The morning sunlight filters through the high windows, painting pale streaks across the long dining table. The silverware is polished to perfection, the fine porcelain cups clinking faintly under the hush of idle conversation.
Carmine is seated in his usual place, posture straight, manners impeccable. Yet his mood is noticeably lighter than most mornings.
His father's presence is a rare enough occurrence. His mother's presence, rarer still.
He sips his coffee quietly, half-listening as Minerva stirs her tea with slow, delicate motions.
"Will you come home late again today?"
Minerva's voice is light, but there's a familiar note of complaint tucked behind the question. Like a thorn hidden beneath silk petals.
"Likely."
Levon Ashford doesn't even glance up from the morning paper. His voice is as flat and measured as always. "Though if you wish to accompany me, Minerva, the theater is putting on something new."
Minerva clicks her tongue softly.
"And endure another hour of jostling inside that dreadful carriage?"
Carmine's lips twitch.
"It's just an hour, Mother."
Minerva shifts her sharp gaze to her son.
"An hour too long inside a vehicle that rattles like it's about to fall apart."
"Only because Father refuses to replace the springs," Carmine mutters into his coffee cup.
Across the table, Levon's paper rustles, the only sign he's heard the remark.
Minerva sniffs.
"New springs would only encourage reckless driving. Your father always has safety in mind."
The quiet rhythm of their morning bickering carries on. Polite, refined, yet laced with the same old discontent simmering beneath the Ashford household.
Carmine listens, amused in a distant sort of way, until he feels a pair of eyes flick toward him.
Levon's gaze lingers. Sharp, assessing.
"It suits you."
Carmine blinks, caught off guard.
"Pardon?"
Levon nods faintly toward his cravat. Neatly folded, pinned at just the right angle against his throat.
"For once, you don't look as though you've dressed yourself in the dark."
Carmine's ears pinken faintly.
"Oh." He fumbles for a response. "Well, I—"
Minerva's eyes light up. The quiet pride of a woman who has finally hired someone competent after years of disappointment.
"Ah, yes. I've recently taken on a new man, Lysander."
She lifts her teacup to her lips with the grace of a woman bestowing credit where credit is due.
"Quite capable, isn't he?"
Levon doesn't comment outright.
He simply takes a slow, measured sip of his own tea. Yet somehow, Carmine feels the weight of it settle like a stone inside his chest.
He doesn't know why. It's only tea. Only a glance.
Only his father's ever-watchful eyes flicking between him... and the perfectly knotted cravat at his throat.
Levon sets down his cup.
"Capable men are hard to come by."
He rises from his chair, folding the newspaper under one arm.
"If he proves himself... keep him."
And just like that, Levon Ashford sweeps from the room. Leaving behind the faint scent of tobacco and the peculiar feeling that he's noticed something his son has not.
. . .
By the time Carmine found him, the midday heat had already begun to seep through the high windows, turning the narrow servant's corridor into a sweltering tunnel.
The scent of soap and damp linen hung heavy in the air, curling around Carmine's senses as he stepped inside the laundry room. A place he rarely, if ever, had reason to visit.
He hadn't expected to find Ambrose there, of all places.
But there he was.
A man of impeccable manners, sharp tongue, and the kind of broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted physique that seemed better suited to a dueling hall than the drudgery of household chores.
The butler stood over the ironing table. Sleeves buttoned down to his wrists, white gloves still in place even as beads of sweat gathered along his brow.
Steam hissed from the heavy iron in his hand, the damp linen beneath it smoothing out beneath slow, methodical strokes.
Carmine knew he should announce himself.
He really should.
Instead, he stood there, transfixed by the sight before him.
The way the thin cotton of Ambrose's shirt clung to his back... almost translucent in the heat, tracing the ripple of muscles beneath. Irritatingly distracting, like an image Carmine shouldn't have caught but couldn't unsee.
The flicker of sinew along his forearm as he pressed the iron down... The faint sheen of sweat beading along the column of his throat...
Why is he still wearing gloves? It was absurd. Almost comical in this heat, yet somehow it suited him.
The thought surfaced unbidden, an itch at the back of Carmine's mind that wouldn't quite leave him alone.
"Mr. Lysander..."
The words were out before he could stop them.
"You should take your shirt off."
The iron paused.
For a fraction of a second, there was nothing but the hiss of steam and the slow drip of condensation from the pipes overhead.
Then,
Ambrose turned his head, just enough for Carmine to catch the faint curve of his mouth turn into that maddening, infuriating smile.
"You might want to rephrase that, Young Master," he drawled. "Perhaps something like... why don't you change into dry clothes instead?"
Carmine's ears flared red before his mind even caught up.
"I didn't… I didn't mean it like that!"
"No?"
Ambrose flicked the iron back into motion, slow and deliberate.
"Then what exactly did you mean, hmm?"
Why don't you ever take those gloves off? The question burned behind Carmine's teeth. But he swallowed it down. "You're, you're sweating through your shirt, that's all!"
"Ah." Ambrose glanced sideways.
"Then why not ask me why I appear to have... wet myself?"
Carmine's entire face went scarlet.
"You—!"
The sandwiches in his hand squashed slightly from how hard he clutched them. And only then did Carmine realize how tense he'd gotten.
It was unbearable. The way Ambrose always seemed to know exactly how to fluster him without ever crossing the invisible line.
Unbearable... And yet…
"You're impossible."
Ambrose only smiled wider, as if he'd been waiting for exactly that reaction.
"Thank you, Young Master."
With maddening grace, he set the iron aside, then reached out... Not for Carmine. But for the plate in his hands, plucking one of the neatly wrapped sandwiches with gloved fingers. And only then did Carmine realize how tense he'd gotten.
"I'll be sure to dry myself off later."
His eyes flicked up, dark brown and utterly unreadable beneath the heavy fringe.
"But I wouldn't want to offend your delicate sensibilities... by appearing indecent in front of you."
.
.
.
.