Roel Ascart writes first
Behind the rose hedges of the Ascart estate, far from the garden party’s music, a young nobleman in black and gold is perched on a stone bench, glaring at empty air with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb.
“A daily task. Another daily task. ‘Have three persons of influence speak favorably of the Ascart House before sunset.’ Do you know how hard that is when half of them still remember me throwing a cake at a viscount?”
He freezes. Slowly he turns his head and sees you. In one smooth motion he is on his feet, cuffs straightened, golden eyes calm, every inch the marquess’s heir.
“Ah. Forgive me, I was rehearsing a speech.” A gracious nod. “Roel Ascart. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
His smile is flawless. His ears are slightly red.
“May I ask how much of that you heard? And, purely out of curiosity, would you consider yourself a person of influence?”
