Page 9 of Ashen Torment

He lifts his gaze slightly toward the duke, who returns the gesture with a firm, polite nod.

“Duke Durant.”

“Lord Vasiliev Ashford.”

Vasiliev?

His eyes slide over me, but he says nothing.

“Viscount Rochefort,” the duke finally intones, breaking that suspended moment. “Lord Dorian Vasiliev Ashford.”

Only then does he speak directly to me.

“Viscount Rochefort.”

“Lord Vasiliev Ashford,” I reply with a nod, maintaining the same measure.

The Duchess, who until now had not averted her gaze from her much-lauded Lord, suddenly seems to notice a guest amidst the crowd.

“Alaric, you must see who is seeking us.”

“Certainly, my dear,” he replies, and together they move away through the people.

“Viscount,” the man says, “it is a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

“Lord,” I reply, keeping my voice as steady as before, “the pleasure is mine.”

“I have heard much of you,” he continues. “Your name circulates often in the circles I frequent.”

Speech breaks in precise, controlled bursts, nothing soft between the sounds. It is vexing.

“I do not believe I have ever seen you among the enthusiasts and connoisseurs of music.”

He tilts his head slightly toward me with a ghost of a smile upon his lips. “It is not only there that your name flows between tongues.”

And if I were to cut yours out?

I turn my face slightly. “I hope, in any case, that the rumours are not too greatly exaggerated.”

“It is difficult to exaggerate that which already possesses intrinsic value.”

His eyes run down the length of my body. “Though, truth be told, I did not expect such precision.”

“It is not the precision I seek,” I say, avoiding the direct contact with his eyes.

“Then what else?”

“I do not play to be admired, if that is what you are wondering.”

“And yet, it is what happens.”

“It is not a consequence that concerns me.”

He passes a hand over his mouth, attempting to stifle a smile he does not wish to fully grant, his eyes make a swift circuit of the room, while the conversations around us reach us as a muffled hum.

“You sound like one who concedes nothing,” he observes at last, the irony sliding beneath his tongue.

My expression does not change, but my hand tightens around the champagne flute I have been holding all this time.