In which Duke Wriothesley falls deeply for the enigmatic man dressed in blue during a dance;
Neuvillette's eyes are closed, his breathing shallow and erratic.
He's lost in the sensation of the Duke's touch, the gentle caress that sets his heart rac...
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"Ah, there you are, Your Grace," the voice of Mademoiselle Navia rang out, piercing the heavy chatter of the Grand Hall. "The party is as splendid as ever."
Wriothesley, the Duke, nodded curtly, his eyes never leaving the man dressed in blue. The room was a blur of colors, the sound of laughter and the rustle of fabric a distant murmur compared to the call of curiosity that had captured his attention. He had seen a hundred faces that evening, some pleasent and some less so, but this one was different.
It bore the signs of a story untold, a narrative etched into the very fabric of his being.
Making his way through the throng of guests, he approchead the enigmatic figure. The man's eyes, as beautiful as the morning sky, met his own with an unspoken challenge. Wriothesley felt a jolt of excitement, his heart beating a little faster.
He offered a glass of fine wine with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, "I don't believe we've met," he said, his voice a smooth crescendo of interest.
The man took the glass, his long, elegant fingers brushing against Wriothesley's. "Indeed," he simply replied, his voice a velvety baritone that seemed to ring in the very air around them. His gaze was sharp, assessing, as if he knew that the Duke's curiosity was more than social obligation.
Wriothesley'eyes lingered on the intricate gold fastanere in the man's hair. What an unusual but mesmerizing sight, he thought. "Your attire," he began, "it speaks of a distand land. May I inquire as to your name?"
The man in blue took a sip of the wine as a reply, his eyes never leaving Wriothesley's. "Not yet," he said, his accent hinting at origins beyond the court's familiar shores. "And you are the illustrious Duke Wriothesley, known for your strategic acuity and... shall we say, selective tastes."
Wriothesley's smile grew colder, his hand tightening around the sterm of his own glass. "I see my reputation precedes me," he said, his tone light but his eyes gleaming with the promise of a sharper edge beneath the surface. "But I assure you, I am as curious about the world as any man here."
The stranger raised an eyebrow.
"Ah, but it is not the world that holds your your attention tonight, is it?" He took a step closer, the scent of the sea wafting from his clothes. "It's me you wish to unravel."
Wriothesley felt a thrill of anticipation, mixed with a hint of irritation at being so easily read, by that man. "Call it what you prefer," he said, voice low and measured. "But I find myself drawn to enigmas."
The man in blue leaned in, his breath warm against Wriothesley's ear. "Then you've found what you're looking for?" He murmured, before turning to melt back into the crowd.
Wriothesley watched him go, his gaze trailing the graceful line of the stranger's back, the fabric of his cloak shimmering in the candlelight; Only then did he notice the imprecision in the steps of that man, whose weight was slightly on one side. It was subtle, almost imperceptible to the untrained eye. But it was there.Yet it was a peculiarity that had caught Wriothesley's interest more, a flaw in an otherwise impeccable façade. The Duke pondered the origins of such an injury. Was it a dance floor mishap, perhaps? Or something more... tragic?
