He made his way toward the refreshments table, drawn less by the wine than by the familiar figures holding court nearby. He saw Winthrop first, lounging with the casual posture of a man who had nointention of dancing. Trenton, of course, was speaking far too loudly.
“There he is,” Trenton said, raising his glass. “Lord Unflappable himself.”
Winthrop grinned and offered Ash a drink. “You’re late. We were wagering whether you’d show up in uniform.”
“Thankfully not,” Trenton added. “Though you’ve missed the early entertainment. Word is Erica will be the gem of the evening.”
Ash accepted the glass but didn’t drink. “And how do you know that?”
“Saw her through the dressmaker’s window yesterday,” Trenton said. “Or at least a green gown she was being fitted for. Hunter-green. The sort that says: I intend to be admired.”
“She waved to us,” Winthrop added, “although her smile was clearly meant for you.”
Ash’s reply was dry. “Clearly.”
But the word snagged inside him. Hunter-green. Feathers. Erica. She would definitely make an unforgettable entrance.
He lingered only a few moments more, listening to Trenton muse about the politics of flirtation and Winthrop’s exaggerated opinions on the dangers of punch bowls. Then, without excuse or farewell, Ash stepped into the crowd drawn less by curiosity than by something already pulling him forward.
They let him go. Friends often did, when they recognized that words would only get in the way.
He moved further into the room. The music changed.
A trio of masked women swept past, and one of them turned, briefly, to glance at him. Her mask glittered with sapphires. It was not her.
He looked away. And stopped.
Across the room, at the top of the small staircase that descended into the main floor, a figure had just entered. The gown was deep green silk, shadowed and striking.
The shawl draped across her arms caught the light like autumn itself, gold, crimson, amber.
The mask, velvet, adorned with soft feathers, framed a pair of eyes that stopped him cold. He stood still as guests moved past him in a glittering swirl.
That was Erica. Hunter green, feathers, and a grand entrance designed to be admired. That was what he had come tonight to find, the suitable choice, the safe one, the woman who would steady a baron’s life instead of upending it.
And yet… something in the stillness around her tugged at him. A hesitation in her breath, perhaps, or the hint of wonder in the way she looked at the room, as if she hadn’t expected to be seen.
Madness. This was Erica. He would not let a single glance undo weeks of reasoning. He had come tonight to silence the echo of another voice, not feed it.
She stood just beyond reach, her face half-lit, her posture quiet but assured. Others glanced at her, but no one was brave enough to approach. They hovered, uncertain, as if waiting for her to choose whom she’d favor. That was how Erica always held court—cool, composed, untouchable.
She said nothing to correct them. Nothing to contradict the identity they all assumed. Of course, she didn’t. There was nothing to correct.
And when she turned, the gesture, subtle, composed, was eerily familiar. Something Erica had done once before.
His shoulders eased. The tightness in his chest unknotted, reason reclaimed ground.
Every detail confirmed it: her gown, her poise. There was nothing to question. Nothing to correct.
Trenton’s voice echoed somewhere in his memory:“At a masquerade, one sees what they want to. That doesn’t mean it’s true.”
And Winthrop’s final parting shot:“Try not to fall in love with thewrong woman.”
He had laughed at the time. But now, standing at the edge of the crowd, he wasn’t laughing.
“No one knows who you are here,”Trenton had said once.“That’s the only time a proposal might actually be romantic.”
He took a slow breath. It was the way she moved, like someone who hadn’t expected to be watched. And the way his body eased when he looked at her, as though recognition itself restored the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
