Page 186
He shifts his gaze toward me, his eyebrows drawing together in an arch of disapproval.
“Lord Vasiliev Ashford.”
“Lord Brownell.”
Richard lifts his head with an awkward jerk, his pupils dilated, his mouth half-open. The glass nearly slips from his hand. He catches it at the last second with a sharp movement that makes the liquid tremble, he squints his eyes and then laughs.
“Is that D-Dorian... or a hallucination?” he slurs.
He tries to stand but leans with too much force on the armrest. He sinks back down and then pulls himself up with a disjointed lunge.
“Why such a grim expression?” he grumbles. “You look as though you’ve caught someone... profaning your oriental rug.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to suppress a laugh.
A drunken Richard is a different creature: reckless and bold, as if the world belonged to him.
He laughs to himself, swallows a mouthful that is far too long, coughs, wipes his hand across his mouth, and surrenders to the weight of his body against the armrest with a heavy sigh.
Dorian does not speak.
He does not move a muscle.
He does not even look at me.
After a few moments, he takes two steps, then stops. He stares again at that precise spot where Nathaniel’s hand brushed me.
Do you like his hand?
Pervert.
I feel the heat rising along my back, up to my ears.
Nathaniel tilts his head slightly, his hair now brushing his forehead.
“It seems, Lord Vasiliev Ashford, that you have forgotten every appearance of restraint.”
Dorian’s jaw twitches.
“This is not your estate, Lord Brownell.”
I rest a finger on the back of Nathaniel’s hand.
“I imagine Lord Dorian has something important to say.”
Dorian stares at my finger.
Obstinate.
I pull my hand away.
“I thought you were occupied.”
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
“I was informed you ended up beneath hooves and mud.”
Nathaniel sips his wine.
