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“Do you need a hand?”
“I thank you.”
I lean down slightly and help her mount the horse, her body stiffens at first, then relaxes.
Suddenly, her gaze shifts behind me, and the light in her eyes clouds over. Her lips tighten just a fraction, I follow her gaze and turn.
Three paces behind, the figure of Lord Dorian stands out sharply against the dark sky, his cloak moving slightly in the wind. In the saddle, he controls the horse with natural posture, but his eyes are fixed on... me.
A weight oppresses my chest.
Agnes breaks the silence. “Lord Vasiliev Ashford.”
He makes no sign, but his gaze does not break from mine. I move away and head toward my horse.
The wood of the stirrup is cold beneath my hand, Étoile’s breath creates light clouds in the freezing air. I lift my leg and settle into the saddle. The rustle behind me makes me turn.
He approaches, the white of his horse shining beneath the gray sky.
“Will you not greet me, Viscount?”
“Neither did you.”
“I did not answer her.”
He gestures with his chin toward Agnes.
“Why such animosity toward Mademoiselle Agnes?”
His hands tighten forcefully on the reins, muscles moving beneath the fabric of his jacket.
“Why did you help her mount the horse?”
“Because it is custom and politeness,” I reply, observing every detail of his face.
“You are not so polite with me.” The coldness in his eyes freezes me.
I shift my gaze slightly, fixing on his forehead, the cut from the other day appears less deep, scarred over by still-tense skin.
“I have already apologized to you for that.”
“I am not referring to that—”
“Do you want me to help you mount your horse, then?”
“You—”
A slight jingle of stirrups, and Agnes approaches.
“Viscount, will you ride with me?”
The words stall on my lips. I should say yes, but my breath hitches.
From Lord Dorian’s side, another light step, Isobel appears.
“Lord Dorian!” She smiles, then her eyes settle on me. “Evander.”
“Do you call the Viscount by his name?” Agnes asks.
