Chapter 17
Seventeen
April closed her eyes. It would happen any moment now.
She could feel the heat of his breath, the tension pulled taut between them, the hush that always fell just before something irrevocable. Her lips parted slightly. The world seemed to narrow to the space between them—one inch, maybe less.
Then he stepped back, and the moment shattered like glass dropped on stone.
April opened her eyes, blinking once, her pulse still racing as if it hadn’t yet noticed the spell was broken. He was no longer looking at her, his expression unreadable once more.
Foolish. She felt a little foolish.
She straightened, tucked a curl behind her ear, and offered a quick smile. “I should start getting home. I’ve left my sisters alone long enough—there’s no telling what May might have talked June into.”
“Of course,” he said, stepping aside to let her pass.
They returned to the front of the house where Lady Darnell, now more composed, sat sipping tea near the fire.
April curtsied. “Thank you for the tea, My Lady. It was truly a pleasure.”
“The pleasure was mine, child. Come again soon. We’ve barely begun, you and I.”
April smiled, warm despite the ache just beneath her ribs. “I’d like that.”
Theo spoke solemnly beside her. “Your house isn’t far. May I walk you?”
Her lady’s maid, already waiting in the foyer near the door, trailed them at a discreet distance as they stepped into the late afternoon light.
The walk began in silence. April was unusually quiet, her thoughts tangled between what had nearly happened and what hadn’t. Her gloves felt too warm. Her chest too tight.
He walked beside her, hands behind his back, not speaking. Not rushing.
She glanced at him and then looked ahead. “She loves you deeply.”
Theo didn’t answer at once. When he did, his voice was low. “She is one of the few who did not look away.”
Something in her chest tightened.
Without thinking, she reached out and touched his arm—just a brush of her fingers, light and brief. He glanced down then back at her but said nothing.
They reached her front steps, the house familiar and distant all at once.
He paused at the bottom step. “Thank you. For being kind to her.”
April’s throat felt suddenly dry. She nodded. “She made it easy.”
Theo inclined his head and turned to go.
April stood at the top of the steps and watched him walk away, his figure sharp against the fading sky.
She stood there far longer than necessary, her hand resting lightly on the railing, her heart utterly undone by something as quiet as kindness.
She finally entered the house. It was still, save for the tick of the clock in the foyer. She handed her bonnet and reticule to her maid and turned to the butler.
“Is my mother home?”
“No, My Lady. Her Grace is out with Lady May and Lady June, taking tea with Lady Allenham.”
“I see,” April murmured.
With a nod, she turned and walked down the familiar hallway to her father’s chambers. She tucked the book under her arm—Ashcombe’s Collected Verses, the volume Theodore had lent her—and entered quietly.
The curtains were half-drawn. Her father lay dozing in his chair by the fire, a blanket pulled loosely over his legs. April sank into the chair beside him and opened the book, turning gently to a marked page.
She began to read in a soft voice, one that would not wake him yet might ease his dreams:
O voyager adrift at sea, whose course the stars forsake, Fear not the tempests’ angry cry, nor waves that seethe and break. For though the wind may steal your oars, and thunder chase your light, The dawn will find you home again, borne safe by faithful night.
The rhythm of the lines calmed her, each syllable settling over her heart like a balm. She read on until she sensed a shift.
Her father stirred then opened his eyes. He smiled faintly. “Why are you not off taking tea with your mother and sisters?”
April took his hand. “I just returned. I was at Lady Darnell’s. She’s the Duke of Stone’s aunt.”
He raised a brow. “So, the courtship progresses.”
She said nothing, only smiled.
“Will you read to me a little longer, or are you already bored of me?”
“Never,” she said, lifting the book, but he reached for the blanket and sat up.
“I’d like to take a walk in the garden. Get a bit of sun before it sets.”
April rose and fetched his cane, helping him carefully to his feet.
They walked slowly through the hall and out into the garden, the light mellow and gold, clinging to the last edge of day.
They walked in companionable silence for a time, until her father said, “Your mother is beside herself with delight. She tells me your prospects are blooming like her prize camellias.”
April gave a small, rueful laugh. “She’s already planning my trousseau, I imagine.”
“Perhaps she is,” he said. “But I think… you could be happy.”
She said nothing, her thoughts drifting to Theodore and the afternoon they shared.
Perhaps this was not the mad notion she once believed it to be.
Later that night, April sat before her vanity, brushing her hair in long, absentminded strokes. The fire in the grate had sunk into a gentle glow, the kind that softened corners and made everything seem a little less real.
A soft knock came at the door. “Come in,” she called.
Miss Evans entered, holding a small parcel wrapped in linen and tied with a neat ribbon. “This just arrived for you, My Lady. A footman from the Darnell household delivered it.”
April took it with curiosity, her fingers slipping the ribbon free. Inside was a single pressed bloom, an anemone, delicate and pale, along with a folded note that read:
He took a great liking to your visit. He’s never done that before.
—Eugenia
April sat very still for a moment. Then she lifted the flower gently, as if afraid it might crumble, and tucked it between the pages of her poetry book—Ashcombe’s Collected Verses, now resting on her night table.
Once Miss Evans had helped her into her nightdress and bid her goodnight, April slipped into bed. She drew out a slim sketchbook from beneath her pillow, one she used less for drawing than for scribbling stray thoughts. Tonight, she opened it to a blank page and began to write:
He takes his tea without cream and very little sugar now. Though he once preferred it so sweet, it might as well be a syrup.
I have never seen him smile or laugh, but he is almost cheerful with his aunt. I think a smile would suit him.
When he spoke of his sister, his voice softened in a way I didn’t expect. I could almost see him—a boy with wild hair and a dog at his side.
She paused, the pencil hovering. Then she wrote a line and let it sit alone.
He isn’t heartless. He’s hurting.
She stared at it for a long time.
Then, slowly, she crossed it out. Not enough to obscure the words. Just enough to make them hers.
Beneath it, she wrote one more line:
I can be as I wish to be with him.
She closed the book, extinguished the candle, and lay back on her pillow.
April had made up her mind.
After days of turning over memories—the warmth in his voice when he spoke of his aunt, the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth when she teased him, the silence that felt less like absence and more like care unspoken—she had made her choice.
She would accept his offer.
It was late morning when she arrived at the Duke of Stone’s townhouse, a soft spring chill still clinging to the air. Miss Evans stood beside her on the steps, glancing once at the imposing door before it opened.
The butler appeared, bowing slightly. “Lady April.”
“Is His Grace at home?”
The butler hesitated—just long enough to suggest what he wouldn’t say outright. “He is, My Lady. However, he requested not to be disturbed.”
April offered a pleasant smile. “Then perhaps I might wait?”
“Of course, My Lady. This way.”
She was shown into a drawing room with high windows and modest, thoughtful decoration. It was elegant in a quiet way—bookshelves rather than gilding, a writing desk rather than a pianoforte. She removed her gloves and paced a slow line beneath the windows.
Miss Evans sat primly on the edge of the settee. April tried to settle. Waited. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. No sound from the hallway. No footman with word.
At last, she stood.
“I need to stretch my legs,” she said lightly.
Miss Evans looked up. “Shall I accompany you, My Lady?”
April waved a hand. “No need. I’ll not be long.”
She stepped into the hall, ignoring the butler’s warning still echoing in her memory. He requested not to be disturbed.
She passed a series of portraits then turned at the end of the hallway and spotted an open archway. Beyond it, a stairwell curved downward, dim and unused.
A thud sounded from below, and her curiosity stirred. Is someone there? Theo perhaps? She descended.
The air changed as she moved lower—cooler, faintly damp. The stairs gave way to stone floors, and soon, she reached a space unlike the rest of the manor. Stark. Bare. A gymnasium or perhaps a training room.
Then she heard it—a low, guttural sound. A growl, barely human.
April followed the noise, her steps slowing.
At the far end of the chamber, a man slumped in a chair, arms bound behind him, his face a ruin of bruises and blood. One eye was swollen shut; the other barely opened to the flickering torchlight mounted on the wall. Blood trailed from a cut at his temple down to his collarbone, dark and tacky.
Theo stood before him like a figure carved from vengeance, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, his shirt clinging slightly to his back with sweat. His breath came in low, harsh drags, and a muscle in his jaw pulsed like the strike of a drum.
There was no detachment in him—no cold aristocratic distance. Only fury. Focused. Devouring.
“Who sent you that night?”
The man groaned but said nothing. Theo struck him, and April stopped breathing.
“Was the money worth it? Answer me.”
The man gave a rasping cough, and Theo’s hand twitched again as if restraining the next blow.
April had frozen where she stood, the shadows swallowing the breath in her throat. Her heart slammed against her ribs. This was not the man who handed her poetry and made her tea sweet. This was someone else entirely—unmasked. Ravaged by some deep, buried pain.
What are you doing, Theodore? What have you done?
She had never seen him like this. Not with wrath in every muscle, not with violence in every word. And she had not known she could fear him.
The man mumbled something.
Theo leaned closer. “Say it again. Say it so I can hear you.”
April stepped back instinctively. Her heel scraped the stone floor, and the sound echoed.
Theodor turned.
His eyes met hers, blazing, and dark with something she did not recognize.
April stepped back again. Her hand found the wall beside her. She did not know what frightened her more: the man before her tied and bloodied, or the one she had come to say yes to.