April recounted the afternoon’s events, still in disbelief herself, and her sister blinked at her when she finished as though she had sprouted another head. She purposefully omitted the part when the Duke told her he was to marry her, and she wondered how her sisters would have reacted if they knew.
June was the first to speak. “I do not know whether that is alarming or romantic.”
April tapped June lightly on the arm and chuckled. “You two are impossible.”
“And you,” June said, giving her a wicked grin, “are blushing.”
“I am not!” April argued primly, though her cheeks were indeed warm.
They teased her all the way up the stairs until she escaped into her bedchamber, closing the door behind her with a relieved sigh.
Only when she was alone did she finally allow her thoughts to unravel. She replayed everything—the bluntness of the Duke’s proposal, the fierce certainty in his voice. One thing, however, snagged her mind and refused to let go. He had not said he offered to marry “one of August’s sisters.” He had saidher.
April sank onto the edge of her bed, her heart pounding anew.
Did he mean to say he had specifically chosen me?
Three
Ido not plan on having to look for another bride.
The Duke’s words haunted April, threading through her thoughts even as she stood smiling near the glass doors of the terrace, half-listening to the young viscount before her drone on.
She nodded absently though she hardly heard a word.
“It is universally acknowledged,” the viscount—Lord Cyril Ashworth, if she recalled correctly—proclaimed with the pomp of a parlor philosopher, “that no place in Europe can rival England’s greatness.”
“Indeed,” April murmured, pasting a bright, sunny smile onto her face.Poor England, saddled with such champions.
“I would admit the Continent has its charms. Would you like to visit one day?” Ashworth continued, puffing out his chest.
April tilted her head, the breeze from the open doors brushing her cheek. “Oh, but why would you care to visit a place you deem so inferior, My Lord?”
Ashworth preened. “Some parts, perhaps, are tolerable. Italy, for its ruins. France—if one can forgive its manners.”
April laughed lightly though it was as hollow as the man before her. Ashworth’s face tightened. “My viscountess would know better than to mock me, Lady April.”
She blinked, all innocence. “Then it is fortunate, My Lord, that I have no ambition of becoming your viscountess.”
His ears pinked with anger, but he thrust out his hand. “Your dance card, if you please.”
I just expressed my disinterest!April handed it over, the smile never leaving her lips. Better to be rid of him sooner than later.
Ashworth scribbled his name with a grand flourish and returned it to her. “The cotillion,” he announced before winking and swaggering away.
April sighed, feeling as if she had narrowly escaped a terrible fate. Yet peace was short-lived.
“Lady April!”
She turned to find Lord Wexley hurrying toward her, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“I am so glad to see you here,” he gushed, nearly tripping over his own feet. “And that you got home safely! I must confess, I worried after leaving you with the Duke.”
“Why did you not insist on escorting me yourself, My Lord?” April raised her brows, still smiling sweetly.
Wexley laughed, palming the back of his neck sheepishly. “Do you know the manner of man the Duke of Stone is?”
The heartless Duke,she thought, her lips twitching despite herself.The man who decided my fate with August without so much as meeting me first.April widened her eyes with affected innocence. “Are you afraid of him, My Lord?”
