A soft knock came at the door. “Come in,” she called.
Miss Evans entered, holding a small parcel wrapped in linen and tied with a neat ribbon. “This just arrived for you, My Lady. A footman from the Darnell household delivered it.”
April took it with curiosity, her fingers slipping the ribbon free. Inside was a single pressed bloom, an anemone, delicate and pale, along with a folded note that read:
He took a great liking to your visit. He’s never done that before.
—Eugenia
April sat very still for a moment. Then she lifted the flower gently, as if afraid it might crumble, and tucked it between the pages of her poetry book—Ashcombe’s Collected Verses, now resting on her night table.
Once Miss Evans had helped her into her nightdress and bid her goodnight, April slipped into bed. She drew out a slim sketchbook from beneath her pillow, one she used less for drawing than for scribbling stray thoughts. Tonight, she opened it to a blank page and began to write:
He takes his tea without cream and very little sugar now. Though he once preferred it so sweet, it might as well be a syrup.
I have never seen him smile or laugh, but he is almost cheerful with his aunt. I think a smile would suit him.
When he spoke of his sister, his voice softened in a way I didn’t expect. I could almost see him—a boy with wild hair and a dog at his side.
She paused, the pencil hovering. Then she wrote a line and let it sit alone.
He isn’t heartless. He’s hurting.
She stared at it for a long time.
Then, slowly, she crossed it out. Not enough to obscure the words. Just enough to make them hers.
Beneath it, she wrote one more line:
I can be as I wish to be with him.
She closed the book, extinguished the candle, and lay back on her pillow.
April had made up her mind.
After days of turning over memories—the warmth in his voice when he spoke of his aunt, the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth when she teased him, the silence that felt less like absence and more like care unspoken—she had made her choice.
She would accept his offer.
It was late morning when she arrived at the Duke of Stone’s townhouse, a soft spring chill still clinging to the air. Miss Evans stood beside her on the steps, glancing once at the imposing door before it opened.
The butler appeared, bowing slightly. “Lady April.”
“Is His Grace at home?”
The butler hesitated—just long enough to suggest what he wouldn’t say outright. “He is, My Lady. However, he requested not to be disturbed.”
April offered a pleasant smile. “Then perhaps I might wait?”
“Of course, My Lady. This way.”
She was shown into a drawing room with high windows and modest, thoughtful decoration. It was elegant in a quiet way—bookshelves rather than gilding, a writing desk rather than a pianoforte. She removed her gloves and paced a slow line beneath the windows.
Miss Evans sat primly on the edge of the settee. April tried to settle. Waited. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. No sound from the hallway. No footman with word.
At last, she stood.
“I need to stretch my legs,” she said lightly.
