Who is he?
Gathering her composure, she managed a breathless, “Thank you, sir.”
Without ceremony, he dismounted. Before she could think to object, his hands, strong and steady, encircled her waist, lifting her effortlessly from the curricle. She let out a soft gasp as he settled her before him on the stallion, her back brushing against the hard wall of his chest.
“You are trembling,” he observed, his voice low near her ear.
“Am I?” she murmured, attempting levity but sounding only breathless.
“You have every right to be,” he said, his tone offering no comfort, only truth.
They moved at a measured pace, the stallion responding instantly to the subtlest guidance. April sat stiffly, staring ahead, every nerve sharpened to where their bodies touched.This is improper. Mother would faint dead away. Father would demand blood.
Feeling the silence stretch, she blurted, “You must think me foolish. Riding off with a reckless lord who can barely steer a curricle.”
He said nothing, the quiet somehow heavier than any words.
“I suppose it was rather reckless,” she added, cheeks heating in his presence. “Though, in my defense, he seemed very charming at the time.” Still no reply. She risked a glance up at him. His face was unreadable.
“I—I do thank you,” she said hurriedly. “Truly. I shudder to think what might have happened if you hadn’t… well, appeared out of nowhere like a knight of old.”
A faint sound, an exhale perhaps, escaped him, but he offered no comment.
“Lord Wexley is an absolute menace,” she continued, her words tumbling out of their volition. “Entirely too convinced of his own skills. And utterly incapable of listening to simple directions like ‘mind the road’ or ‘please avoid the cabbage cart.’”
A pause. Then, dryly, “I noticed.”
The simple words managed to both settle and unsettle her at once.
As they reached a gleaming phaeton drawn by well-matched bays, the stranger swung down first, taking hold of her waist and pulling her down once more with infuriating ease. Her feet touched the ground, but she felt no steadier.
He offered no explanation, no apology, merely guiding her toward the waiting carriage with a hand at her elbow. It was atouch so light yet so inescapably firm, she found herself obeying before she thought to resist.
April cleared her throat after climbing into her seat, searching for her scattered dignity. “I have not even properly introduced myself,” she said when he joined her, aware her voice shook slightly. “Lady April Vestiere. And… you are?”
His hands on the reins paused, and he turned to study her with eyes so dark and unreadable that she felt pinned in place.
“I,” he said, his expression unwavering, “am your husband-to-be.”
Two
Surely, I misheard him.
April stared at the man seated beside her, her heart thudding with what was dangerously close to outrage—and possibly terror.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “For a moment I thought I heard you say husband-to-be?”
“I did,” he answered without a shred of hesitation, as if he were discussing the day’s weather rather than her entire future.
April, who had been instructed from infancy never to gape, found herself doing precisely that. “And who are you?” she asked, though some instinct already whispered the answer.
“Theodore Roth,” he said with a slight nod. “Duke of Stone.”
April blinked.
The Heartless Duke?
The thought crashed through her with the subtlety of a thunderclap. She had heard the whispers. Everyone had. How he lived on the outskirts of London, brooding at Stone Hall like some dark myth, refusing invitations, ignoring overtures, turning cold shoulders to the most persistent hostesses. Some claimed his heart had turned to stone years ago; others said he had been born entirely without one.
