Page 8 of Ashen Torment

The Duchess Maurielle draws near, her eyes fixed upon me.

“Ah, Viscount... who would have thought that such ardour lay hidden behind so composed an appearance?”

A faint smile brushes her lips, but there is something brazen in the way she examines me. “Silent, yet capable of dominating the room with a single gesture.”

I offer a thin smile.

“Highly laudable words, my dear... perhaps too much so for a man so young.”

The duke does not even attempt to mask the irritation showing through the hard lines of his face.

“But it is youth itself that is the most potent weapon, sweet husband.”

He sets his jaw, his brown eyes crawl over me, and his voice, though composed, cuts with the coldest irony.

“I thank you, Viscount, for consenting to perform and for having honoured us with your presence today.”

“I thank you for the invitation, duke.”

His wife brushes against my arm, her eyes alight with excitement.

“Oh, Viscount!” she exclaims with a smile that brooks no refusal, “you simply must meet one of our guests this evening! I cannot tolerate your missing such an occasion!”

“And who might that be, Duchess?”

“The nephew of a house with whom our family has long maintained close and influential ties,” the husband intervenes, “a promising man in every respect, worthy of our attention.”

If you are the one to consider him so...

Amidst the crowd, she takes a flute of champagne.

The duke and I follow suit. The effervescent liquid slides down slightly sweet.

“He belongs to a house of marquesses of long-standing lineage, noted for its influence and prestige consolidated over time.”

The Duchess interrupts the conversation between the duke and me with a tone overflowing with enthusiasm.

“Lord Dorian! We were searching for you.”

I follow her gaze, and I see him.

The man turns toward us, his face emerging from the crowd, distinct. I am shaken by a tremor when our eyes meet.

I understand at once that it was his gaze I felt upon me from the start of the performance.

He is taller than most men present, with a solid build that his dark suit does not even attempt to conceal. His fair hair is combed with care but not with rigidity. A few stray locks suggest he does not live to please mirrors, or perhaps he has crossed the room without bothering much about them. His eyes, when they lift toward us, offer neither enthusiasm nor forced courtesy. They observe and they appraise.

Ivory hair and pearly grey eyes.

Unusual.

He reaches us with a decisive stride, the way he moves is devoid of that feigned hesitation that many here mask with practiced smiles.

The Duchess lifts her chin slightly and proffers her black-gloved hand. He takes it naturally and brushes the back of the glove with his lips, as etiquette demands.

“Duchess.”

“Lord Dorian,” she replies, visibly gratified, “I was just searching for you. I wished to present someone to you.”