8. Dance With Sister

Few dared to lock gazes with Minerva Ashford.

Even fewer could hold it.

Ambrose Lysander was one of them.

"It depends on the Young Master's readiness." His voice remained soft. The sort of softness that invited one to lean closer. "I intend to gauge how far he is willing to go... before guiding him any further."

Minerva's fan twitched again.

It was a subtle motion, barely noticeable. But Ambrose saw the corner of her mouth soften.

"That makes sense."

There was another small pause, just long enough for the weight of his gaze to linger.

Then, lightly… Almost offhandedly, she added, "You know... you may call me by name, Mr. Lysander."

Ambrose did not so much as blink.

"I wouldn't dare, Madame Ashford."

He lowered his head with perfect deference.

But his eyes never dropped.

Straightforward.

Unblinking.

Smoldering.

Minerva's fan snapped open. A quick, practiced flick of the wrist. As if to shield herself from the sudden heat in the room.

"It's fine when it's just the two of us," she murmured behind the painted silk.

"If you insist."

His voice was soft. Almost obliging, but there was the faintest thread of amusement buried beneath the surface.

Minerva's fingers curled around the handle of her fan a fraction tighter.

By the time she looked up again, Ambrose Lysander was already halfway across the room. Bowing with impeccable grace as he made his hasty retreat.

He left nothing behind.

No scent.

No sound.

Only the lingering impression of a man who could have burned her alive if he'd ever been bold enough to try.

Behind the safety of her fan, Minerva allowed herself one small, private smile.

So that was why her son kept blushing lately.

Carmine Ashford might not realize it yet.

But he'd hired himself a wolf.

. . .

Carmine stood before the mirrored wall, already dressed in loose cotton trousers and a linen shirt with silly, flaring sleeves. The kind that fluttered when one spun too quickly.

He hated them.

He scowled at his own reflection, tugging at the cuffs as if the fabric might shrink beneath his fingers.

"If you scowl like that, no lady would accept your offer, Young Master."

The voice came from behind him. Low, pleasant... With the faintest trace of amusement curled at the edges.

Carmine caught Ambrose's reflection in the glass. That maddeningly calm smile still in place as he approached. Gloved hands clasped neatly behind his back.

"I don't like dancing," Carmine muttered. "All that spinning around is dangerous. You can stumble into a nightmare if you're not careful."

Ambrose's smile twitched wider. Though whether it was at the complaint or the dramatic phrasing, Carmine couldn't tell.

"That may be true." The butler stepped into the empty space beside him. Smooth, unhurried. "But nightmares only catch those who lose their footing."

He shifted, just barely. And suddenly his posture…

Changed.

Carmine blinked.

One moment, Ambrose was simply standing there. All polite deference and folded hands.

The next, he was poised. Balanced. Shoulders drawn back. One gloved hand extended as if offering an invitation.

It was...

Well, it was the exact same stance Carmine had been taught to adopt since he was a child.

A gentleman's stance.

"I believe this is my dancing lesson, Mr. Lysander," Carmine said stiffly.

"Indeed." Ambrose's voice remained mild. "But I thought it best to correct your form before we began."

Carmine's mouth opened, then snapped shut.

He flicked his gaze toward the mirrored wall.

He was standing wrong.

His elbows were too stiff. His chin too low.

Damn him.

Still, Carmine stubbornly reset his posture without comment. Shoulders squared, chin lifted. When he glanced back...

Ambrose's eyes were waiting. Dark, steady. Glinting faintly beneath half-lowered lashes.

"Better," the butler murmured.

A little thrill shot through Carmine's chest before he could smother it.

It was deeply annoying. The way Ambrose could make the smallest praise feel like some secret victory.

"I thought you were supposed to lead," Ambrose murmured.

"I will." Carmine straightened, trying to sound confident as he extended one gloved hand. Palm up, fingers curved with practiced elegance.

Ambrose paused. He looked at the offered hand as though it were a riddle, then. After a brief flicker of amusement, He placed his own into Carmine's.

It was strange. Carmine had led before. Danced with tutors and cousins, even one reluctant duke's daughter. But this felt entirely different.

Ambrose didn't flinch or hesitate. He followed with quiet precision, posture impeccable, every motion perfectly balanced.

And worse, Ambrose looked at him. Not like an instructor. Not like a servant. But like...

Like Carmine was someone he might actually enjoy dancing with.

A warmth sparked somewhere deep in Carmine's chest. Stupid. Inconvenient. It might be him trying to get Carmine to focus by playing the partner part.

He tightened his grip, adjusting their frame. "Ready?"

Ambrose smiled. Just a little. Lips curved in silent amusement. "At your lead, Young Master."

The music began. A soft, looping waltz humming through the room.

Carmine took the first step.

And somehow, despite being the one in control, he felt completely off balance. Because Ambrose moved like water. Fluid, effortless. Not resisting, not overpowering.

Just responding in a way that made Carmine feel every misstep, every awkward angle.

When he fumbled the turn, Ambrose's hand was there, steady at his back. When he hesitated, Ambrose's voice came low and patient near his ear.

"Try again."

It was maddening.

And every time their fingers brushed, just barely, through fabric, Carmine's breath hitched. His heart gave a little lurch, his cheeks felt warmer, and damn it all! He knew Ambrose could feel it.

By the time the music ended, Carmine dropped his hand too fast. Took a full step back, too stiff, too defensive.

"There," he said, clearing his throat. "That... wasn't so hard."

Ambrose tilted his head. That infuriating, unreadable smile curling slow at the corners.

"No, Young Master," he said softly. "Not at all. Provided, of course, you intend to dance with your sister."

Carmine blinked. "Sister—?!"

Ambrose lifted one brow, gaze smooth as glass. "Well... that is the style you've chosen. Formal. Reserved. Entirely suitable for family affairs."

He took a step closer, just enough to send a quiet ripple through Carmine's spine.

.

.

.

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