“Kent, Sussex, and a smaller estate in Derbyshire,” Theo replied smoothly.
“Not too sunny, I hope,” the Duchess said with a glance at her daughter. “April does not fare well under the sun.”
Theo caught Lady April’s mischievous glance as she touched the freckles dusting her nose. She leaned toward him, whispering, “Mama despises them.”
He bent his head slightly, murmuring, “They are charming.”
Color bloomed across her cheeks, and Theo savored the sight—more satisfying than any victory he had known in business or battle.
As the meal progressed, the Duchess, May, and June took turns questioning him—about his travels, his political leanings, his opinions on opera versus poetry. Theo answered each inquiry with patient precision, noting how Lady April watched him, head tilted in silent assessment.
It was unnerving. He was accustomed to being judged, weighed, and found lacking by society’s fickle standards. But her gaze was different—not calculating but curious, almost earnest.
At one point, she arched a brow. “You are far more forthcoming with them than you ever were with me.”
He turned his gaze on her, deliberate and steady. “Perhaps because they interrogate with more grace than a solicitor cross-examining a witness.”
She laughed, soft and genuine, and Theo felt it resonate somewhere deep within him—a place he thought long dead.
When the meal concluded, the Duke excused himself to rest, and the Duchess clapped her hands in delight.
“April must play for us,” she declared.
Theo stiffened instinctively. “That is not necessary,” he said, sharper than intended.
The Duchess waved him off. “Nonsense. April plays beautifully.”
Reluctantly, he watched Lady April cross to the pianoforte. When she played, it was not with the polite proficiency expected of young ladies but with a depth that unsettled him. The haunting melody wrapped around his mind, stirring memories he had fought long and hard to bury.
Do not feel. Do not remember.
He gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles turned white.
The music filled the room, beautiful and terrible, and for a moment he hated her—hated her for opening a door he had spent years bolting shut.
When she finished, he rose and applauded with the others, careful to school his features into polite neutrality.
Her gaze lingered on his, questioning, and he knew she would not be so easily diverted.
“Shall we have a game of cards?” he asked, offering her an easy smile that cost him nothing and everything.
She agreed with a bright laugh, and soon the whole family was gathered around the table, tossing playful barbs and wagers.
Theo made certain not to leave Lady April alone long enough for more probing questions—until, at last, the Duchess and her daughters retired, leaving them pointedly alone.
April rose immediately, crossing to him.
“What game are you playing with me, Your Grace?”
He lifted a brow. “None. Unless you count cards and scones.”
She smiled, but there was sharpness in it. “Cards are a game. Scones a mischief.”
“Both easily survived,” he said, stepping closer.
She tilted her chin up. “Did you enjoy the music tonight?”
He paused then said, “I enjoy music… on occasion.”
