“You could stop behaving as though you expect fanfare.”
“I do expect fanfare.”
Anne considered him for a moment before rising from her chair. “To ensure safe travel?” she asked.
“Obviously.”
She stepped closer than necessary, smoothing an imaginary crease from his coat. “There,” she uttered. “Entirely ceremonial concern.”
Dorian looked down at her hand against his sleeve. Once again, there was an intimacy to it that he had not once expected to feel, and it was not as easy to brush away as he had thought.
When he left later that morning, the last thing he noticed before climbing into the carriage was Anne standing at the front steps, watching after him longer than she likely intended.
By late afternoon, the business part of the trip had shifted just as Anne had expected. It became more social than productive.
Dorian found that the gentlemen’s club was the very last place he wanted to be. Instead, he wanted to be at home, and that was a feeling he did not want to have.
He had insisted that the visit remained useful. Tristan, naturally, had stopped believing that almost immediately.
“You have looked distracted since we arrived,” he remarked, leaning back in his chair.
Dorian barely glanced up from the glass in front of him. “I am listening.”
“You nodded at a man discussing grain tariffs,” Tristan pointed out. “You know nothing about grain tariffs.”
Dorian took a sip of his drink. “That has never stopped anyone else.”
Tristan laughed softly, studying him with growing amusement. “You are miserable.”
“I am perfectly content.” Dorian gave him a look that entirely failed to discourage him.
Across the room, several patrons were deep in conversation, the evening still loosely orbiting stable business and post-race speculation, though Dorian’s attention had drifted in and out of the conversations often.
Tristan noticed. Of course, he did.
“You have changed,” he said eventually.
Dorian sighed quietly. “Must we do this?”
“Oh, we absolutely must.”
“There are other ways for you to enjoy yourself.”
“Indeed, but they are not nearly as entertaining.”
Dorian set his glass down. “Very well, say whatever dreadful thing you are preparing to say.”
Tristan smiled, pleased by the invitation. “Ashford,” he said, shaking his head faintly, “has become unbearably respectable.”
“I am unclear how you intend that as an insult.”
“You have schedules now,” Tristan explained. “You discuss feed rotations.”
“I own a racing stable.”
“You care aboutfeed rotations.”
“That is reasonable.”
