Page 41 of Ashen Torment

The aroma of bitter coffee spreads as he places it on the desk with the care he always reserves for my belongings.

I take the cup and have a sip.

“They continue to bypass my authority.”

“I presume they are afraid of the Viscountess.”

I set the cup back on the saucer and tap my index finger against the desk. “Je déteste cette serre.”

The mere thought tightens my throat, the scent of the flowers, too sweet, that stays on your skin.

My valet moves toward the lamp and adjusts the flame.

“You could always cancel the inauguration, if you prefer.”

I pick up the steel and mother-of-pearl pen, sliding it between my fingers. “I could just burn those flowers and be done with it.”

“You could, Viscount.”

I take the first invitation in my hands, the name Marquess Brownell stands out elegantly. I slide the pen, tracing my signature. I fold the paper, the wax drips onto the sheet, and I bring the ring to the center, pressing down. The seal is perfectly imprinted.

When my father sealed letters, he made it look like a game.

“You must press the seal into the wax while it is still warm, mon petit ange.”

But it isn’t. It never was.

I move to the second invitation: Duke Durant of Winterbourne.

“The duke seems to have little liking for Lord Richard.”

I barely look up. “The duke has little liking for any man, Étienne.”

“Perhaps if the Duchess were more... conservative...” he adds, stifling a smile.

I stare at him for a moment, which is enough to make him lower his gaze.

Although... he is not entirely wrong, in truth.

The third invitation bears the name of Count Nádasdy. I sign, fold, and the red wax slides onto the paper.

“You still haven’t responded to his invitation, Viscount.”

“I don’t much feel like it.”

My hand descends, sealing. I continue like this through the entire stack of invitations: Fairfax, Elijah, the Reverend, and the whole list of influential society figures. As I am sealing the invitation for Idris Nabil, a name catches my eye.

Ashford.

I take the invitation and run my thumb over the name, pressing my nail into the scented paper.

“You seem to find... the company of Lord Vasiliev Ashford pleasant.”

“What the hell are you saying, Étienne?” my voice slips through my teeth, icy. “Is it not obvious enough that I cannot stand the sight of that arrogant man?”

I sigh, letting my shoulders drop, and bring the coffee cup to my lips. I take a sip and set it back down on the table with a sharp click.

“Il s’est refroidi.”