April sniffed quietly, dabbing at her tears with her handkerchief. She glanced at the Duke and found him watching her instead of the opera.
Her brows furrowed. “You’re not even watching.”
He didn’t blink. “I find the performance here”—he nodded faintly toward her tear-streaked cheeks—“far more captivating.”
April’s mouth parted in offense—or perhaps surprise. “You mock me for being moved?”
“I would never dare,” he said mildly, “though I admit, I hadn’t expected such a dramatic reaction before the heroine even began dying.”
She decided to ignore his remark and concentrate on the scene below.
When Isabella collapsed beneath a barren tree, alone and forsaken, the sob that tore from April’s throat could not be contained. She turned to him fully, her cheeks wet with tears.
Nothing. No flicker of pain, no clenching of his fists. Only quiet, unreadable stillness.
The curtain fell. Applause thundered through the hall.
April turned on him at once, fury and disbelief tightening her throat.
“How can you not be moved by that?” she demanded, her voice low and fierce.
He met her gaze calmly. “It was moving.”
“You have no tears—no reaction—nothing!”
“It was a performance,” he said, his voice steady, even as his brow crinkled. “Not real.”
“But the betrayal—the sacrifice—the tragedy!” she insisted, her fingers clutching the damp handkerchief.
He tilted his head slightly. “Highly improbable. No man would abandon his intended without grave cause. And she wandering barefoot through the moors? Reckless beyond reason.”
April stared at him, aghast. “You are supposed to feel, not dissect!”
He considered her, his face unreadable. “And ignore reason entirely?”
She shook her head, frustration knotting her stomach. “I genuinely do not understand how you can sit there—claim to enjoy it—and not shed a single tear!”
A flicker—barely there—of something dangerously close to a smile tugged at his mouth. He turned away before it could fully form.
April felt irrationally cheated.
“Tears,” he said, his voice low and controlled, “are bodily reactions. They can be controlled.”
April clutched the handkerchief in her lap, staring at him.Who would want to control that kind of pain? Who could?
As the applause faded and couples began filing out of the theater, April remained frozen in her seat, her mind spinning.
What happened to him?she wondered, heart aching in a way she could not explain.What hurt him so badly that he taught himself not to feel?
Five
My dearest August,
How could you, in your infinite wisdom, betroth me to the Duke of Stone without so much as a word of warning? You must know I adore you—but that affection is presently mingled with a generous measure of outrage.
Papa is eating more, thank Providence. Mama still treats him as though he might crumble into dust at any moment—fussing over every morsel and whispering encouragements as if he were a child. She has taken to ensuring that May, June, and I are never without partners at every dance though I fear most gentlemen are either dreadfully dull, insufferably arrogant, or utterly foolish.
I miss you terribly. The house feels rather adrift without your presence.
