He moved toward the hearth, stooped, and struck a match with slow precision. Flame flickered and caught as shadows danced across the paneled walls.
The room warmed as the light grew, but the unease didn’t fade. The tension in his shoulders held firm, as though his body refused to be fooled by heat or hearth.
He sat in the armchair nearest the grate, legs stretched out, posture relaxed in the way of a man who had spent years teaching his body to be still. The stillness had once been a useful and reliable skill. Tonight, it felt like armor that no longer fit.
Erica’s voice drifted through his memory, all soft inflection and social poise. She had said all the right things, had dressed with impeccable care, had walked at exactly his pace, and smiled at exactly the right intervals. Everything about her had been… correct.
She met every standard the title required. On paper, she was perfect. And yet, he could not make the pieces fit.
So why did it leave him hollow? Because the decision had already been made.
He leaned forward and reached for the newspaper on the side table. The Times, folded twice over, had been abandoned unread. He unfolded it, stared blankly at a column about dock tariffs, then dropped it again.
It wasn’t the memory of Erica that lingered.
It was the other woman. The one who had looked him dead in the eye and accused him of not reading the fine print.
Ash let out a slow breath and rubbed the back of his neck.
The woman near the punch bowl filled his mind.
There was nothing showy in her demeanor, no calculated elegance or well-placed compliments. She’d met him as though he were a challenge she intended to solve, not charm. And when he’d offered the expected banter, she’d parried without blinking.
Not uninteresting.
It had been a deflection, and a cowardly one at that.
She had caught him off guard, and worse, she had done so without title, without introduction, without apparent effort. And still, he remembered her. Not the fall of her hem or the color of her ribbon, but the tilt of her chin. The curve of her smile was not entirely amused or forgiving. Her presence unsettled him in a way no cannon fire ever had.
Ash rose, crossed to the sideboard, and poured himself another half-measure. He didn’t usually have more than one drink, but tonight felt like an exception, though he couldn’t say why.
He returned to the chair, drink in hand, and glanced at the small notebook resting beside the lamp. It was a military habit he’d never entirely abandoned, recording notes, reminders, and impressions from the day. Never anything personal. Just enough to remember where things stood.
He opened to a blank page and dipped his pen.
October 3–Walked with Lady Erica Notley in Sommer Castle Gardens. Discussed music, publications, and seasonal observations. Appropriate in all respects. Suitability confirmed. Entirely unremarkable.
He paused. Considered the wordunremarkable, and underlined it once with steady precision, a quiet finality in the motion that was heavier than he intended.
He hesitated before dipping the pen again. The pen hovered, then dropped to the page.
The lady with the dance card. The one I forgot to forget.
Another breath. He had to find out more about that woman.
He closed his notebook. No flourish. No underlining this time, just a line on a page and a flicker of something he couldn’t quite name, warming in his chest like the fire across the room.
Chapter Three
Leticia had notslept well.
Not for lack of comfort. The bed was warm, the linens fresh, the house respectfully quiet. But her thoughts had looped themselves into knots, tugging at the edges of her rest each time she began to drift off. The moment she closed her eyes, the memory of a bow, a hand, a look returned with unwelcome precision.
It had been one dance. One conversation. Nothing that should have lingered.
And yet, a chill ran up her neck at the memory of his gaze. Not with admiration, but with interest. As though trying to decipher something that wasn’t entirely legible at first glance. Most men looked at her and saw only what they expected: polite charm, practiced ease, and inherited grace.
She had read three pages ofCamilla, stared at the same corner of the ceiling for what seemed like hours, and once considered going downstairs for tea, except that would mean explaining herself to Alice, her lady’s maid, or Aunt Margaret. Heaven forbid.
