𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞

𝐄 𝐈 𝐆 𝐇 𝐓 𝐄 𝐄 𝐍

𝐇𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐢 𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐢𝐫

The head of true white was unlike anything Briéa had ever seen. But she couldn't decide if it was the hair or his deep blue tunic, a staple for a particularly esteemed privateering company, that warranted him the interested looks from the guests. There's a confidence in each step he takes, a subtle pride that Briéa notices.

Briéa watches for nearly ten minutes as he makes his way through the different noble families. He's charismatic, people are quick to laugh in his presence, women find any excuse to place their hands on his arms or his chest, and nearly all of them blush when he points a smile at them.

She doesn't have to ask, Silene notices Briéa's watchful eye. The woman leans in close, an impish grin on her face as her mouth moves close. "Lord Henri Corvair, nephew of Hartley Corvair, surely you've heard of the man?"

Of course I have.

For the past two years, it had been Briéa's business to become familiar, even close, with such families. A handful of times Ennell's had her run errands with the Corvair privateering company. Briéa's been on a first-name basis with Hartley for a while, she thought she knew the names of his possible heirs. But never once was a nephew named Henri mentioned.

"Nephew, you say?" She asks Silene. The matriarch takes a sip of her drink.

"Yes dear, nephew." Briéa finishes the wine in her second glass and starts to saunter to the other side of the ballroom where Henri is making a group of aged noblewomen wipe tears of laughter from their eyes.

"Well aren't you a pretty little thing?" A drunk voice slurs as a man who comes just to her chin emerges before her.

I'm not the little one here.

One of the man's gloved hands reaches for Briéa's waist but she moves to the side. He tries again, and again she evades his grip. "Damn girl, when a man asks you to dance you dance."

Briéa laughs, "I don't recall you asking me to dance." She points off in the direction of a table as long as the room, stuffed with all types of delicious foods. "Besides, they've just brought out a roasted pig, I think you'd enjoy that more than dancing with me." The distraction is simple but it works. He stumbles over the pig, muttering a tune Briéa's never heard under his breath.

She sighs and turns to continue making her way to Henri, but no longer can she see him.

"Dammit," she mutters under her breath.

Someone approaches her from behind. "Well, I guess I'm not as needed as I thought." There is a smoothness to the voice and she smiles as she turns to face them.

Behind her stands Corvair. Tall, handsome, lean, a dashing smile on his face. She quickly takes him in, she doubts with hair that white he's truly a Corvair. But he certainly is of noble birth.

He glances over her shoulder to where the drunk man is eying the roast pig hungrily. "Mr. Portrow never has been good at reading signals."

"A friend of yours?" Her smile turns flirtatious and she slides her dark back over her shoulder, exposing her shoulders, neck, and most of her chest, There is only one way to get information with men like this.

Henri laughs and shakes his head. "Not at all."

"Then am I wrong to assume you were coming to play the valiant hero and save the damsel in distress?" Another laugh. Oh, he is charming.

"I take it you're not much of a damsel though? Briéa shakes her head, slowly drawing her eyes over him again, making sure he takes notice.

"Not at all," she finally responds, going to meet his brilliant blue eyes. He's doing his own sweep of her and his cheeks, ever so slightly, turn pink when he realizes she's caught him. But instead of being embarrassed, Henri turns into the kind of smug noble she has dealt with plenty of times.