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Richard chuckles.

“You nearly laughed in my face when you heard of it.”

I turn my face aside, trying to mask the involuntary tension running through my shoulders.

Isobel places herself before him, resting a hand on his bare arm.

“I am glad you are well, my lord... I feared greatly for you during the storm.”

My gaze slides to the point where Isobel’s fingers touch his forearm.

He tilts his chin toward me.

“I certainly could not leave the Viscount alone.”

“What thoughtfulness,” I retort, restraining the instinct to make that smile curving his lips disappear forever.

Has he already forgotten the words he said to me?

“We are all very grateful to you, Lord Dorian, for having Evander’s safety at heart.” Richard places a hand on my shoulder.

Dorian’s nostrils flare slightly, his jaw tightens, I feel him tremble even at a distance. He takes a step back, abruptly detaching himself from Isobel and regaining his composure, then begins to guide us through the figures of marble, bronze, and clay. There is no modesty in his step, the sculptures seem an extension of his body. Isobel walks beside him, close.

Too close.

Her gloved fingers slide along the marble of a male bust.

“I expected something more classical,” she utters, “but here there is a certain... appetite.” Her voice slides over her lips, soft, insinuating.

I can already imagine the expression Nathaniel would make if he heard these words from the mouth of his dear sister.

“Perhaps I reflect who is before me.”

His gaze slides to me. It captures me.

He no longer smiles, his eyes become cold, restrained, but the tension crossing them is evident.

Isobel stops before a figure with shattered hands, the body trapped in an unnatural twist. Her fingers stroke the air around it, without touching.

“It seems to want to free itself.”

“Or to hold back something that hurts,” he replies.

I feel him still watching me.

Richard walks behind us, his gaze bouncing between the sculptures and our expressions.

“All very corporeal,” he comments lightly. “Almost brutal.”

Dorian stops beside that same sculpture.

“The flesh is the first betrayal,” he pauses before adding, “But also the only one we truly seek.”

She looks at him enchanted.

“You have the hands of an artist, my lord.”

If she says my lord in that tone again, I might throw up on that ridiculous violet dress of hers.