She took it, despite herself. Despite everything. As they stepped outside, the fresh morning air greeted them, and the carriage ride passed in companionable silence—oddly comfortable, considering the tension that had once clung to every word between them.
She glanced at Miss Evans, who had joined them as a chaperone.Could it be that her presence altered the tension between me and the Duke?
It wasn’t until they reached Hyde Park and began walking beneath the canopy of trees that the silence grew purposeful, and as they walked, April tucked the small book of Ashcombe’s poems beneath her arm and considered her companion. Silent as ever. And yet, there was something more attentive about him now. Less like a man bearing a duty and more like one pursuing an answer.
“Why Ashcombe?” she asked at last.
His hands were tucked neatly behind his back, his stride methodical, almost as if counting the steps that paced between the curve of the path and her question. “He is concise. Precise. His language cuts away all that is unnecessary.”
“So, you like him because he’s neat.”
“I like him because he understands form.”
“But poetry is about feeling.”
“No. Poetry is about clarity.”
“Oh, that is a terribly dull way to look at it,” she said. “Where is the mystery? The heart?”
“The heart is in the restraint.” He glanced down at her as he said it, and though his expression remained unreadable, there was a slight shift in his posture—an imperceptible lean toward her.
“You would say that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“You cannot possibly believe Ashcombe writes for the sake of order. His verses burn.”
“Controlled fire burns longer.” One brow lifted, not smug but measured, like a man enjoying a chess match two moves ahead.
April laughed. “There. That was nearly poetic.”
“It was factual.” He flexed his fingers once behind his back, as if holding back something else.
“You say that as though it’s an insult.”
“Only to the overly sentimental.”
“So all poets, then.”
“Present company excluded.”
They continued walking. He fell a half step back, allowing her the inside of the path—a quiet courtesy she noted but said nothing about. April glanced sideways at him, her amusement dancing just beneath the surface. “You surprise me.”
“How so?” he asked, his head turning slightly, attention narrowing.
“You, who disdain sentiment and despise spectacle—you read poetry. And not just any poetry. Good poetry.”
He was quiet for a moment, and his gaze moved from her to the tree line ahead. “I never said I despised sentiment. Only that I mistrust it.”
“A subtle distinction.”
“An important one.”
“That sounds like something Ashcombe would write in a footnote.”
“Then he and I are well aligned.” He looked down again, this time allowing the corner of his mouth to shift—not quite a smile but close enough to stir something in her chest.
She laughed again, shaking her head. “Do you ever laugh?”
