Page 62 of Ashen Torment

“Do you not wish to refresh yourself first?”

Laurence maintains an impeccable tone, but I catch the nuance of caution. The Marquess tends to gnaw at the nerves of anyone who presents themselves before him.

“I prefer to dispatch the chore.”

I lengthen my stride to the top step and take the corridor leading to the study. The butler is already there.

“Lord Dorian.” He gives a barely perceptible, yet perfect, bow.

“Announce me, Edgar.”

He raises his white-gloved hand and knocks twice.

“Marquess Ashford, Lord Dorian has arrived.”

The door opens.

I turn for a moment to Laurence. “Wait here.”

“Yes, sir.”

I cross the threshold and close the door behind me. My grandfather waits, seated in his leather armchair, his hair now completely white and his posture firm.

“Dorian.”

“Grandfather.”

His gaze scrutinizes me for an instant, then he gives a slight nod. “You look well.”

“I am. Productive, as well,” I reply, brushing a lock of hair from my face. “Projects underway, contacts maintained, high visibility.”

“Visibility is not reputation. It is noise.”

He approaches the sideboard with the decanters and pours some whisky into a glass, he observes it for an instant and takes it, without turning toward me.

“Everything is proceeding as it should, grandfather.”

“And yet...” He lifts his gaze, his brow furrowed. “It seems you have a great deal of free time.”

“Free time?” Along my back, I feel irritation surge and vibrate beneath my skin.

“You amuse yourself by organizing pranks.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Why did you send that bastard into my study?” he says, his voice full of contempt.

“His name is Lucien, grandfather.” My voice drops. “He is my brother, your grandson.”

His mouth curls slightly. “That being has nothing to do with me.”

“The blood is the same.”

“Bastard blood.”

His eyes narrow slightly, his chin lifting as he scrutinizes me.

“Not that yours is much different, but at least Elizaveta was your father’s wife.”