Chapter 8
Eight
The forest was endless, a tangled black mass of thorn and mist. Theo ran, branches clawing at his arms, the ground slick beneath his boots. Ahead, he caught fleeting glimpses of his mother’s pale figure, always just out of reach.
“Wait!” he called hoarsely. “Please, wait!”
Her silhouette wavered before it was swallowed by the mist. Other voices rose around him, growing louder by the second. The night closed in, thick and suffocating.
“Mother!” he cried again, but she was gone.
Theo jerked awake, the cold sweat plastering his nightshirt to his skin. His breath rasped in the cold silence of his bedchamber.
There would be no more sleep tonight. He was sure of it. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed and pushing a hand through his damp hair, he sighed. In moments, he was pulling on his clothes and boots then moving with the mechanical precision of long habit.
The stable was silent, save for the restless shifting of the horses. His black stallion, Obsidian, snorted softly as Theo saddled him after giving him an apple.
Then they set out, traveling into the heart of London.
Theo guided Obsidian through the deserted streets and tried to occupy his mind with matters of the estate, the progress of the investigation—anything at all—but every distraction slipped through his fingers like smoke.
Reaching into his coat pocket, he thumbed the worn handkerchief there and briefly closed his eyes.
When he opened them, the nightmare had receded, but a new specter rose to take its place: April.
Her laughter, bright and reckless, echoed through his thoughts—the stubborn tilt of her chin, the way she looked at him with those large blue eyes, as if she could peel back every layer he kept so carefully guarded.
She followed him more persistently than any nightmare ever could.
Theo shifted in the saddle, scowling into the mist. What a life—haunted by demons in the dark and haunted by a slip of a girl in the daylight.
Need is weakness. Love is a liability. The old mantra beat in his head with the steadiness of a drum.
It had served him well for years, carved into him like scripture.
And yet… her smile lingered, a stubborn flame against the chill.
Before he realized it, Obsidian slowed near Wildmoore House.
Theo pulled the reins sharply, frowning at his own betrayal.
The townhouse loomed silent, save for a faint light burning high in one of the upper windows.
Was it her window? Was she awake even now, reading or brushing her hair by candlelight?
He tightened his grip on the reins until the leather creaked in protest. He would not approach. He would not allow himself that softness. He watched for a moment longer before he turned Obsidian away.
He had not gone far when another horseman appeared, trotting easily through the mist. “Stone!” called a familiar voice. “Haunting the night again, are you?”
Theo recognized Edward Sinclair, the Marquess of Calenham, one of the few men he allowed near him. Perfect. The only soul in London who would dare call my name after dark.
“Returning home,” Theo said.
Calenham grinned. “Returning? Or lingering? Were you perhaps visiting your betrothed?”
Must the entire world know of my affairs?
Theo’s hands on the reins twitched. He turned a sharp look on his friend. “How do you know?”
Calenham laughed. “Poor Wexley has been singing your praises—and his own heartbreak—to anyone with ears. Apparently you stole the radiant Lady April right from under his nose.”
“Foolish fellow,” Theo muttered.
“If I had known you were in the market for a bride,” Calenham said, nudging his horse alongside Theo’s, “I would have paraded my cousins before you.”
“I doubt they would have survived the inspection,” Theo observed dryly.
Calenham laughed again. “Come, have a drink with me.”
After a moment’s pause, Theo inclined his head. They rode the short distance to Calenham’s townhouse, where a sleepy butler welcomed them. Soon they were seated in the Marquess’ study, the fire crackling low in the grate.
Calenham poured two glasses of brandy and handed one to Theo. “To late-night rides and inconvenient women,” he toasted.
Theo lifted his glass with a brief and took a slow sip. Inconvenient? More like inescapable.
Calenham leaned back in his chair, studying him. “So, why Lady April?”
Theo shrugged. “She has what I require in a duchess.”
Calenham arched a brow. “And what might that be?”
“Strength. Spirit. Decency.”
“Not love?” Calenham asked, seeming half-mocking, half-curious.
Theo’s mouth tightened. “Love is not a foundation for anything lasting.”
It is an illusion crafted by poets and fools.
Calenham whistled low. “Cold.”
“Practical,” Theo corrected.
Calenham swirled his brandy thoughtfully. “Does August know?”
“He arranged it.”
Calenham chuckled. “Efficient.”
Their conversation turned to easier matters—shipping ventures, land leases, new investments—until the fire burned low and the brandy ran warm in their veins.
At last, Theo rose, setting his empty glass on the side table.
“Thank you for the drink.”
Calenham stood as well, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Thank you for the entertainment.”
Theo offered a brief nod, cloaking himself once more in distance, and disappeared into the misty streets of London.
“April!” May’s voice carried up the staircase just as April descended. “You are positively everywhere this morning.”
April paused, one hand on the polished banister. “Everywhere?”
June appeared behind May, a mischievous glint in her eye, and brandished a folded gossip sheet.
“You might wish to see this,” June said, thrusting it into April’s hands.
April unfolded the paper, her gaze narrowing as she read:
The ever-mysterious Duke of Stone, that elusive prize of the ton, has at last chosen his duchess—none other than Lady April Vestiere, one of Wildmoore’s brightest flowers.
It is said the gallant but ill-fated Baron Wexley never stood a chance, for when the Duke sets his mind on something—or someone—he always gets what he wants.
Always gets what he wants? April frowned, her heart giving an uncomfortable jolt. She handed the paper back to June. “Where is Mama? Has she seen this yet?”
“Not yet,” May whispered. “But she will.”
“How did Wexley know?” June asked. “Did the Duke tell him?”
“Hide it,” April urged. “Hide it well.”
Together, they hurried toward the breakfast room. No sooner had they seated themselves and unfolded their napkins than their mother swept in—a different gossip rag clutched in her gloved hand.
April winced inwardly. Too late.
“What is this I hear about an engagement?” Dorothy demanded, waving the sheet like a battle standard.
“Oh, Mama, it is nothing but Wexley’s bruised pride,” June explained, setting down her teacup with exaggerated care.
“Indeed,” May chimed in. “Poor Wexley, always so dramatic.”
Their mother sniffed. “Wexley has always been one to run his mouth, especially when things do not favor him.”
“You must not credit anything he says,” April added quickly, reaching for the toast as if the conversation did not set her nerves on edge.
Dorothy lowered herself into her chair with a sigh. “Besides, how could there be an engagement? The Duke has not come to call properly, nor has he spoken to your father, and certainly no word has reached August.”
“Exactly,” May said. “Nothing to fret about.”
“Nothing at all,” June agreed, too quickly.
April exhaled silently, forcing her hands to remain steady as she buttered her toast. Across the table, May caught her eye and grimaced.
As they ate, Dorothy began outlining her plans for the dinner party with increasing enthusiasm.
“A small, intimate affair,” she declared, tapping her spoon against her saucer. “Nothing too grand. We must ensure the ton sees it as a true love match—natural, inevitable.”
April choked slightly on her tea. Oh, the irony, she thought, crafting an illusion of romance to cover a practical arrangement.
“I think six couples will do,” Dorothy mused aloud. “No more—it must appear selective.”
“Six couples,” May repeated, eyes dancing. “Shall we include every mother with a marriageable daughter?”
“Not every mother,” Dorothy corrected. “Only those who will speak well of us afterward.”
“Naturally,” June said with a sly smile. “Because nothing says love like careful curation.”
April bit into her toast to hide her laugh.
“And we must press for an engagement as soon as possible,” Dorothy added briskly.
May nearly dropped her fork. “Engagement? But they alre—”
“Engagements are everything right now, Mama,” June interrupted smoothly, glaring at May. “Everyone is pressing for them this Season.”
“Indeed, indeed,” Dorothy agreed, nodding sagely. “It would be foolish to let the gossip die down without securing one properly.”
April gave May a look that promised retribution later. May widened her eyes innocently and took an enormous bite of scone.
Dorothy, undeterred, sighed dreamily. “I can already envision your wedding, April.”
April looked up warily. “You can?”
“Oh yes,” her mother said, waving her hand. “A crown of spring flowers in your hair—delicate blossoms all intertwined. You shall look like the very spirit of the season.”
April bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. A flower crown. How very fitting for a pawn masked as a blossom.
“How charming,” May said, grinning wickedly.
“Utterly bucolic,” June murmured.
April smiled brightly, sipping her tea with exaggerated sweetness, pretending everything was sunshine and roses while inwardly plotting to burn every floral wreath within a mile of Wildmoore House.
After the meal, the butler approached and bowed low.
“A letter for you, Lady April.”
She accepted it with a murmured thanks, her heart leaping as she recognized August’s hand. Without a word, she fled up the stairs to the safety of her bedchamber.
She broke the seal with trembling fingers.
Dearest April,
Forgive me for not consulting you before the arrangement was made.
It was a decision born unexpectedly but not lightly.
There is no man I would trust more with your future than Theo.
I know what the gossips say—ignore them.
He is a man of honor though he hides it well.
Trust that I would never give you into hands unworthy of you.
I miss you more than I can say. If I can find time away, I shall come to visit soon. Until then, keep your spirits high, and know you are dearly loved.
Your devoted brother,
August
April pressed the letter to her heart for a moment then laid it carefully on her dressing table. She sank onto the edge of her bed, her mind a swirling storm.
Society painted the Duke as dark and dangerous. Her brother—steady, wise August—painted him as trustworthy.
Who should I believe?
A voice inside whispered against the clamor: Do not be so foolish as to believe the tongues of society. Not when you have the truth from someone who loves you.
Still, the doubt remained, sharp and cold beneath her ribs.