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Cecil, hesitant, shifts his weight, his fingers waver for an instant before settling into the offered hand. Dorian inclines his head just enough for the light to glint off his pale irises. He looks at Cecil as he might a young thoroughbred being presented to him for the first time.
I continue to watch him. And he knows it.
An edge of a smile, thin and defiant, clings to the corner of his mouth; as if he is telling me that yes, he has seen my reaction, and he has no intention of stopping.
Richard places a hand on Cecil’s shoulder and looks down at him with a warm smile, full of that brotherly protection only he can convey.
A murmur of voices causes me to avert my gaze from the two brothers, and I see Elijha in the distance, near the corner of the courtyard, deep in discussion with the Reverend.
Perhaps... perhaps what Lord Vasiliev Ashford had whispered held a grain of truth.
It is well known that Elijah takes pleasure in seeing others prostrate themselves. He has elevated himself to a point he believes inaccessible. The more one yields to him, the more he disdains them.
“Cecil!” The Marquess Brownell approaches with a measured gait, his wood and silver cane slanted before him.
“Father!”
The Marquess shifts his gaze toward Lord Dorian, offering a formal smile. “Good day, Lord Vasiliev Ashford.”
He responds with a simple nod.
“Viscount Rochefort.”
“Good day, Marquess Brownell.”
“Are my sons perhaps troubling you?”
“Father, what are you saying! Evander adores me, you know that well.”
The line of the Marquess’s lips tightens in a rebuke.
“Mind the words you use, Richard.”
Richard lowers his head slightly.
“Viscount,” the Marquess continues, “will you do us the honor of attending the hunt we have organized for Wednesday at Foxglove Lodge?”
I feel a slight pressure on my little finger. Cecil wraps his hand around mine. “Will you come to our estate, Evander?”
“Cecil.” His father calls him back in a low voice.
“Shall we have the pleasure of hosting you at our estate, Viscount?” The boy corrects himself.
“It will be a pleasure,” I reply, struggling to suppress the laugh in my throat at Cecil’s hushed tone.
“Any pretext is good for a ride, Father.”
The trace of a smile on Richard’s face betrays his satisfaction at the mere thought, but the Marquess does not react. His eyes are already turned elsewhere.
“A pity, Lord Vasiliev Ashford, that you cannot—”
“I shall have the extreme pleasure of participating, Marquess Brownell.”
Richard’s father knits his brows slightly as his grip on his cane tightens. “I believed you were not in a position to attend, given your manifold engagements.”
Lord Dorian lifts his gaze from me and settles it upon the Marquess, his lips curving into a smile, elegant and vaguely challenging.
“I have unburdened myself of such tasks, Marquess.”
