By the time he reached Audley Street, he paused.
The glow of lamplight spilled over a line of coaches stretching in both directions, as elegant figures climbed the front steps.
Her salons had indeed become quite the thing, and the sight drew something tight in his chest—half pride, half regret.
Because he’d missed all of it.
But none of that signified tonight.
And when he finally rapped on the door, it was Carrington himself who answered. Of course, his former butler wouldn’t send him away.
“I’m here at the express invitation of my good friend Viscount Longstaffe,” Dash said.
The butler’s lips held steady, but his eyes admitted a weary sort of tolerance. “In the large drawing room, Your Grace.” He stepped aside, the door swinging wide.
Dash handed over his tall black top hat and cane. “Merci, Monsieur Carrington.”
Mr. Edwards had tied his cravat seven times before deeming it acceptable, and then insisted his employer carry every fashionable accessory a gentleman might require. Dash’s fingers brushed the pocketed item now—a ludicrously expensive monocle. The absurdity of it almost made him laugh aloud.
It was as if his valet knew exactly what he intended to do tonight.
Eh bien, perhaps he did. It seemed everyone in London knew his business these days.
Inside, Dash took a moment to glance around.
Yes, he’d been to Ambrosia’s home daily for more than a fortnight now, and along with looking in a few windows, he’d made that one visit to Carrington’s office.
But he’d not yet been inside while she was in residence.
Knowing she could appear at any moment, he drew a long, steadying breath, then strolled into the foyer as if the house were his own. The first murmurs reached him almost at once, soft hisses of recognition, the lift of an eyebrow. Out so soon after the Duchess’s death? How very Dasborough.
Let them talk.
When a curious gaze lingered too long, he raised the ridiculous monocle to his eye, fixing the offender with a look of bland indifference.
A silent dare.
The curious gaze dropped immediately.
From the smaller salon came the refined strains of a pianoforte, accompanied by polite applause. Dash skirted its open doorway, letting the music and murmurs fade behind him, and stepped into the larger public room where the air seemed warmer, charged with conversation and sudden bursts of laughter.
And then?—
Princesse, indeed.
Elegant, poised. A certain magic hovered in the corner, where Ambrosia was standing, across the room.
She was speaking with two middle-aged ladies and a younger gentleman, her smile gracious, her nods perfectly timed. Her hair—glorious as ever—had been swept up into a complex braid, a few curls spilling onto her shoulders. The deep emerald velvet of her gown clung to her form, its short sleeves and low bodice revealing the perfect swell of her breasts—breasts he knew tasted of sunshine and salt, that had once arched into his mouth, begging to be laved, sucked, teased.
By him. By Dash. And only Dash.
Perhaps she felt the weight of his stare, for she frowned and turned toward him just as he reined in his thoughts. Green eyes met his—surprise, then displeasure… and was that a fleeting flicker of something else before she shuttered it?
Excitement.
Secret pleasure.
He’d imagined it? Non?
