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 ofIsabella’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.
