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He looks away rather than answer, his chin tilted to the side, and I cannot help but notice the fair skin of his neck and the line of his tense jaw.

The lower part of my abdomen pulses.

Once, twice, three times.

Before I even realize what my body is doing, his fingers press against my eyes, blocking my gaze.

Damn—he felt it.

“Get up,” he orders, and for the first time, I hear his voice tremble.

I stand up immediately.

“Forgive me, Viscount Rochefort, if my joke went on longer than permitted.”

I hear him get up, but I don’t look at him. My hands, covered in earth and mud, clench into fists, bringing me back to reality.

Suddenly, the solemn sound of the horn echoes through the trees.

The hunt is over.

It is evening now, and the chatter of the guests fills the air more than the scent of the roast beef. I am seated between Duchess Durant, who hasn’t stopped casting glances at Idris, and Isobel, who tries in vain to hide her curiosity by throwing sidelong looks at me. At the head of the table, Marquess Brownell smiles, clearly pleased with how the day unfolded. I take a sip of wine, trying not to show how much I wish I were elsewhere.

Further down the table, almost tucked away but not enough to escape my notice, the Viscount is busy cutting his roast beef with a slowness that feels deliberate. He is sitting next to Richard—excessively close—and Agnes, cousin of that damned kobel, Julian.

He lifts his glass, his fingers, long and sharp, seem made specifically to be watched. He wears his family ring, the Rochefort crane burns in the carnelian, rigid in its eternal vigilance.

He doesn’t look at me.

Of course, he doesn’t look at me.

And this indifference crawls under my skin.

It’s not my fault, he started it.

Damn it—I did not mean to do that. It was just a physical reaction.

All over a stupid deer. I adjust the napkin on my knees and pretend to listen to the Duchess talk about her son’s future in the ministry.

My gaze, stubborn, slides again toward the man I would have gladly pinned to the ground an hour ago just to shut him up. He chews calmly, Richard laughs at something he’s said; Agnes leans in, drawn to a light that evidently doesn’t disturb only me.

I break a piece of bread with too much force.

The Marquess sets his cutlery on his plate.

“Lord Vasiliev Ashford, I hope you enjoyed yourself today.”

“Naturally, Marquess.”

To my left, Julian, busy stripping his roasted pheasant with zeal, looks up. “And how many trophies did you bring back?”

“I don’t recall.”

I have no desire to give details.

“Five.”

My gaze snaps toward the end of the table.