Ash gave them a measured glance. “Those days are behind me.”
“True,” Trenton said, dropping into a chair as if he weighed half as much. “Now you defend against duchesses, not foreign powers.”
“And you’re doing a poor job of it,” Winthrop added. “That coffee is a crime.”
Ash said nothing, but he did remove the offending cup.
“We heard you are attending the masquerade,” Trenton went on. “Your name’s on the list, beneath someone titled and forgettable. Which does make you look rather impressive.”
Ash raised a brow. “And you’re here because?”
“To supervise,” Winthrop said. “Masquerades are dangerous territory. Masks, mistaken identities, a dangerous concentration of satin.”
“You’ve no idea what you’re walking into,” Trenton added. “One misstep, and you’ll be engaged before the second waltz.”
Ash returned to the papers on his desk. “Not likely.”
“Because you’re immune to charm?” Trenton asked.
“Because I’m not dancing.”
Winthrop leaned on the hearth, clearly enjoying himself. “He’ll dance if she’s there.”
Trenton’s grin widened. “The one from Lady Wilmot’s musicale.”
Ash could still see the way the candlelight had caught the edge of her profile, the quick turn of her head before she’d spoken, precise, direct, unafraid. A moment that should’ve faded, but hadn’t.
Ash didn’t look up. “You presume too much.”
“We were there,” Trenton said. “We saw your face.”
“You looked,” Winthrop said, “like a man trying not to be caught thinking.”
“She spoke to you like a person, not a prospect,” Trenton added. “Must’ve been terrifying.”
Ash closed the folio in front of him.
Trenton, more serious now, said, “Just don’t forget where you are, Ash. At a masquerade, everyone sees what they want to. That doesn’t mean it’s true.”
Ash studied him. “You think I’m in danger of being deceived?”
“I think,” Trenton said, rising, “you’ve already been noticed. And you haven’t stopped wondering what it meant.”
Winthrop clapped a hand on Ash’s shoulder as he passed. “Try not to fall in love with the wrong woman.”
“And for heaven’s sake,” Trenton added, “make sure it’s the correct woman when you ask her to dance.”
They left in a burst of laughter and long coats, arguing about the worst dance partners they’d ever suffered.
Ash remained where he was, the fire at his back, the echo of their parting words heavier than he cared to admit.
He wasn’t planning to propose to anyone. Not yet. Not exactly. But the words had been there, unspoken, waiting.
Still, the thought lingered, unwelcome and unshakable, like the echo of a dream one hadn’t meant to remember.
Ash stood motionless long after the front door had closed.
The fire crackled behind him, low and steady. A log split with a sharp hiss, and the sound echoed too loudly in the stillness.
