April blinked again, as if the force of it might reorder the absurdity she faced.
He watched her calmly, his mouth a firm, unsmiling line. There was no warmth, no apology, only an implacable stillness, as though he had already considered every argument she might make and dismissed them all as irrelevant.
April opened her mouth, prepared to object, but no words emerged. She, who could parry her sisters’ teasing and her mother’s endless worrying with grace, sat there utterly mute.
“I do not take kindly,” he said as he guided the phaeton through the bustling street, “to my fiancée being put in danger. Or being courted by incompetents.”
April nearly choked. “I am not your fiancée,” she snapped, heat rising in her cheeks. “And I was certainly not courting Lord Wexley.”
“It appeared otherwise,” he said.
“Appearances can be deceiving,” she retorted.
“Indeed,” he agreed in a maddeningly detached manner that made her want to stamp her foot.
April crossed her arms tightly across her chest. “I assure you, Your Grace, if I were engaged, I would know.”
He adjusted the reins with a careless flick. “Then it seems your brother has been negligent.”
April leaned forward, incredulous. “Certainly not. August has always been positively responsible—ever since we were children. When our father fell ill, it was August who stepped in and ran the estate. He’s the one who ensures the bills are paid, the carriages maintained, the servants fed. He could not have failed to tell me something this monumental.””
“And yet he has.”
April stared at him with her teeth clenched.
“August and I came to an agreement,” the Duke continued, as if reading from a business ledger. “A match that suits both our purposes.”
April pressed her gloved hands against her skirts to keep from reaching out and shaking him. “Without consulting me,” she observed, her voice sharpening.
“It was expedient,” he said coolly.
Her hands tightened into fists. “I am not livestock to be bartered.”
“You are Lady April Vestiere,” he said without inflection. “And your family’s situation, regrettably, necessitates expedience.”
The mention of her family struck her like a slap. Her father—once hale and vigorous—now struggled even to rise from his bed. Her mother—weighed down with worry—drove herself to exhaustion attempting to present her daughters—triplets all out—to society. Their once-glittering fortunes now stretched thin over endless obligations.
Still, April lifted her chin. “That does not excuse arrogance.”
“It is not arrogance,” he said, glancing at her with that same unreadable gaze. “It is pragmatism.”
“You must be an absolute delight at dinner parties, Your Grace,” she muttered under her breath.
If he heard, he gave no indication. His profile remained as severe and immovable as carved stone.
April narrowed her eyes. “Tell me, Your Grace, what possessed you to seek a wife at all? I thought you preferred brooding alone at the edge of society, terrorizing anyone foolish enough to glance your way.”
“I required a duchess,” he said. “Not society.”
April tilted her head. “Well, that is fortunate,” she replied sweetly, “for I have no intention of being amusing.”
“You have made that eminently clear.”
The phaeton rattled over a rough patch in the road. April clung to the edge of her seat, wishing she could as easily cling to her composure. She could not decide which unsettled her more: the absurdity of the situation or the disquieting calm of the man beside her.
“And what, precisely, is it that qualifies me for the honor of becoming the next Duchess of Stone?” she asked, forcing a smile.
“You are suitable,” he replied simply.
