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attached themselves to the gossip.
    I breathed a frustrated sigh that caused him to raise his eyebrows. Apparently a lady didn't sigh aloud, either. I needed a crash course in etiquette, and quick. First things first, though.
    Here goes nothing. "Well… I do seem to have some memory issues." At least the accent was becoming easier and more natural. Unable to force myself into the famous polite aloofness of the British, I decided I needed to be myself—at least the self I remembered being. "Honestly, I can't remember my own butler's name or where the kitchen is located. I have no idea if I've ever met you or if I even like you. It's all quite frustrating." I accentuated my words with my hands as I'd always done, even as a little girl. I'd never been able to detach my words from my actions.
    Taking a deep breath, I watched a shocked Morgan Ansley collect himself and settle on a brief smile that crinkled his eyes causing them to twinkle mischievously. The grin matched with his killer baby blues was overwhelming and my heart stuttered with fierce attraction. "Forgive me. I don't mean to find humor in your situation, but your speech was quite… entertaining. I haven't seen a woman of breeding display such pass — er, emotion in such an overt way before."
    "I can easily see how I could be entertaining. I often amuse myself, so I took no offense." I waved my hand again slightly, watching his eyes follow my movement. A smile bent his lips, drawing my attention to their fullness once more.
    "To answer your questions — or at least the one I can help with — yes, we've met before. His eyes lingered on mine as if willing for me to remember him. After a moment, he glanced down. When he met my scrutiny once more, his expression was guarded. He didn’t elaborate on our acquaintance any further, which made me burn with curiosity. "I was surprised to see you yesterday, but felt I should impose on your company today to appease my conscience by making sure you were well." His voice rang with sincerity as his gaze roamed my face, but the expression of warmth was quickly extinguished. I tilted my head in confusion.
    "Well, thank you," I replied graciously. "That was very kind of you. Consider your conscience appeased." Something about him seemed oddly familiar, but it couldn't be possible. Shaking my head slightly, I resolved to steer the conversation back to our acquaintance. Anything I could learn about myself would be helpful. "So…" I paused, wondering how I was to address him. Mister? Sir? Lord?
    He must have seen my panic because he immediately reminded me of his name…again. "Ansley, Morgan Ansley. Marquess of Ashby, Miss Westin." His eyes were concerned, but also hurt.
    That had to be hard on the ego. "Oh, no, I didn't forget your name! It's more of, well…" He already must think I’m crazy — might as well make it official. "I didn't quite know how to address you. I know that I should not call you by your first name, but beyond that, I'm afraid I'm lost." Biting my lip, I waited for his reaction, hoping he would find humor in my question rather than politely excusing himself from my company and calling the mental institution.
    His expression softened, and his eyebrows rose. He spoke with a tender tone, surprising me. "Ah, I can see how it would be confusing. You may call me Ashby, or Lord Ashby if you wish." There was not a hint of annoyance or impatience in his eyes, but there was amusement. I studied his face and the masculine line of his jaw.
    My eyes were lingering too long on his strong features. I broke eye contact and took a steadying breath. "Lord Ashby, would you be so kind as to tell me where we first met? If you remember, that is."
    He offered me a charming smile that melted my insides. "We've been acquainted for years, Miss Westin, but I believe the first time I asked you to dance was about a year ago at the Fortshire Ball."
    "I'm envious of your good memory," I remarked, wondering if I should ask more or go