Page 26 of Ashen Torment
The main hall of Foxglove Lodge greets me with the same enthusiasm as a reptile observing its prey, deciding whether it is worth the bite. The moment I cross the threshold, the scent of ancient wood envelops me. The light filtering from above strikes the checkered floor, casting a reflection that seems intent on chiseling away at whatever patience I have left.
Perhaps this was not a good idea.
I do not even have time to remove my gloves before a voice echoes from the staircase.
“Lord Vasiliev Ashford! What a pleasure to see you.”
I turn toward the sound; halfway down the stairs, positioned like a ray of sunlight that believes itself painted by a famous artist, the Marquess’s daughter descends the final steps.
The enthusiasm with which her bright green eyes scrutinize me is somewhat... excessive.
I finish removing my gloves and tuck them into my coat pocket, then move to meet her.
“Lady Brownell, it is a true delight to encounter you.”
I take her hand and graze her knuckles with a kiss. She flushes immediately—a swift, intense crimson.
Predictable.
Deliciously predictable.
“If you wish, I shall accompany you to the adjacent room. The other guests are already assembled, and my father awaits your arrival.”
The tone is impeccable, practiced. The spark in her eyes, somewhat less so.
I offer her my arm. “I thank you, Lady Brownell.”
The rustle of her lavender gown slides against me as she hooks herself to my arm. The scent of lily of the valley permeates my nostrils as we begin to move through the hall. As we approach the corridor leading to the room, I lean down just enough for my voice to reach her ear.
“I beg of you... call me simply Dorian.”
Her bare neck, exposed by her coiffure and the neckline of her corset, tinges a still more vivid red.
It is almost poetic in its emotional transparency.
“I could never...” she whispers, with a thread of a voice that says exactly the opposite.
“I insist. Please.”
A satisfied smile forms on her reddish lips. As we proceed, I measure her obedience with a discreet pleasure.
So simple.
The moment we cross the threshold of the adjacent room, the murmur of the gathered guests reaches us.
The first person I discern is the Duke of Winterbourne; his shoulders held rigid, his gaze is fixed upon Idris Nabil. Nabil is currently in Europe representing the interests of his house, but the sharp tension crossing the duke’s face and the hostility burning in his eyes is so evident one could light a hearth with it.
Something tells me Nabil has ventured a step too far into territory His Grace considers... his exclusive marital domain.
Further off, near the window, Julian Fairfax, the son of the Baron of Chanteloup, casts a quick, already amused glance. A voice lamenting in French reaches me like an exasperated sigh amidst the hum.
I turn my gaze and find Richard attempting, in vain, to stifle a laugh behind a gloved hand.
“Come now, Evander, do not be melodramatic.”
And there he is.
The young Viscount, leaning with one shoulder against the doorframe, wears his hunting attire with maniacal precision: black boots, polished to the point of reflecting the light from the windows; dark, form-fitting trousers; a perfectly tailored jacket that emphasizes the line of his torso. The contrast between his pale skin and the intense black of his clothes is so stark it seems deliberately provocative.
