The housekeeper gave a guilty smile. “Well, His Grace doesn’t care for anyone meddling with his books. He has his own… method, I suppose. Prefers they be left exactly where he last set them.”
Of course, he does.
April arched a brow and turned back to the shelves. “Yet he can’t arrange them himself,” she muttered to herself, tugging a dusty volume free and inspecting it as if it might confess its misplacement.
“I don’t suppose anyone knows how these were meant to be arranged?” she asked, not looking up from the shelf she was inspecting.
“We are glad that you are here.” The housekeeper stepped closer and looked around. “Lord knows this room is in dire need of a Duchess’ gentle touch.”
April exhaled slowly, turning back to the shelves with the grit of a general surveying a battlefield. “Perhaps I ought to begin with a new system,” she said aloud, reaching for a particularly grimy volume. “By author or theme. No, language. That would at least keep the French from fraternizing with the Latin.”
Mrs. Maple chuckled, “This library is about to learn what it means to behave.”
Around her, the staff whispered over curtain lengths and debated the polish of the brass sconces while someone fetched a carpenter to measure shelving for symmetry.
April remained in motion, issuing decisions with authority, determined not to think, not to feel. If she stayed busy, if she filled every hour with purposeful tasks, perhaps the hollowness would not settle so deeply in her bones.
But then movement caught her eye.
Through the tall windows that faced the western lawn, two figures stood beneath the stone archway. The steward, gray-haired and stoop-shouldered, gestured animatedly with a small ledger in hand while opposite him stood Theo.
He held the sort of quiet command that didn’t require effort, one hand clasped behind his back, the other loose at his side, nodding slowly as the steward spoke, occasionally interjecting with a short word or a subtle shake of his head. The very air around him seemed to be shaped by his presence, as though the stones underfoot might as well have straightened for him.
April remained still with her hands pressed against the edge of the table, her breath caught somewhere between her chest and her throat.He looks so certain. So at ease in himself. Why do I feel like the only one fumbling in the dark?
“Your Grace?” the footman at her side held out a bundle of samples. “Mrs. Maple thought these silks might suit this room’s palette.”
April blinked and collected herself. “Yes. Thank you. Set them down. I’ll review them shortly.”
He bowed and moved on.When she turned her head again, the lawn was empty.
That afternoon, after insisting on inspecting the music room personally, April paced the wide chamber, her hand on her hips, and her critical eyes drifting over every surface.
The pianoforte had been dragged forward but remained cloaked in a white shroud. She peeled it back with care and pressed one tentative key which rang out dull, lifeless, and slightly flat.
“It needs tuning,” Mrs. Maple observed from behind her, and she nodded.
April then assessed the blue curtains. “These must change,” she declared. “We’ll need something lighter, brocade perhaps.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And that mirror throws sunlight directly onto the keys. It must be moved or tinted.”
Mrs. Maple grinned and nodded before instructing two footmen to take down the drapes.April approached the wall by the door as muffled voices floated through the window She moved closer, tilting her head.
It was Theo’s low baritone.“Have you confirmed the delivery of my letters?”
“I ensure they were posted this morning, Your Grace. You have new correspondence, and I placed them in your study.”
“Good.”
There was a pause, and April leaned closer, hoping to catch more, but nothing came. She swallowed against the disappointment in her throat.What would it take to truly see this man?
Two days later, at mid-morning, April drifted toward the tall windows and tugged aside the velvet curtain.
Below, in the gardens, Theo walked alone. A small leather-bound book was clasped in one hand. His steps were slow, as though each one required deliberation. He paused near the rose arbor and bent his head to the page.
The breeze stirred the leaves then his dark hair. April briefly closed her eyes, imagining what it would feel like to run her fingers between his locks. A gasp escaped her lips, and she shook her head.
