Page 9 of The Duke and His Jilted Bride

He turned toward the door – to leave, to hide his own smile. Perhaps they were both mad, turned mad by the events of the morning. He had his hand on the door when she spoke, primed to pull it open.

“Evander– ah…”

He stopped and turned back. She was standing where he had left her, by the windows, still in her wedding gown, and she was looking at him with an expression he couldn't immediately classify. The light played on her hair and skin, casting her in gold. For a moment, that halo around her was all he registered. And then he realised what she had said.

“Forgive me,” she said, looking disappointed in herself. “I don't know why I said that. Force of habit, after hearing your brother say it all the time in my presence.”

“It is just a name.”

“Yes, but…” She paused, still looking faintly startled by herself. “It seemed… I don't know. Everything else today has been very formal. It seemed strange to end on Your Grace. And then, what I really meant to say was… thank you.”

He looked at her for a moment. The clock ticked. Neither of them moved. He did not know what to say. He hardly deserved her thanks.

“Aurelia,” he said, and she went very still. “Thank you.”

He said her name the same way she had said his, a slip, as though he was simply confirming that she existed in his mind, today, as something more than she had been yesterday, which had been mostly a stranger.

She looked away first, toward the window, toward the untamed gardens outside, which stood there like the world was entirely in order.

He left then, before either of them could say anything further. She did not call him back by his name or his title or anything.

To his surprise, the aunt was nowhere to be seen when he opened the door to leave. Outside, he stood on the pavement before the Knowles-Hartwell house for a moment in the ordinary afternoon. A coal cart went past. Somewhere down the street a child was shouting about something.

Evander had not used a woman's given name in a very long time. He was not certain he had ever done it quite like that, not even with Seraphina, maybe not even with his own mother or cousins.

There was no use thinking about it further. He adjusted his coat and walked away.

Four

“Aurelia had not played for herself in a long time. That was the thing about performing music for others, she thought to herself, hands drifting along the piano keys. It got into a habit. Every scale and piece, every hour at the keys had been pointed toward an audience of some kind, even if only her aunt in the next room.

The house was quiet that day except for the sound of the piano, Aunt Violet’s dogs asleep in their baskets in the parlour, Aunt Violet herself writing her letters somewhere else with her luncheon tea.

The song she played was nothing special, riddled with errors on her behalf. Something by Haydn she did not remember the name of. Her mother had played like this. Aurelia had a memory, not particularly reliable, of sitting beneath the piano as a small child while her mother played above her, feeling the vibrations through the floor. Her father sat in the corner and read. He loved reading. He loved reading and listening to her mother's music. Their marriage had been–

Aurelia stopped. The thoughts. The music. She had no real idea what their marriage had been and could only guess.

On the top of the piano sat a small oval miniature in a gilt frame. Her parents, painted the year they married. Her mother was twenty, her father beside her looking slightly like a man who could not believe his luck. Aurelia had carried it with her to every house she'd lived in since she was seven. She looked at it now and wondered what they would say to her if they were still alive.

An hour later, she was still so absorbed by her music that did not hear the door creaking open behind her. She did not see him or feel him as he arrived, where he lingered at the door a moment, watching her and listening, and to himself – smiling.

A few moments later, Aunt Violet’s shrill voice called her name from the entrance hall. Aurelia stopped playing abruptly and turned.

She knew what that cry meant.

“There you are,” Aunt Violet said once Aurelia arrived, one of her golden pomeranians nipping at her ankles. “We were just coming to find you, dear.”

Aurelia had found them in the entrance hall quarter of an hour later. The Duke, Evander, turned when she appeared on the stairs, and she felt the slight shock of him again – and the activity it stirred in her.

“Miss Knowles.” He inclined his head, then he paused a moment as he looked at her aunt. He looked paler this morning, less rested. Violet beamed with a smile, picking up the dog in her arms. It glanced up at Evander with its beady black eyes, and he stroked its head, licking his hand. “I hope I haven't called at an inconvenient time.”

“Not at all. I was just practicing.” She smiled at the sight of Evander, so tall and imposing, and the little dog he was lavishing with praise. She came down the last two steps while he was distracted and sought her aunt’s quiet approval on her attire – a light blue outfit that had been part of her wedding trousseau. “Shall we head into the parlour?”

“Actually,” he said, turning from the dog, which whined, “I thought that we might walk in Hyde Park, if you're agreeable to the idea.”

“I could have sworn Lord Canterbury said you hated promenading.”

“I do. But it would do us good to be seen together,” he said, looking at her aunt.