“Then I must confess—I once tried to bribe the cook with Latin conjugations to get an extra tart.”
“And did it work?”
“Only until she realized my Latin was atrocious.”
Their laughter mingled, light and easy. It caught Theo off guard, how effortless it felt. How unlike him.
She glanced at him sidelong. “You know, I think I quite like you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Not plotting the conquest of an estate. Not explaining obscure terms in a book. Just… being.”
He looked at her then, something quiet flickering in his eyes. “You’re easy to talk to—when you’re not accusing me of bullying earls.”
“I only accused you of intimidation. It’s not the same.”
“And yet, you’re still here.”
“So are you.”
Their steps had slowed, almost stilled. They stood before a quieter painting now—just a hillside dotted with trees. Nothing wild. Nothing stormy.
“I think,” April said slowly, “we might do well as friends.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. Friends ask questions, don’t they? And tell the truth. Even when it’s a little uncomfortable.”
He nodded once, solemn. “Then I suppose I ought to ask you something uncomfortable.”
She lifted a brow. “Go on.”
“Would you have preferred a man who didn’t need to marry for an estate?”
April met his gaze directly. “I would have preferred a man who told me why it mattered. Which, today, you did.”
Theo stared at her a moment longer then finally looked away. His hand brushed again against the folded cloth in his pocket.
You shouldn’t give her hope.
But the quiet warmth between them felt nothing like hope. It felt like the start of trust. And so, he said nothing more, just stepped past the painting. They stopped again before a new canvas, this one gentler, softer in hue. A couple danced beneath moonlight, frozen mid-step, his hand at her waist, hers resting lightly on his shoulder. The paint shimmered slightly, giving the illusion of movement.
“My aunt is particularly fond of this one,” Theo observed.
April studied the image. “Is it the moonlight or the way they look at each other?”
He shrugged. “You’d have to ask her.”
She raised one fine brow, smiling. “And you? What do you think of it?”
“I don’t think of it.”
“Of course not. The Duke of Stone does not bother with moonlight or dancing couples.”
“Because they rarely serve practical purposes.”
“Ah,” she said with mock-solemnity. “But what if the purpose is beauty?”
