By the time Mr. George dismissed him for the day, Carmine's mind was already preoccupied. Not with mathematics or Latin or whatever dull subject the old tutor had been droning on about, but with the next lesson.
He had expected Ambrose Lysander to corner him again.
To toy with him.
To tease out the day's vulnerabilities the way he always did. With that maddening, lazy drawl and the glint of secret amusement in his dark eyes.
Perhaps he'd use today's earlier humiliation against him.
Another sly little jibe about wet shirts or delicate sensibilities.
Carmine had even spent the better half of the afternoon mentally preparing himself. Sharpening retorts in his head like knives hidden up his sleeve.
If he says this, I'll say that.
If he smirks, I'll ignore him.
If he…
But when Ambrose finally arrived... Nothing happened.
No teasing.
No offhanded provocations.
No infuriating smiles.
Just... A lesson.
"Now then, Young Master."
Ambrose slid a chair out for him, the perfect, practiced gesture of a model butler.
"Let us review Mr. George's lesson on the Peloponnesian War."
Carmine blinked at him. Surely there was a trick hidden somewhere.
But Ambrose's expression remained impeccably polite. Not a single spark of mischief in sight.
For the next hour, he dictated dates and battle names with the same quiet precision he'd use to recite the household inventory.
He asked questions. He corrected mistakes. He praised when Carmine answered well…
"Good. You remembered the Treaty of Nicias."
And offered gentle guidance when he stumbled.
"Almost, Young Master. The Battle of Mantinea was fought in 418 BC, not 428."
It was... Dreadfully. Ordinarily. Unbearably...
Boring.
By the time they'd finished the third chapter, Carmine caught himself slumping forward with his chin propped in his palm. Staring at the man's gloved hand, as it neatly underlined passages in the textbook.
He hadn't meant to stare.
But there was something strangely mesmerizing about watching Ambrose work.
The way his fingers held the pencil so precisely...
The faint pull of leather stretching over his knuckles as he wrote...
The steady, rhythmic scratch of graphite against paper…
"You seem distracted, Young Master."
Carmine jolted upright. "No, I'm not!"
"Mm."
Ambrose's gaze flicked toward him. A brief glance, nothing more.
And yet... He knows.
He always knows.
Carmine's cheeks heated as he hastily buried his nose in the textbook again.
It was maddening. Why wasn't he teasing him today?
Why wasn't he... paying attention to him?
He should have been relieved. Honestly, he should.
He'd spent the whole morning, bracing himself for another battle of wits. Only to find Ambrose Lysander treating him exactly like what he was supposed to be.
Just a boy. Just a pupil. Just the Young Master.
Carmine hated it.
By the time the clock struck five, the lesson was finished. Signed off with Ambrose's usual polite nod.
"That will be all for today, Young Master." He began gathering the books without so much as a lingering glance.
"If you require anything else…"
"I don't." Carmine snapped the book shut harder than necessary. The sound ringing out like a gunshot in the quiet room.
Ambrose paused just for a second. Then he resumed stacking the papers. As if he hadn't noticed the sudden sharpness in Carmine's voice at all.
"Very well. I'll take my leave, then." He turned.
And Carmine's stomach gave a strange little flip.
He didn't know why. He didn't even like studying, damn it.
But the thought of Ambrose walking out of the room without a single teasing smile or sideways remark, without even trying to fluster him.
It felt.. Disappointing.
"You know…" The words slipped out before Carmine could stop them.
Ambrose glanced back, one brow slightly raised.
"I thought you'd be more... annoying today."
A pause. Then a flicker.
The tiniest glint of something dark and amused. Buried so deep behind Ambrose's polite façade that Carmine almost missed it.
"Ah." Ambrose's mouth curved, slow, sardonic. And far, far too pleased with itself.
"I shall endeavor to be more bothersome tomorrow, Young Master."
Carmine's heart plummeted straight into his stomach.
"You—!"
"Good evening."
And just like that Ambrose disappeared out the door. Leaving behind nothing but the faint scent of clean linen and the unmistakable, infuriating sensation that he'd been playing a game this whole time.
. . .
Ambrose waited until the clock struck precisely half-past ten before making his way toward the drawing room. By that time, the young master would be deeply buried under Mr. George's relentless drilling. Too preoccupied to notice his butler slipping away.
He found Minerva Ashford seated on the chaise lounge by the window, fanning herself with measured grace.
The morning light spilled through the lace curtains, catching faint green shimmer across her gown. Her jewelry was subtle, tasteful. As always, everything about her was properly arranged. From the delicate tilt of her head to the way she balanced the fan between gloved fingers.
"You've been doing well in improving his lifestyle." Minerva's gaze remained on the garden outside. "My son dresses better now."
Ambrose inclined his head slightly, already sensing a but tucked neatly behind her words.
Sure enough, the fan in her hand tapped lightly against her palm, soft green against dark moss.
"How far is he in academics?"
"I believe Mr. George can answer that better than I, Madame Ashford."
Minerva's eyes flicked toward him. Not quite disapproving, but expecting. Ambrose had learned by now that the lady rarely appreciated deflections, no matter how polite.
He remained silent.
The fan tapped again. Once, twice. Before she relented with a small sigh.
"And his dance? When will you begin?"
"I planned for it this afternoon."
Her fan stilled.
"Good."
There was a pause, long enough that Ambrose's gaze flicked toward her face.
Minerva's lips curved faintly.
"And the other thing I asked for?"
He took his time answering.
It was a deliberate pause. Calculated down to the breath, before he allowed his dark eyes to meet hers directly.
.
.
.