Page 27 of Ashen Torment

The more he attempts to hide himself, the more impossible his presence becomes to ignore.

His hair, black and lustrous, falls just upon his shoulders. With an impatient gesture, he brushes it aside, running his fingers through it.

“These hats are an authentic disaster,” he grumbles.

And my stomach, in response, tightens as if someone had struck me with the butt of a rifle.

All the composure he insists on displaying before others is nothing but a lie, the more he tries to appear calm and collected in front of everyone, the more it ignites in me the desire to shatter this feigned decorum and reserve—for myself alone—a vision I am certain would be quite sublime.

I have always hated those who hide themselves in such a way.

“Brother, look who has arrived.” Isobel drags me toward them.

Richard lifts his gaze.

“Lord Dorian, you have finally reached us.”

“Lord Richard.”

His freckles seem to glow under the morning sunlight. But my gaze inevitably slides to the Viscount, whose brows are slightly knit, his chin tilted up as he clutches that hat he seems to loathe.

His expression says more than he wishes to admit. My presence irritates him, and this awareness, though I fathom not the reason, causes an unusual heat to rise in my stomach.

“Viscount Rochefort, we meet again.”

“Lord Vasiliev Ashford.”

“Richard, do you know where our father is?”

“He is just arriving, dear sister.”

I feel the Viscount’s gaze settle upon my arm, his blue irises narrowing slightly. Instinctively, I slide my arm away from Isobel and step a few paces back.

She lets out a small sigh of regret. “I envy you all... I wish I could participate as well.”

“A hunting party is not suited to such delicate creatures.” My gaze slides to him, who has not averted his eyes.

“You might come to harm,” I add, my voice slightly lower.

His nostrils flare slightly, his jaw sets, ready to speak, when Marquess Frederick takes his position in the center of the room. His firm, precise voice cuts through the hum, capturing everyone’s attention immediately.

“Gentlemen, before we proceed with the hunt, I wish to remind you of some essential rules.”

“And here he goes with his usual sermon,” Richard says, giving the Viscount a light nudge with his elbow.

I limit myself to observing from the side, attempting to follow Marquess Frederick’s words.

“The gamekeepers are professionals. Gentlemen shall obey their orders in the field immediately, without exception.”

“Conversations must remain at a minimum, in a low voice. Sudden noises or frivolous chatter can startle the game.”

The emblem of composure crosses his arms slightly, I watch his movement.

Does he truly believe himself capable of hunting anything?

“Rifles must be kept in safety: the barrel always pointed to the sky or toward the ground.”

“Today we hunt pheasants. Foxes remain outside our interests.”