“Let me carry your plate for you while you select your dinner,” Boho offered.
“Thank you, that would be lovely.”
* * *
By lurking on the edges of the ballroom Tracy had made a surreptitious video capturing the dancers and the music, the lights drawing flashes of fire from the jewels adorning the women’s necks, hair, arms and fingers. The swirl of their skirts created a kaleidoscope of color.
Hugo twirled past with a diminutive girl dressed in an iridescent sari. His dancing wasn’t as polished as the scions of the more established families, but he clearly knew how to dance. Tracy spotted Mark dancing as well, and that sense of being the lonely outsider crashed down on him. He looked away from the dancers toward the wall lined by delicate chairs. A number of them were occupied by the less attractive young women. Several of them noticed his gaze, and straightened and smiled hopefully. A solicitous matron, who prowled the line of chairs like a guard dog, bustled toward him. When he had returned to the ballroom to watch Mercedes’ entrance another bossy matron had made certain he had a dance card and one of the tiny souvenir pens, but he had jammed both deep into a pocket and slipped away before she could lead him over to some unclaimed lady.
He did the same now, beating a hasty retreat out onto the balcony. He comforted himself with the thought that a girl was better off as a wallflower than suffering his awkward attempts to dance.
Outside the smell of flowers replaced the scents of perfume and aftershave and the less obvious smell of sweat. He keyed his ScoopRing and sent the video to his father. Leaning on the balustrade Tracy wondered how many more of these events he would be forced to attend. Probably not many. There would probably be some kind of hoopla for graduation, but that was almost three years away. If he could just get through tonight without embarrassing himself he could stay well away from the FFH for the remaining days of his leave.
17
AFFAIRS OF HONOR
The pressure of Clark Kunst’s hand in the small of her back wasn’t as steady and comforting as Boho’s had been. Maybe because Mercedes was eye to eye with the marqués and that made them awkward? Clark was a wonderful dancer and his grace as he swung into an elaborate allemande was unmatched, but Boho’s height and strength had made her feel as light as dandelion fluff. Clark’s fingers trailed the length of her arm, and caught her hand at just the right moment to pull her back into the circle of his arm, but she realized his focus wasn’t on her. He danced to show off his own abilities. She was just a prop.
Since Clark was clearly so inattentive Mercedes decided she could respond in kind. She allowed her eyes to leave his face and scan the ballroom. Tracy was nowhere to be seen, but she couldn’t imagine he would have been stupid and stiff-necked enough to avoid the event.
Yves Petek was seated on one of the chairs and watching Lord Estevan de Vaca and his husband Caballero Sasha Olsen. Sasha wore the shoulder ribbon and sash that indicated he was taking the lady’s part. They looked happy. Yves looked miserable.
Boho was dancing with Cipriana and they were laughing. Mercedes felt a flare of annoyance.
Mihalis was dancing with Estella again. I wonder when Daddy’s going to put a stop to that?
She looked to her father. He was smiling that indulgent rather vague smile that she knew meant acute boredom. The man doing the talking was gesturing frantically and smiling far too broadly. I wonder what he wants? Someday she would be the one forced to listen to importuning conversations at what should be a social event. What techniques would she develop to stave off rudeness or outright violence?
The music ended. The dancers dutifully applauded the orchestra, and began to drift away like unmoored ships in search of their next berth. Mercedes looked at her dance card. It was a set dance and her partner was Yves. He appeared at her side.
“Yves, I really need to go to the powder room. If you wouldn’t mind…” Mercedes allowed her voice to trail away.
The hangdog look immediately left the young man’s face. Mercedes couldn’t help it. She giggled. “Well, you don’t have to look quite so happy about it.”
“I’m… I’m sorry, Your Highness.”
“Why don’t you ask Devon to dance?” she suggested, looking toward the young man who had been Yves’ particular friend all through childhood.
Yves shook his head. “My father would have a stroke. They,” he jerked his head toward the gay couple, “are third and fifth sons. They donate their sperm, pay the annual fine and are left the hell alone. Me…” He sighed. “I know my duty. Once I wash out I’m going to marry Selestina.”
“Being the heir sort of sucks, doesn’t it?” Mercedes said quietly.
“Yeah.”
They went in opposite directions. Mercedes considered Yves as a potential consort. He was well born from a family that seemed to be allergic to politics. Growing up in the same circles she knew they shared many interests—music, fashion, a love of animals. He was kind and gentle. He would never offer any challenge to her right to rule. In short he was… weak, she concluded. And that wouldn’t do either. She mentally scrubbed him off the list.
Mercedes found the ladies’, relieved herself, retouched her lipstick and powdered away the shine on her nose. Returning to the ballroom she suddenly found the colors too bright, and the air too heavy to abide. She ducked quickly out onto the balcony, hopefully before anyone spotted her return.
And found Tracy. He was leaning on the balustrade staring out across the city toward the ocean, its waves iridescent silver beneath the moons. He was a dark silhouette against the nebula’s glow.
At the sound of her footsteps he jerked erect and whirled with the air of a cornered animal. Mercedes held out a calming hand. “Relax. I’m not one of the mothers come to find you a partner.”
“How did you know?”
“This isn’t my first ball, you know.”
“Really?” he said in an elaborately incredulous tone. She laughed. He took a quick, jerky step toward her and held out his hand. “Look, Mercedes—Highness, I wanted to say… I wanted to apologize.”
“It’s all right. I should apologize too. I hadn’t realized just how condescending we all sound. You must get so tired of it.”
“But you were right.”
“And you were right to be angry.”
“Good thing we’re both so right all the time,” he said.
She laughed and joined him at the balustrade and they looked back to the ocean. “Not to sound like one of the matrons, but why aren’t you dancing?”
“I don’t really know how. Why make some poor girl suffer and make a fool of myself?”
“It’s easy. Dancing.”
“Oh yeah, sure.”
“Really. It’s just walking in time to music.” She held out her hands. “Here, I’ll show you.”
He backed off, hands up, warding her off. “Oh, no, no, no. I’m a klutz.”
“As Chief Begay would say, ‘Don’t douse me with horseshit and tell me it’s perfume.’”
Tracy primed his mouth and said, “I’m shocked, shocked, Your Highness, at your language.” But the grey eyes were dancing.
“Just quoting, and the point stands. You can’t fool me. I’ve seen you spar, and I watched you move in the game today. If you can dribble that silly ball with your feet you can avoid stepping on mine. Now come on.”
“Your wish is my command.”
“And don’t forget it, amigo,” she said as she stepped into the circle of his arms.
He did have the basics. His right hand cupped her waist, but with a butterfly’s touch. He kept his left hand open as if afraid to clasp hers. She firmly closed her fingers on his hand.
The music filtered faintly through the double doors. Luckily it was a waltz and not a set dance. “Just stand for a moment and listen. Now we’re going to just sway back and forth in time to the beat,” Mercedes instructed. They did that for a few moments. He wasn’t as tall as Boho, but she still had to look up and they seemed to just fit.
Tracy stumbled a bit on the third step, pulled away from her and walked away. “I’m hopeless.”
“No, you’re nervous and too hard on yourself. You’re a singer. Don’t think I haven’t heard you.” He looked over his shoulder. She stepped to him, and pressed her palm against his chest. “Just feel it. In your body.” His hand covered hers and they stood for a moment. A pulse was beating in his throat. He smelled of citrus soap, and a male musk that was very pleasant. “Now come on. At least be brave enough to try.”
They started again and after a few stiff steps he began to relax. Mercedes then added the next lesson. She leaned back against his barely supporting hand, and damn near fell. She didn’t make any effort to save herself, and Tracy scrambled to catch her. He pulled her back upright and ended up clutching her against his chest. Their faces were only inches apart.
“Sorry, sorry. That was my fault.”
“Yes it was. You have to allow me to give weight, lean back against your supporting hand. And you have to do it too. It’s the only way to have a flowing dance. You have to trust your partner, believe they will never let you fall. It’s an act of faith.”
His expression was serious. “Bit of a metaphor for being a soldier, isn’t it? We’re going to have to trust our shipmates if it comes to a fight.”
“Given some of our classmates I’m not sure if that’s comforting or terrifying.” Mercedes had tried to make it a joke, but she found herself thinking about Mihalis and wondering just how far she could trust him.
She shook off the uncomfortable thought and said, “Let’s try again.”
His fingers closed around hers; his right hand was a firm, warm and constant presence on her waist. A breeze sighed through the branches of the potted bonsai trees on the terrace. The susurration of the leaves matched the rustle of her skirts across the flagstone.
“One final thing,” Mercedes said softly. “It’s customary to look in your partner’s eyes rather than at your feet when you dance.”
He raised his eyes to hers, and the breath caught in her throat. And she realized it was also a pretty good metaphor for love.
* * *
His breath went short and heat raced through his body when their eyes met. They both lost the beat and faltered to a stop.
“I knew you’d be a quick study,” she said and her voice was a bit higher than normal.
“You’re a good teacher,” Tracy replied and he hoped the shadow from the nearby bonsai would hide his embarrassingly obvious physical reaction.
“Are we done?” Mercedes asked when he just kept standing. He thought she sounded disappointed.
“They’re… they’re not playing a waltz any longer,” Tracy offered.
“You could… hum.”
“All right.” He began humming the music that had just been playing. It wasn’t too discordant with the sprightly set dance that was now playing.
“Next time I’ll teach you some of those,” Mercedes said with a nod toward the doors.
“I think I like this best,” he said, smiling down at her. The smile curdled when her eyes filled with alarm, and she pulled her hand out of his and pushed him away. “Wha—” he began and then heard Boho’s voice smooth and unctuous.
“Infanta, I was sent in search of you. Poor Reitten wondered if he’d offended when his partner failed to show up so we formed a search party.”
“I… I thought with his knee,” Mercedes began.
Boho jumped in. “He’s not up to a waltz, but perfectly capable of ‘Stars End’.” He held out his arm. “May I escort you?”
“Yes, yes. I lost track of…” She looked back at Tracy and her voice trailed away.
Tracy bowed, the perfect deferential bow his father had taught him. “Thank you for the instruction, Your Highness.”
“Do put it to good use, Cadet Belmanor,” Mercedes said formally. “I’m sure some lady will be delighted with your skill.”
She and Boho vanished through the doors. For an instant the vivacious four-four time music rang in the darkness then was muted as the door closed. Tracy returned to the balustrade, and stood in a happy haze recalling Mercedes’ hand in his, the warmth of her smile, and her soft breath on his face.
There was a sudden choking pressure on his throat as he was grabbed by the back of his collar and yanked around. Boho was back, and he wasn’t alone. Mihalis del Campo and Clark Kunst were with him. Boho’s handsome face was twisted with fury.
“How dare you! You jumped up little intitulado. She’s the heir to the throne. Not some shop girl for you to paw and pant over. You’re going to learn your place, and I’m going to enjoy delivering the lesson.”
Tracy dropped into a fighting stance. He prayed his uniform wouldn’t be too badly damaged in the fight. Boho surprised him by stepping back. The fury on the handsome face turned to contempt. “This is how a gentleman fights, you filthy intitulado!” Boho slapped Tracy hard across the face. It stung and drew tears from his left eye. “Name your seconds.”
“Are you mental?” Tracy’s voice spiraled up. “You’re challenging me to a duel?”
Boho smiled, a particularly sinister expression in the moment. “Yes, I am.”
“Yeah, well, fuck off. I’m not playing your aristo games.” He started to push past the bigger man.
Kunst stopped him with a hand on his chest. “A gentleman doesn’t walk away from an affair of honor.”
“Yeah, well you’re constantly reminding me I’m not a gentleman. So I repeat. Fuck the hell off.”
Mihalis looked to Boho and shrugged. “Your call, man.”
Boho stalked over to Tracy. He was still smiling. “If I report that you ducked a challenge to the admiral you’ll be expelled. He’s rather fond of dueling. He’ll assume you’re a coward, and he won’t tolerate that.”
For an instant Tracy was ready to say, Fine, do your worst. I never wanted to go anyway. But then he remembered the pride his father took at seeing his son in his uniform. Alexander’s joy waving The High Ground banner at the soccer game. How could he face his dad if he got expelled?
“Okay, fine.”
“Mihalis, Clark, will you act for me?” Boho asked.
“Of course.”
“My pleasure.”
“So what the hell do I have to do?” Tracy asked.
“Find two students who will stand with you. Send them to us,” Kunst explained. “We’ll make all the arrangements.”
“Do it fast,” Boho said as he walked past. He paused, and flicked Tracy’s cheek with a forefinger. “I’m so looking forward to this. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that pin.”
The doors opened, the music blared then faded. Tracy was alone. He sank down on the edge of a planter and tried to think of two people who would be part of this incredibly stupid farce. After several minutes he roused himself and went into the ballroom.
A long set dance was in progress. Mercedes was being escorted by the limping Reitten up the line while Ernesto Chapman-Owiti paced quickly up the outside of the line of men. All three reached the top of the set at the same time. Chapman-Owiti took Mercedes’ free hand, and both he and Reitten bowed. She curtsied, released Reitten’s hand and was escorted back down the set by Chapman-Owiti. Tracy shook off his distraction and scanned the room for a friend. Or at least an ally.
Davin Pulkkinen was presenting a glass of ice water to a pretty girl in a pink dress. They were both in the choir together, maybe— Tracy rejected that thought. Davin was one of Boho’s acolytes and Kunst’s friend. He’d never agree.
The music ended and Tracy spotted Mark Wilson handing off his partner to the next man. He hurried over to the other scholarship student.
“Hi, I need a favor.”
“Sure. What’s up?” The response was offhanded. Wilson, panting and with trickles of sweat running from his sideburns, was looking after his former partner with a
rather stupid grin. “That’s one of Caballero Balchin’s daughters. I think I might have a chance there.”
“Dream on,” Tracy snapped.
Wilson glared at him. “Hey, he’s just a knight and she’s not the eldest. Why are you such an asshole all the time?”
“Sorry,” Tracy muttered. “I’m a little distracted, okay?”
“So what did you want?”
“One of these FFH dickheads has challenged me to a duel—”
“Really? What did you do? Who?”
“I didn’t do anything, don’t sound so excited, and it was that asshole Cullen.”
Wilson took a step back and held up his hands. “Oh, no. I’m not getting in the middle of that. I’m on the team with him, and he’s going to be the Duque de Argento y Pepco. His family could have held the throne if things had gone differently. I’m not making him an enemy.” Wilson spun on his heel and walked away.
“Fine! Kiss their asses. It won’t make any difference. They’ll still despise you,” Tracy called after him. There were a few shocked and disapproving glances from several older women, and a very elderly man who pinched his lips and said, “In my day—”
“Yeah, whatever,” Tracy groused at him, and strode away. He had his head down, and he caught someone with his shoulder as he headed toward the archway leading out of the ballroom.
“Hey, what’s up. You look ready to kill somebody.” It was Hugo. “You’re not leaving are you?”
“Yeah, I am. I’ve had about as much of this FFH bullshit as I can take.”
“Something happened.”
“You could say that.” He tried to shrug out from beneath Hugo’s hand.
“Tell me.”
“Why?”
“Because maybe I can help. That’s what friends do.”
“Yeah, well, friends like me won’t add to your consequence. You better go find some fourth daughter of some low-ranking knight and schmooze.”
The High Ground Page 17
