Chapter Ten
Leticia had not expected to enjoy herself.
She had attended enough gatherings as her aunt’s shadow to know how quickly conversation among ladies of the ton could turn sharp, particularly toward the unfamiliar.
But Lady Marchmont’s parlor, airy and scented with lavender, had a gentler rhythm to it.
The circle of women gathered that morning were not cruel, merely interested.
And in Sommer-by-the-Sea, curiosity wore civility like lace gloves.
Before leaving, Leticia had braced herself for a gauntlet of veiled scrutiny.
Her aunt met her in the front drawing room, offering no comment on Leticia’s choice of gown but watching with a faint smile as she adjusted her gloves.
“Lady Marchmont’s teas are not known for their heat, but for their precision,” Lady Eastbury murmured. “You’ll find the company more mannered than merry.”
Leticia glanced over. “And what role am I meant to play? The curiosity. The scandal.”
“The newcomer,” her aunt said. “Which, in this village, is all three.”
She moved to fasten Leticia’s locket, her mother’s, worn for luck, and rested her hand lightly on her shoulder.
“You’ll manage. Just remember who you are. And whose house you return to.”
There was no unkindness in it. No comfort either.
It was a warning disguised as care. Sommer-by-the-Sea might not rival London in grandeur, but the women here had their own hierarchies, their own customs, and quiet codes.
Her aunt had offered little guidance beyond a thin smile and a perfectly timed squeeze of the hand.
She had chosen a gown in soft blue, neither too fine nor too plain. Let them talk, she had thought. But now, seated among them, she found the atmosphere less combative than she expected.
Leticia sat with her gloves folded neatly in her lap, answering polite questions about her time abroad, the suddenness of her engagement, and whether she had any interest in joining the village’s charitable society. She gave mild, agreeable answers and learned far more by listening than speaking.
They were more curious than critical. Lady Marchmont presided gently, keeping the conversation flowing.
Mrs. Dennington had a ready laugh and a fondness for embellishing even the smallest local scandal.
A younger woman, Miss Elwood, asked Leticia whether the proposal had taken place in public or private.
Leticia offered the mildest version of the truth, omitting mention of masks, confusion, and unexpected kisses.
She watched as their eyes lit with delight, eager to embroider her story into something finer than the reality.
They spoke of the proposal as if it had been orchestrated.
It had, of course, just not in the way they imagined.
It wasn’t until the third round of tea that the conversation shifted.
“Have you heard about Lady Tewksbury’s theft?” asked Mrs. Dennington, her voice pitched just above genteel astonishment. “Brazen, really. Right out of her sitting room.”
“Her ruby ring, wasn’t it?” said another. “I would’ve thought they’d go for her sapphires. Those are heirlooms.”
“No, not the ring,” Mrs. Dennington corrected. “It was that old garnet brooch. The one she rarely wore.”
A flutter of conversation followed. Leticia kept her expression politely neutral, but her attention sharpened. A garnet brooch over heirloom sapphires? That was no random choice. She made no remark, but her mind turned over the oddity like a stone she could not set down.
Lady Marchmont shook her head. “We haven’t had anything like this in years. Not since the silver was lifted from the vicarage.”
Mrs. Dennington laughed. “That was a fox, not a thief.”
“It snatched the entire fork from the windowsill and vanished into the hedgerow like a phantom.”
Miss Ashford let out a peal of laughter. “Ah, but what had the fork speared? A fine piece of mutton, I suppose!”
Laughter rippled through the room. Even Lady Marchmont allowed a rare chuckle. “It took the vicar a week to stop blaming the curate.”
“Regardless,” Lady Marchmont replied, “this is altogether unsettling. One can’t help but feel watched.”
Leticia glanced toward the window. The street beyond was calm, shaded by trees, as ordinary as any other. She reached for her teacup again just as the parlor door opened and Erica entered, cheeks flushed from the morning air. Watched. Yes. That was precisely how it felt.
“Forgive me, ladies,” Erica said with easy charm, pulling off her gloves. “I was delayed at the milliners. The shop was quite lively today.”
She took the empty seat beside Lady Marchmont and cast Leticia a pleasant glance. “It seems all anyone can talk about is your engagement. I’m beginning to feel unfashionably out of date for arriving without a question or a theory.”
A ripple of soft laughter passed through the room, and the conversation turned, predictably, to the proposal once more.
*
The gathering had begun to thin when Leticia made her farewells, offering practiced smiles and half-promises to call again soon.
By the time she reached home, the afternoon light had turned golden across the garden walls, and her thoughts, so carefully ordered during tea, had begun to drift.
Not toward the theft. Not even toward the laughter.
But toward a man whose silence she understood more than she cared to admit.
She had not meant to write him.
She’d meant to forget the softness in his eyes, the precision of his dance, the way he’d asked her to remain, not as an obligation, but an invitation. Yet after a night spent listening to the stillness of her chamber, counting shadows instead of sheep, she’d folded a sheet of foolscap and begun.
She kept the letter brief, with three carefully chosen questions, none of them simple. They weren’t meant to trap him. Just reveal the spaces where silence too often lived.
She wrote slowly, pausing between lines to think, not only about what she wanted to know, but about what it might cost to ask.
She could have asked about politics or duty.
But she didn’t want the baron. She wanted the man beneath the title.
When she finished, she folded the paper once, then again, and held it against her lips.
“Alice,” she said quietly. “Would you see this safely to Lord Ashcombe?”
“Should I wait for a response?” she asked.
“If he chooses to respond, he will. If not…” Leticia shrugged. “I’ve preserved my dignity and left the matter in his hands.”
Her maid blinked, nodded. “Of course, miss.”
After trying to read Camilla and not making much progress, she went to walk the gravel path between the espaliered pears and the trimmed hedgerow.
She regretted only the silk slippers. The dew had not yet dried, and she’d not asked permission to use the orchard path.
But solitude mattered more than propriety this morning.
She hadn’t expected to see him, not so soon. Not here. Seeing him so at ease, a half-eaten apple in one hand and the sunlight catching in his hair, made her heart beat faster. She didn’t know what she had expected, certainly not this.
He was there. Not near the stables or the terrace, but just beyond the orchard wall, where the south lawn dipped toward the rose garden.
His coat was folded neatly across the wall, his sleeves rolled.
He took another bite of the apple in his hand, the motion unhurried, his gaze already tracking her approach.
Leticia slowed. “I wasn’t aware you were here, my lord.”
He turned. Not startled, not smiling, simply aware. He tilted his head. “My lord?”
“Gabriel,” she corrected herself.
“Good afternoon, Leticia. I went for a walk and found myself here. I hope I’m not unwelcome.”
“You are always welcome here… Gabriel.”
He retrieved his coat and stepped toward her. “I received your letter.”
Leticia drew the shawl tighter. “You know I expect an answer.”
“Do you want them all at once?”
“No,” she said. “But I expect one today.”
He nodded, slipping the coat over one arm. “Walk with me?”
They took the path toward the smaller garden enclosure, where the air smelled of thyme and damp brick, and the sundial sat half-shadowed beneath climbing roses. Leticia paced slowly, her hands folded before her, expression unreadable.
Ash broke the silence first. “You asked if I’ve ever lied to protect someone.”
She looked over.
“The answer is yes,” he said. “I lied to a man I respected. To shield someone who deserved neither protection nor loyalty. It cost me that man’s trust.”
“Did he ever learn the truth?”
“Not from me.”
Leticia considered that. The garden held its breath. Or perhaps it was only her. Something softened behind her eyes, a flicker of understanding or regret.
A breeze tugged at the edge of her shawl. She clutched it tighter, unsure if the chill came from the air or from his reply. They passed under a bower of roses, petals scattered at their feet like soft punctuation.
“I have the response to your letter here.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a folded paper. “I added a note.”
She took it but didn’t open it. Not yet. Her fingers pressed against the crease, holding it more tightly than she meant to.
“I have a question for you. I think it’s only fair,” he said, a hint of amusement brightening his eyes. “Three questions, actually.”
“You have questions for me?”
“I do,” he said. “But I wasn’t prepared to write them this morning.”
Her lips curved, just slightly. “Next time, then.”
He studied her. “You’re taking this seriously.”
“We agreed to be honest with each other.”
His voice dropped a degree. “I didn’t expect it to be so direct.”
Leticia looked toward the sundial. “We’ve two weeks. If this engagement is to mean anything, to you, to your work, to my reputation, we must act with precision. As you do when you dance.”
He stepped closer. Not enough to crowd her, but enough to change the air. Her pulse quickened, but she held her ground.
“You meant what you said. About clarity.”
She nodded. “And you?”
Gabriel reached out, not to touch, but to offer an open hand between them.
Leticia didn’t take it. Not yet.
Instead, she turned the letter over in her hand. “Your questions had best be good, Gabriel. I’m not in the habit of entertaining dull suitors.”
He lowered his hand and smiled, slightly, unhurried. “Neither am I.”
They parted near the rose arbor, the letter folded in her fingers, and the early afternoon just beginning to warm.
Leticia waited until she reached her chamber before she unfolded the paper.
He’d remembered so much: her shawl, her quietness, her willingness to stay. But not her name. He hadn’t asked. She didn’t know why that mattered, but it did.
She didn’t read the note immediately. She let it rest on the writing desk, her fingers pressed to the edge as if holding something fragile.
Then, slowly, she opened it, hope pooling low and quiet like sunlight beneath the surface of still water.
Her eyes widened. She drew in a soft gasp, her breath catching before her lips curved upward, not with amusement, but with something warmer, brighter.
She smiled, wicked and wondering all at once.