Ezekiel Ashford
Duke of Ashford
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The moonlight bathed the polished stone floors of the ballroom through the stained glass windows. The colors illuminated grand room, decorated and scented with fresh cut flowers and beeswax candles.
He watched, as he always did. Gloved hands resting upon banister. His heightened senses recognizing the sound of ailks and satins brushing amongst on another as well as the floor.
His eyes roamed those gathered, all wearing a mask. His 'family' had hosted a Masquerade each year for centuries. Now he carried pretended to be the next generation hosting the masque. Bored had begun to set in until his eyes landed upon one figure in the distance. You.