The engagement party, a glittering affair awash in champagne and forced smiles, was blessedly over. Ashford retreated to his study, the familiar scent of aged leather and beeswax polish a balm to his frayed nerves. He poured himself a generous measure of scotch, the amber liquid swirling in the crystal glass as he sank into his favorite armchair. He needed quiet, a respite from the ceaseless chatter and the judging eyes that had followed him and Montaigne all evening.