But he had tilted his head, just slightly, as though cataloguing something unexpected. Evaluating, not admiring.
And he had danced like a man trained to follow orders, not instincts.
Leticia rolled onto her side and muttered to the ceiling, “Not uninteresting.”
She didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.
The morning light was soft, unhurried, and far too gentle for the restlessness curling beneath her skin.
She lay in bed longer than usual, her eyes tracing the shadowed curve of the ceiling above her. The house was quiet. Someone, probably the maid, had opened the curtains just enough to let in a spill of golden light across the foot of her bed. Dust motes danced in the beam like so many idle thoughts.
It had been only a dance. A single conversation. Nothing to stir the heart. Nothing to keep her awake.
Leticia exhaled and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress, letting the chill of the floor remind her where she was and, more importantly, where she wasn’t. Not in the ballroom. Not in the soft, suspended moment when the stranger who turned out to be a baron, newly titled, had thanked her with such deliberate formality.My lady.Spoken like a question he meant to answer later. The echo of his voice still chased through her like an unfinished melody, persistent and unwelcome.
Her maid, Alice, entered quietly, arms full of linens.
“Morning, my lady. The kettle’s just on. Your aunt says Lady Alfreda means to call this afternoon. Shall I lay out something pale or bold?”
Leticia blinked, startled from her reverie. “Pale,” she murmured. Then, realizing what she’d said, amended, “No. Bold. Something with shape.”
The word surprised her. Brazen, almost. She stiffened, as if daring herself not to retract it again.
The maid curtsied, lips twitching as if to smile, and slipped from the room.
Leticia stood, wrapped her robe tight, and crossed to the window. Beyond the window, the world was waking calm, unhurried, and indifferent to her unrest. The day had begun, ordinary and indifferent.
The world had resumed without pause, which only made hermore vexed with herself for lingering.
She turned away from the window, trying to shake the heaviness that clung to her thoughts like fog. There was nothing to be done about it now. One dance. One remark. It shouldn’t have meant anything.
And yet.
She stepped into her day dress slowly, letting Alice fasten the back while her mind wandered elsewhere. The sash was still in her hands when the maid re-entered with a salver in her hand.
“A note, miss. Delivered not ten minutes ago.”
Leticia took it, noting the familiar crest embossed in the wax, Notley House. Her smile came involuntarily. Erica’s notes were always carefully penned, full of flowing script and casual charm, as though written in a sun-dappled garden with nothing more serious than a poem in mind.
She broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
Darling L,
Last night was a triumph, but our season’s mischief is far from over. The masquerade draws near, and I do hope you’ll attend. I shall be there, plumed, painted, and pretending nothing at all.
They say masks reveal more than they hide. I wonder what I might learn if I spot you behind one.
Promise you’ll come. I’ve half a mind to make it a game, but perhaps we’re past such things.
Ever yours,
Erica
Leticia read the message twice. Her fingers tightened around the edges, just enough to crease the paper before she caught herself.
It was exactly the sort of note Erica always sent, light, lovely, and designed to leave one feeling special. And yet, there was something in it… the suggestion of a challenge, the hint of secrecy beneath the silk. Her friend’s hand always sparkled with gaiety, but this time it pressed more deliberately, like a bell she could not unhear.
She folded it again, slower this time, and looked toward the window.
