Dash stayed where he was, glass in hand, the picture of civility. But his gaze followed her across the room, noting the way her confidence had sharpened since that afternoon she’d been intimidated by an impertinent innkeeper.
His princesse, he realized, had discovered her je ne sais quoi.
She was poised now, controlled, but the openness she’d once worn like sunlight was gone. Was he the reason?
It was a bittersweet kind of torture, watching her like this—laughing with others, her eyes lit with that new confidence. And all the while, the same thought kept pounding in his head.
He should be the man at her side.
“I didn’t realize gardeners were such aficionados of the arts.”
The sultry voice broke through his reverie just as a cloud of heady perfume curled into his senses. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Dash dragged his gaze from Ambrosia. Standing beside him was an exotic beauty—raven hair, eyes as black as jet, lips painted the color of ripe cherries.
“I certainly didn’t realize they possessed such finery as this,” she added, her dark gaze sliding over his evening clothes in frank appreciation.
It took him a moment, but then recognition clicked. She was the neighbor—the one who had been watching him almost as intently as he’d been watching Ambrosia.
Dash narrowed his eyes, his tone polite but edged. “And you are?”
“Doña Carlotta Fernandez y Ortiz, Contessa de Cabrera.” The name rolled from her tongue like a practiced performance.
Dash lifted a brow. “No formal introduction?”
Her smile curved, knowing. “I suspect you aren’t the sort of man who requires one. Am I wrong?”
“Not at all.”
He shifted a step back, only to find the wall at his shoulders—and the Contessa closing the space between them, her perfume invading his senses. There was boldness in her approach, yes, but also an emptiness in her eyes—gone so quickly he might have imagined it.
“I was so very pleased to see you here tonight,” she purred. “I’ve been meaning to ask if you would be willing to… take care of me, as you have my neighbor.”
“Take care of you?” His eyes flicked toward Ambrosia to be sure she hadn’t left the room before returning to the Contessa’s dark gaze.
“My garden,” she clarified, though her smile left little doubt as to her double meaning. “It has been shamefully neglected. I would be ever so grateful if you might direct some of your attention my way… toward my garden, that is.”
“Ah, madame,” Dash said, gently easing her away. “I’m afraid I work exclusively for Mrs. Bloomington.”
Her ruby lips turned down in an exaggerated pout. “Such a shame.” One perfectly manicured hand reached over to trail from his shoulder to his elbow in a slow, deliberate stroke. “If you ever seek alternative employment, my offer remains open.”
Dash made a faint, amused bow, keeping his tone warm, but also standing firm in his refusal. “Noted.
“Doña Carlotta.”
Dash jerked his head over to see that Ambrosia had returned, and the Contessa turned as well.
“Ah, Señora Bloomington, I was just having a word with your… gardener.”
Ambrosia let out a burst of laughter that resembled a snort. Was his princesse showing some claws?
"Is that so? I’d treat anything he says with a pinch of salt—he’s been known to gild the lily now and then."
“Oh…?” The Contessa’s brows knit, her dark eyes narrowing slightly, as though turning the phrase over in her mind. The faint tilt of her head suggested she wasn’t entirely sure whether she’d been warned, insulted, or invited to join in on some joke.
“Anyway, I was just letting people know that the reading is about to begin in the other room,” Ambrosia said with a gentle smile, her tone more coaxing than dismissive as she urged the other woman toward the doorway. She waited—politely—until Doña Carlotta had swept out of sight before turning back to him.
“She doesn’t hold a candle to you, princesse,” he murmured near her ear. He didn’t mind her playing a few games—he deserved whatever she could dish out, in fact.
But he would not.
