“You hate meetings,” Tristan snorted, his expression brightened by his unbearable satisfaction. “You are thinking about her.”
Before Dorian could answer, movement near their table interrupted him.
A woman approached with the easy confidence of someone entirely accustomed to being welcomed wherever she pleased. She was attractive, elegantly dressed, and carried the sort of practiced charm that once would have held Dorian’s attention without effort.
“Your Grace,” she greeted warmly, pausing beside their table. “I had begun wondering whether Yorkshire had hidden you away permanently.”
Dorian stood automatically, polite out of instinct rather than enthusiasm.
“Mrs. Ashcombe,” he said. “Good evening.”
Her smile widened slightly. “You remember me.”
“Of course. I remember all of you.” He smiled back, but the smile carried none of its former ease.
Mrs. Ashcombe settled into the empty chair beside them after encouragement from absolutely no one.
“You vanished after your marriage,” she remarked. “Half the county assumed domestic life had finally succeeded where scandal failed.”
Tristan nearly choked on his drink. Dorian remained composed.
“Marriage tends to alter schedules.”
“So I have heard,” she replied lightly. “Though I confess, I never imagined you settling into a respectable life.”
“Neither did I,” Tristan muttered.
Mrs. Ashcombe laughed softly, turning her attention back to Dorian. She did not act as other widows did, but Dorian did not judge her for that. He knew how grief could make people act.
“Surely you still find ways to enjoy yourself?” she asked.
Dorian offered a polite smile that stopped somewhere short of interest. “My time has been occupied.”
“With horses?” she asked.
“With responsibilities.”
Something in his tone cooled the flirtation slightly, though she pressed on anyway. “How disappointing. I had hoped marriage had not entirely ruined your charm.”
“It remains intact,” Tristan offered helpfully.
Dorian ignored him.
Mrs. Ashcombe tilted her head slightly. “Your Duchess must be very remarkable.”
For the first time, Dorian cared about the topic of conversation, although he scolded himself for proving Tristan right.
“She is,” he said simply.
The answer came so easily that even he was faintly surprised by it.
A brief silence followed.
Mrs. Ashcombe smiled again, though more carefully than before.
“Well,” she said lightly, “perhaps one day society will see whether the Duke of Ashford remembers how to enjoy himself.”
Dorian’s gaze drifted to the dark window. “I do,” he said absently. “Perhaps not in the way people expect or even want, but I would say that my life is more enjoyable than ever.”
