Chapter 19 #2
“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.”
Tristan looked at him, then sighed. “You really are hopeless,” he muttered into his drink.
Dorian barely heard him. His attention had already wandered again, lingering somewhere far beyond town, toward Ashford Hall and the woman who had somehow become the first thought attached to the idea of returning home.
Mrs. Ashcombe lingered only a few minutes longer before finally rising from the table, offering him a smile that carried just enough suggestion to make her intentions unmistakable.
“You have become very difficult to read, Your Grace,” she noted as she adjusted her gloves.
“So I have been told,” Dorian replied.
Her gaze lingered on him for a moment. “Perhaps town life will lift your spirits before you disappear back to domestic respectability.”
Tristan lifted his glass. “We keep hoping.”
Dorian ignored him.
After saying farewell, Mrs. Ashcombe disappeared back into the crowd, quickly reclaimed by the livelier energy of the room.
Around them, conversation swelled again beneath candlelight and smoke, glasses clinking as laughter moved between the tables in waves. Tristan watched the woman disappear, then turned back to Dorian.
“Well?” he prompted.
Dorian did not look at him. “No.”
“I have not even spoken yet.”
“You are about to.”
“I absolutely am. You barely looked at her.”
“I spoke to her.”
“You endured her. You used to flirt before a woman finished sitting down.”
Dorian gave him a flat look. “I am married. Husbands should not act in that way.”
“It was more than that, though,” Tristan argued. “You looked bored.”
“I was not bored.”
“You stared out the window twice during the conversation.”
“Three times,” Dorian corrected absently.
Tristan fell quiet, then grinned. “Oh my God. You admitted it.”
“Admitted what?”
“You were counting. You knew exactly how many times you stopped listening to an attractive woman flirt with you.”
Dorian exhaled slowly, already regretting every moment of the evening. “You are exhausting.”
“Perhaps,” Tristan said, leaning forward. “But you… You are fascinating.”
Dorian scanned the room, clearly hoping a distraction would somehow end the conversation. It did not.
Tristan followed his gaze briefly before speaking again.
“When exactly,” he asked, “did the Duke of Ashford stop looking at every woman in the room except his own wife?”
Dorian stayed still for a moment longer than usual, his hand resting against the glass without lifting it.
“I look at other women,” he said eventually. “I simply do not notice them.”
“You used to walk into rooms like this already entertained,” Tristan reminded him. “Now you look like someone waiting for an excuse to leave.”
“That is because these gatherings are dreadful.”
“You enjoyed dreadful gatherings. You practically built a reputation on enjoying them.”
Dorian let out a quiet breath through his nose. “People grow older.”
Tristan’s expression shifted slightly, amusement still there but softened by something more observant.
“This is not age. You talked about Anne for half the evening. You defended her, smiled when someone mentioned her, and turned down a beautiful woman without even realizing you had done it.”
Dorian frowned faintly, his attention drifting again to the darkened window beside them.
Somewhere beyond, Ashford Hall sat quiet beneath the night.
Despite himself, he found it embarrassingly easy to picture exactly what Anne might be doing.
She would be reading in the drawing room, then checking the stables before bed.
The thought pulled unexpectedly at the corner of his mouth.
Tristan noticed immediately.
Dorian wished that his friend did not know him as well as he did, but that was not possible. His time away would be dreadful; he knew it. And perhaps that was his punishment for not being honest with anyone about his feelings.
“One day complete,” he muttered, “two more to go.”
“You are counting the days now,” Tristan said softly. “Ashford, you are in a terrifying condition.”