Chapter 13
Thirteen
April did not brood. Brooding was for novel heroines in white nightdresses and a penchant for haunting the upper galleries. She was simply… reflective. Intensely so. With occasional sighing.
She had risen early but declined breakfast, instead hiding away in her bedchamber with an open book. She hadn’t turned a page of in half an hour. The quiet was companionable if slightly overbearing. That is until Lady June entered without knocking.
“You are missing breakfast,” June announced, sweeping into the room with the energy of someone who had never doubted the security of her own opinions. “And the opportunity to dramatically await your duke’s arrival with flowers upon a noble steed.”
April looked up from her chaise. “The Duke of Stone would sooner present himself astride a library desk than on a horse with ribbons in its mane.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so certain. You’ve already softened him into sending poetry. The descent into ribbons can’t be far behind.”
April laughed, but the sound was half-hearted. June heard it. Saw it.
She sat beside her, gaze narrowing. “All right. What’s troubling you?”
April hesitated, fingers brushing the edge of her book. “I don’t understand him. I don’t understand what it is about me that he wants. And he’s not inclined to let me get close enough to discover it.”
June was silent for a moment, uncharacteristically so. Then, “Perhaps he doesn’t know how to let you.”
April blinked.
“You forget, you are intimidating in your own right. And he is not the sort of man accustomed to revealing himself. He may not be hiding something awful. He may just be… hiding.”
April gave a faint snort. “He’s a master at it.”
June shrugged. “Then be patient. Or if you cannot bear the waiting, marry him and learn what you wish to know from within the safety of the arrangement. It is not as though he has proved a monster.”
April sighed. “He hasn’t.”
“And you do want him.”
That earned June a pointed look. She grinned, victorious.
Before April could reply, a soft knock sounded at the door. A moment later, the butler’s voice drifted in from the hall.
“Breakfast is served, My Lady.”
“Come,” June said, rising and tugging her hand. “You need sustenance. And coffee. And possibly something stronger, depending on how the morning unfolds.”
April followed, letting herself be led. The brooding could wait.
Would you have allowed him to kiss you, had June not found you? April refused to answer that question.
“My Lady,” the butler said as he entered the breakfast room, his tone impeccably measured. “His Grace has called.”
April, who had only just begun buttering her toast, stared at him. “Pardon?”
“The Duke of Stone is presently in the front hall, My Lady.”
She nearly dropped her knife. “Now?”
May made a delighted noise. June, unsurprised, simply sipped her tea. “I told you,” she said with a sideways glance. “Flowers and a noble steed.”
April groaned. “If there’s a steed, I’m leaving through the back garden.
” It was far too early for anyone to visit without a purpose, let alone a man who claimed to abhor social ceremony.
She had only just stood when the door opened and in walked Stone himself, bearing a modest bouquet of dark violets and white hyacinths. Under his other arm was a book.
Flowers. From him. She stared at the blooms as though they might bite.
“Good morning, Lady April,” he said with no more ceremony than if he were reporting the weather.
“I… good morning.”
He handed her the bouquet without flourish. No smile. No explanation. Then the book.
She blinked at the cover. Collected Verses by E. Ashcombe.
She nearly dropped it. “This is Ashcombe.”
“So it says.”
“He’s very nearly controversial.”
“He’s nearly brilliant.”
April flipped through the pages, scanning familiar lines. “You brought me poetry. Again.”
“You are still reading Spenser. I thought you might manage two poets at once.”
She gave him a sidelong look. “First, you gift me The Faerie Queene. Now, Ashcombe. At this rate, I’ll start thinking you’re softening.”
“Perish the thought.”
She gave him a dry smile. “You might be developing affections. It happens to the best of men.”
“Not to me,” he said, but he looked at her just long enough to make her wonder.
A beat passed. “Why are you here?”
“We are going for a walk.”
“Are we?”
“Yes. I am in want of conversation, and your sisters are likely to exhaust me.”
April narrowed her eyes. “You make it sound like charity.”
“Not at all,” he said, offering his arm. “Come. The park awaits.”
She took it, despite herself. Despite everything. As they stepped outside, the fresh morning air greeted them, and the carriage ride passed in companionable silence—oddly comfortable, considering the tension that had once clung to every word between them.
She glanced at Miss Evans, who had joined them as a chaperone. Could it be that her presence altered the tension between me and the Duke?
It wasn’t until they reached Hyde Park and began walking beneath the canopy of trees that the silence grew purposeful, and as they walked, April tucked the small book of Ashcombe’s poems beneath her arm and considered her companion.
Silent as ever. And yet, there was something more attentive about him now.
Less like a man bearing a duty and more like one pursuing an answer.
“Why Ashcombe?” she asked at last.
His hands were tucked neatly behind his back, his stride methodical, almost as if counting the steps that paced between the curve of the path and her question. “He is concise. Precise. His language cuts away all that is unnecessary.”
“So, you like him because he’s neat.”
“I like him because he understands form.”
“But poetry is about feeling.”
“No. Poetry is about clarity.”
“Oh, that is a terribly dull way to look at it,” she said. “Where is the mystery? The heart?”
“The heart is in the restraint.” He glanced down at her as he said it, and though his expression remained unreadable, there was a slight shift in his posture—an imperceptible lean toward her.
“You would say that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“You cannot possibly believe Ashcombe writes for the sake of order. His verses burn.”
“Controlled fire burns longer.” One brow lifted, not smug but measured, like a man enjoying a chess match two moves ahead.
April laughed. “There. That was nearly poetic.”
“It was factual.” He flexed his fingers once behind his back, as if holding back something else.
“You say that as though it’s an insult.”
“Only to the overly sentimental.”
“So all poets, then.”
“Present company excluded.”
They continued walking. He fell a half step back, allowing her the inside of the path—a quiet courtesy she noted but said nothing about. April glanced sideways at him, her amusement dancing just beneath the surface. “You surprise me.”
“How so?” he asked, his head turning slightly, attention narrowing.
“You, who disdain sentiment and despise spectacle—you read poetry. And not just any poetry. Good poetry.”
He was quiet for a moment, and his gaze moved from her to the tree line ahead. “I never said I despised sentiment. Only that I mistrust it.”
“A subtle distinction.”
“An important one.”
“That sounds like something Ashcombe would write in a footnote.”
“Then he and I are well aligned.” He looked down again, this time allowing the corner of his mouth to shift—not quite a smile but close enough to stir something in her chest.
She laughed again, shaking her head. “Do you ever laugh?”
“Only under duress.”
“So, walking with me counts as duress?”
“Certainly.” He clasped his hands again, tighter this time.
April felt her cheeks warm but didn’t look away. “You hide it well.”
As the path curved beneath their feet, his pace slowed slightly, and his hands dropped to his sides, fingers brushing the edge of his coat. “About last night,” he said, and the warmth in her chest faltered.
“Yes?”
“I won’t promise romance, April. It would be a falsehood. I don’t believe in manufacturing it merely to suit expectations.”
She looked ahead. “And you think I do?”
“No,” he said quietly. “I think you value honesty. And you deserve it. Even if it disadvantages me.”
She turned to him. “Then why do any of this? Why bring me poetry? Why be here at all?”
His eyes flicked to hers. “You are impatient.”
“You’re evasive.”
“Possibly.” He reached into his coat as if to gesture then stopped himself. “But today, I have a purpose. I would like you to meet someone.”
April frowned. “Who?”
“My aunt. Lady Darnell.”
“The one who keeps her pug in a bonnet?”
“The same.”
April considered him. Considered the man who would bring her poetry and confess only half of what he felt. And then ask her to meet his family without ever quite explaining why.
She said, “Well. If I am to be paraded before family, I shall require another book.”
“I brought two,” he replied.
This time, she did not hold back her laugh. “Is this the second book, then?” she asked as they stopped beside an iron bench. “Or do you keep a satchel of literary surprises tucked in your coat?”
Without a word, he reached into his coat and produced a small, leather-bound volume. He handed it to her. April turned it over in her hands and blinked.
“This is a treatise on horse breeding.”
“Indeed.”
“From poetry to pedigrees. You are a study in contradictions, Theodore.” April watched him to see whether he would react to her use of his first name. He did not.
“You seem surprised,” he said instead.
“You hardly struck me as a man who discussed hoof conformation over tea.”
“And yet many of my horses have won at Epsom.”
That did make her pause. “Truly?”
He inclined his head. “I breed them on my estate in Gloucestershire.” Then he added, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, “I also keep a castle there.”
April grinned. “How very poetic.”
He snorted. “Practical, not poetic. And certainly not the sort found in novels with turrets and trapped princesses or governesses.”
April smirked. “And what makes you think I read such novels?”
He gave her a sidelong look. “Because you sometimes act like a princess.”
“Spoiled and pompous?”
“Inquisitive. Dangerously so.”
She tilted her head. “Why is that dangerous? If you have questions, you will seek answers. Will you not?”
A shadow passed across Theodore’s face, and his gaze turned distant. As though her words had struck a deeper note than intended.
April’s smile faded. “Theodore?”
He did not answer. His eyes were still on her, yet he seemed elsewhere entirely.
And she realized with a strange tightening in her chest that he was no longer with her at all.