April watched him closely. The pepper would strike any moment now.
But he chewed thoughtfully and swallowed, his expression as steady as ever.
“Delightfully bold,” he said, reaching for another.
Her sisters stared at him, wide-eyed.
Their mother, finally suspicious, plucked a scone and took a dainty bite—only to splutter and cough violently.
“Good heavens!” she gasped, reaching for the nearest cup.
April winced as her mother gulped the lemonade—and gagged anew.
“What—what is this?”
“A slight oversight, Mama,” May said sweetly, thumping her gently on the back.
Their mother fixed them all with a narrow-eyed glare before smoothing her skirts with trembling hands.
The Duke merely sipped his own lemonade, entirely unruffled.
“You are very gracious, Your Grace,” April said, unable to suppress a grin.
“I find adventure preferable to predictability,” Stone said, setting his cup aside.
Dorothy, still recovering from the fiery scone and the disastrous lemonade, dabbed at her lips and leaned forward slightly. “And do you often indulge in such adventures, Duke?”
The Duke regarded her. “When the company is as interesting as this, Duchess, I make a point of it.”
“How very flattering,” Dorothy replied with a slight smile and a glance at April, who tried to give her a warning look. Her mother ignored it. “And forgive me, but I must ask… are these calls entirely social? It’s not every day that a duke graces my daughters’ tea table.”
April’s hand froze on the edge of her napkin. “Mama—”
“It is a reasonable question,” Dorothy continued, still smiling. “If a gentleman appears more than once, one does begin to wonder where his intentions lie.”
April’s eyes darted to , but he offered no immediate reply. Before the silence could stretch further, she rose quickly and smoothed her skirts.dress “Shall we walk, Your Grace?”
“With pleasure,” Stone said, rising and offering his arm.
They strolled along the path by the lake, the sunlight dancing on the ripples.
April kept a careful distance from the water’s edge, her steps tightening whenever the path veered too near.
“You dislike the water?” Stone asked, his gaze flicking to her with unsettling precision.
“Of course not,” April said lightly, forcing a laugh and adjusting her grip on his arm. “It is merely… damp.”
He said nothing, but the way he held her eyes made her feel as if he could see every secret she thought hidden. April hastily looked away, her heart beating a little too fast.
April glanced up at him, searching for any cracks in that impenetrable calm. “Surely,” she said, “you thought our picnic quite ridiculous.”
“Not in the least,” he said easily. “It was refreshingly unusual.”
She huffed. “And my mother—you must have found her exhausting?”
“Perhaps a trifle… verbose,” he allowed, his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly, “but very devoted.”
April shook her head, half-exasperated, half-amused. “You cannot truly mean that the scones were edible.”
“They were,” he said gravely. “Bold and unusual. Like their maker.”
Her cheeks flamed. “You are incorrigible,” she muttered.
“And yet,” he said softly, “you find my company agreeable.”
April stumbled over a loose stone, catching herself awkwardly.
She dropped her gloves in her flustered state. Before she could reach for them, the Duke knelt smoothly, picking them up.
Without rising, he took one slender glove and slowly, deliberately, helped her hand into it, his fingers brushing against hers with a deliberate, almost lazy slowness.
April forgot how to breathe.
“Are you trying to unsettle me, sunshine?” he murmured, his thumb lingering at her wrist. “I warn you—I am not easily shaken. But I welcome your attempts.”
April opened her mouth—and promptly forgot whatever she meant to say.
She fidgeted with the edge of her dress, her cheeks burning.
“You are—utterly insufferable,” she managed at last.
He rose with a grace that seemed almost mocking and offered her the second glove.
“And yet,” he said, his voice low and steady, “you remain.”
April snatched the glove, muttering something incoherent, and struggled to pull it on without his assistance.
As they resumed walking, the laughter and sunlight around them seemed to fade.
He unsettles me so easily. And I like it. Yet beneath the dizzying flutter of attraction, a darker thought stole in.
Why is he so insistent on marrying me? What is he hiding?