Ash accepted the invitation, slipping it into his coat. “And if I don’t dazzle with my wit and charm?”
“Observe, report, and try not to insult anyone titled.”
Ash smirked. “A challenge.”
“A worthy one,” Barrington replied, lifting his glass. “For a man who’s mastered cannon fire but not conversation.”
They shared a glance, wry, familiar, edged in mutual trust.
Ash finished his brandy and put the glass down as he stood.
Barrington gave a nod. “Godspeed, Ashcombe.”
Ash lifted two fingers in a half-salute and stepped out into the sharp morning air. A masquerade. God help him. He would rather face gunfire than a ballroom full of marriage-minded mothers. But orders were orders, and a baron, it seemed, was still a soldier.
Chapter Two
The autumn lightfiltered through thinning trees, casting long golden streaks across the gravel path. The Sommer Castle Gardens were dotted with promenaders and carriages, all pretending not to notice one another, as if visibility alone fulfilled the obligation of society. The masquerade was only a day away, its anticipation rustling through the gardens like the first breath of autumn wind.
Ash kept pace beside Lady Erica Notley, careful and unhurried, as mannered as the conversation they were expected to share, though his chest tightened, reminding him he’d rather be anywhere else. The air smelled faintly of damp leaves and salt from the sea, and each breath felt more like endurance than leisure.
The stroll had been her suggestion, a harmless opportunity for fresh air, mild conversation, and no expectation of fireworks. She wore a soft blue walking gown that matched her eyes almost too precisely, and her bonnet was trimmed with ivory lace. Altogether, she looked as though she’d been painted for the express purpose of putting others at ease.
Ash shifted his weight slightly, the tightness in his shoulders refusing to relax. Something about her perfection made him feel out of place, as if he were an ink stain on parchment too pristine to bear it.
“I do find the coast lovely in autumn,” she said, watching the leaves swirl near the base of a tree. “There’s something orderly about the change. Summer fades, and the world turns quietly inward.”
Ash glanced sideways. “I suppose that’s one way to see it.”
“You don’t agree?”
“I’ve never thought of the seasons as orderly,” he replied. “Weather is a battlefield, always shifting, and often insufferable.”
She laughed, a soft, elegant sound, perfectly timed. “You sound like a man still expecting cannon fire in the hedgerows.”
“Force of habit.”
They continued for another dozen paces.
“I’m glad we did this,” she said. “You’re easy to speak with.”
Ash was not certain that was true, but he inclined his head. “Likewise.”
Their conversation had wandered from books, a recent musicale, to the current state of the newspapers. She asked nothing of consequence, and he offered little in return. She was pleasant, gracious, and unquestionably suitable.
And yet, despite her kindness and quiet humor, something in him fell flat. The silence between their words pressed heavier than the words themselves.
He wasn’t in love with Erica, but her family was respected, her manner composed. She was everything a baron’s wife was expected to be, and everything he wasn’t ready to fight. It should have been enough. It was not.
Still, suitability was what mattered. He was titled now and expected to settle, to marry, to build a life that would outlast his years of service. Erica struck him as the sort of woman who would not flinch from duty. Who would not question the long absences, the silences between letters, the public decorum that came with the role.
She would make a proper baroness.
She excused herself at the corner of Park Lane, thanking him with a smile that left nothing resolved and nothing promised.
Ash watched Erica disappear down the walk with her maid, her posture unchanging even as the breeze tugged lightly at her bonnet. She never looked back. He stood still for a moment, as if trying to feelsomething definitive, a decision made, a chapter closed. But all he found was the same hollow pause that had followed them through each step of the garden. It had been a lovely day, by any measure.
*
