Theo moved to sit on a bench, his eyes still on the book.What are you reading?she wondered.What holds you so still?
She leaned her forehead against the cool glass, the sensation grounding her as much as it reminded her how far away he was. He had not looked up. Not once. He had no idea she was watching him, yet that was the only time she felt near him—when he didn’t know she was there.
She pulled away from the window, moving slowly through the room. The emptiness felt cavernous now, its echoes louder with each passing hour.
She had married a man of stone, and every time she reached for him, her hands came back hollow.
I have never felt more alone.
She will not keep doing this to me.
Theo strode through the hallways of Stone Hall, the ache in his chest sharper than he cared to admit. He had watched her vanish into herself over the past days—silent at dinner, always directing the household or wandering the halls like a restless ghost.
Whatever game this was, he was through with it.
He found her in the foyer, flanked by Redmond and two footmen, her hands motioning to curtain samples while Redmond consulted a list. Her voice was calm, efficient.
“That mirror should be centered between the sconces. And the drapery—we shall have the pale gold if the embroidery is subtle.”
Redmond nodded. “And for the chandelier, Your Grace?”
“I should like to see it cleaned first. Then?—”
“April,” Theo interrupted, ignoring the way her shoulders straightened, “I would speak with you.”
She turned slightly. “Just a moment. That painting is not straight.”
And before he could speak again, she crossed the foyer to the far wall, reaching up to adjust a large landscape just installed by the footmen.
Theo watched her, watched the bend of her spine, the graceful stretch of her arm, the composure in her every movement. It was maddening.
Enough.
He moved forward, caught her around the waist, and hoisted her over his shoulder.
April gasped, one hand flying to grip his back. “Theodore! Put me down this instant.”
“You can straighten all the paintings later,” he said. “Right now, I intend to straightenyou.”
She kicked lightly, her slippers tapping against his thigh. “You are being ridiculous.”
“Possibly,” he muttered. “But I am also your husband.”
He carried her down the hallway, ignoring the stunned faces of the staff. The first door to the right stood open—a small salon, unused but sunlit. He stepped inside and shut the door with his foot.
When he set her down, her feet touched the carpet with a soft thud, but he didn’t release her.
Their bodies were close, too close. Her breath brushed his throat. He felt every inch of her.
She pulled back first, crossing her arms over her chest, chin raised. “That was wholly inappropriate.”
He stared down at her, his chest heaving. “What else was I to do? You’ve been avoiding me. Dodging every conversation. You won’t speak to me unless it concerns draperies.”
“And you think carrying me through the halls like a sack of flour is going to endear me to you?”
“No,” he said. “But you stopped listening. I thought perhaps a change in tactics was due.”
She rolled her eyes. “You think this is humorous?”
