Lady?April?Vestiere
April wished to write more but decided to leave the letter as it was. She blotted the lines, folded the sheet with care, and sealed the edge with a crimson wafer.
May, who had circled like a cat about to pounce, leaned over her shoulder. “Are you writing to His Grace?”
April pressed the wafer. “No, to the Royal Astronomer. I intend to inquire after the moon.”
May’s giggle danced through the shelves. “Then the Duke will be most put out when he learns the moon received his invitation.”
“The moon, at least, answers to no one,” April said, writing his direction upon the outer fold and addressing it with a firm hand.
May perched on the edge of the desk, her eyes glinting. “If he accepts, shall I tell Mother to have your blue silk aired?”
“A man such as the Duke of Stone does not respond to invitations in writing,” April replied, tucking the letter beneath a paperweight shaped like an acorn.
May’s eyes narrowed. “How would you know if he will be attending the ball?”
“Did you read my letter?” April swatted her sister’s arm.
May giggled and evaded April’s next swipe. “You sealed it before I could finish reading, but I did see Lady Allenham’s ball mentioned.”
April shook her head and rose, letter in hand, and moved toward the door.
I ought to draw deeper feelings from him, but which feelings, I wonder?
“Is that jeweled comb crooked on purpose,” June asked, “or have you simply given up?”
“It’s a statement,” April replied, adjusting it again in the mirror. “Though I haven’t decided what it says.”
“That you’ve been mentally compromised by too much poetry,” June offered dryly.
May giggled. “Or by a certain duke.”
April didn’t answer. Her fingers fussed with the arrangement in her hair once more although the comb was perfectly in place, its sapphire stones catching the light like tiny stars.
Dorothy’s voice rang through the room, crisp and commanding. “Girls, if we do not leave in the next five minutes, we shall miss the first dance, and I cannot possibly allow our season to fall behind the Millertons’—not when they have such unfortunate shoulders.”
“We’re ready, Mama,” May called, sweeping up her skirts and giving June a conspiratorial look. “Even if April can’t decide which version of herself to present tonight.”
Before April could deliver a retort, the butler appeared in the open doorway and announced, “Your Grace, the Duke of Stone has arrived.”
For half a breath, no one moved.
“Oh,” Dorothy gasped, smoothing her dress as if preparing for battle. “Show him in. Quickly!”
The butler vanished, and in his place appeared the Duke—immaculate as ever, dressed in midnight black, his presence cool and quiet yet arresting in its intensity.
“Your Grace,” Dorothy said, stepping forward with a curtsy that could have been taught at court. “What a delightful surprise.”
Stone bent to kiss her hand with impeccable form. “Your Grace,” he murmured. May and June curtsied, and he gave them a single, solemn nod before turning his gaze to April.
She felt it land on her before she saw it. His hand found hers, lifted it slowly, and his lips brushed the air above her knuckles.
“I had begun to wonder,” he said in a voice pitched low enough for her ears alone, “if you meant to leave without me.”
“I thought you’d given up on outings,” she teased, her tone light but her heart racing. “After all, the opera was quite a trial.”
“Not the opera,” he replied, releasing her hand. “Merely the heroine.”
