“Possibly both.” Her aunt looked up. “But there is something to be said for stepping out of one’s role, even briefly. One can try another way of being. A different voice. A secret self.”
Leticia glanced again at the drawer. A mask was a hiding place. But also a mirror. It could conceal just enough to let something truer slip through.
She was not so composed as she had once believed. And if she let herself want something, someone, with that same honesty, she wasn’t sure she’d know how to stop.
She watched the sunlight shift across the floorboards and, for a moment, imagined who she might be if no one expected her to be anyone at all.
Chapter Four
Ash sat inthe morning room, a half-read letter in one hand and a cup of coffee gone tepid beside his untouched breakfast.
The house, for once, was still. No mislaid boots, no absent-minded footmen rearranging things for reasons that defied logic. Only silence, and a steadily growing pile of correspondence. The faint tick of the mantel clock cut through the stillness, each second louder than it should have been. The stillness pressed on him more than the noise ever had, leaving him restless.
He turned back to the letter, though he had already read the first line three times.
Ash,
There’s been another quiet incident. Unconfirmed, but consistent with the pattern. All connected to elite events, high attendance, and minimal oversight. The masquerade may offer an opportunity to observe. Attend as planned. No action unless something feels off. Quiet presence only.
– B.
No name. Just the initial. Barrington’s hand, spare and unmistakable.
Ash folded the letter and set it down beside his cup. The masquerade had always been on his calendar. It was one of those events that straddled the line between social obligation and political presence. Harmless, in theory. A night of music, wine, and anonymity.
He wasn’t fond of anonymity. This time, though, he wasn’t dreading it. He reached for the coffee, found it cold, and set it down again. He would endure masks and frivolity for duty, but his pulse had not quickened because of Barrington’s order.
He’d been informed that his presence would be “socially beneficial.” Observation in evening clothes. No need for a uniform. Just a mask, and a partner.
And that was the problem. He didn’t want a partner for duty. He wanted…her. His grip on the cold cup tightened involuntarily, the porcelain shifting with a quiet scrape against the saucer.
The woman from Lady Wilmot’s musicale.
Not Lady Erica. Not one of the whispered-about heiresses or perfectly polished debutantes. Those were the women who made sense. The ones who would not undo him. The ones who wouldn’t matter.
That was the point?
Her.
The one who had called him out with a smile. Who had made him feel like a man, not a title. The memory unsettled him in a way battle reports never had.
He scrubbed a hand across his mouth and stood, pacing toward the window. There was no reason to believe she would attend. No promise. No certainty.
But if she did…
He exhaled through his nose and turned back toward the desk. He still had reports to review, questions to frame, and details to memorize. None of it felt as real as the woman who had taken up residence in his mind, a woman with a discerning smile and eyes that had seen straight through him.
A sharp knock at the front door interrupted his thoughts.
A moment later, the butler appeared with the solemnity of a man well-acquainted with interruptions he had no authority to refuse.
“Mr. Trenton and Mr. Winthrop, my lord.”
Ash didn’t bother to rise. “Let them in.”
Trenton entered first, hat in hand, his coat slightly askew and mischief clearly brewing. “Your man’s excellent. Only flinched once when I mentioned we might be bearing scandal.”
Winthrop followed behind, already eyeing the breakfast tray. “We thought you might be reading dispatches. Or issuing them.”
