Page 181 of Ashen Torment

Proklyatiye—

Was he frightened, perhaps?

He was the one who started it.

I fold the handkerchief with care and place it back in the drawer, closing it without haste.

Two knocks come from the door. “My lord.”

“Enter, Laurence.”

I lean back against the chair, my expression returning to neutral.

“You have a visitor.”

I straighten instinctively.

It cannot be him. It cannot...

I give a brief nod. Laurence understands and steps aside, clearing the way. A scent of lily of the valley invades the room; clear, intrusive, and foreign to everything that lives here.

“Lady Isobel Brownell, my lord.”

I remain motionless, my face composed, as the name takes shape in the air.

Of course, it could not be him.

She advances, her gaze fixed intently upon me. The riot of colors in her dress provokes a disgust that rises to my throat.

“Were you expecting someone else, Lord Dorian?”

I respond with a short smile, just tense enough not to be rude, and gesture toward the chair before the desk.

She approaches and sits, the green silk of her skirt brushing against the wood. I pick up my glass and bring the whisky to my lips. Surprise crosses her face. I realize a moment later that I skipped a step.

Clumsily, for once.

I stand. I take her hand with measure and place a quick kiss upon it, my lips not truly touching her skin.

“Lady Isobel, what brings you here?”

“I was worried about you.”

“And for what reason?”

With a gesture, I summon Laurence. He approaches in silence, places a cup of tea beside her, and retreats a few paces, becoming part of the furniture once more. She brings the cup to her lips, takes a light sip, then lifts her gaze.

“You have been missing for days. I wondered if you might welcome some company.”

“Company is not necessary for me.”

From the back of the room, Laurence clears his throat ever so slightly.

“I have merely been very busy, Lady Isobel. I was out of town.”

She reaches a hand toward me. I move away naturally before she can touch me, as if it were nothing. Her smile stiffens, her fingers suspended a moment too long before returning to her lap.

“I understand,” she says, her voice still gentle. “You must be very fatigued, Dorian.”