by M. J. Scott
"My lady, may I be so bold as to introduce myself?"
She snapped her fan open, pretending to consider. She wanted to know his name. From the interest of the courtiers, he was clearly someone important. "I suppose I might as well make the inconvenience of all those dancers you displaced serve some purpose and say yes."
His smile widened. "Excellent. I am Jean-Paul du Laq."
He didn't add any titles. He didn't need to. She didn't know the name of every minor nobleman who decorated the court—it wasn't required for her current rank in the mages—but she was well versed in the names of the highest families. After all, some of them passed through the Academe di Sages where she had done her schooling—schooling which included many hours of the history of the empire and those who'd done the conquering—and a number of them graced the ranks of the Imperial mages. And even without that, anyone who read the news sheet stories about court life could hardly fail to know who was who in the upper ranks of nobility.
Du Laq was the family name of the Duq of San Pierre. The only way to hold a higher rank would be to be a member of the royal family itself. They were a family as old as the bones of the empire and had served generations of emperors.
And the name of the oldest son of the Duq of San Pierre was Jean-Paul.
Chapter 6
Well. That was convenient. The son of a duq—what's more, the heir himself—might very well serve her purpose of finding a man to share her bed for a night with no risk of entanglement, even though she may not have thought of setting her sights so high.
That he was the very handsome son of a duq was even better. A man of his rank wouldn't be looking for anything more than a dalliance with someone like her.
The likes of him didn't marry women who came from very middling families like hers. Not if they had no dazzling dowry to make up for the lack of rank. Though the du Laq family didn't need money. Unlike some noble families, they held firmly to their power and grew their fortunes with the same level of determination.
But even so, families like his married their own kind.
Which she was not. Though with his gaze still heating her skin, she thought they had, perhaps, at least some level of... connection. Even if it was the most basic kind.
"I see I have stunned you to silence," he said dryly, breaking the silence her whirring thoughts had stretched too long.
"My pardon, my lord. I was trying to recollect your title but cannot bring it to mind." Most courtiers would rather die than admit such a thing. But she wanted him to be clear about who she was. And that his title was of no use to her other than to render her safe from a man seeking something serious.
Anything that might come after would be entered into with no misunderstandings. She smiled at him to emphasize the fact that she had no shame about her lack of recollection. "But I am pleased to meet you, regardless."
"And I am very glad to hear that." His eyes, now that they were so close, proved to be not only gray but full of mischief. "And may I have the pleasure of knowing your name, Mamsille?"
She folded her fan again. He was, when you got right down to it, breaking protocol to speak to her without an introduction. As long as they continued to entertain each other in this conversation, she didn't think it would take any particular convoluted method of flirtation to get to the point. "Lieutenant Imogene Carvelle," she said. One of his brows lifted, and his gaze drifted down. Looking for a ring on her hand, perhaps? Wise. By telling him her title instead of repeating his “Mamsille” or correcting him to “Madame,” she'd avoided confirming his assumption that she was unmarried.
Her hands were bare except for the black pearl ring she wore on the index finger of her right hand—a gift from her parents when she'd manifested her magic.
Indeed, that seemed to please him. His smile widened as his gaze lifted. "Ah, a soldier. Which regiment?" His tone was distinctly approving.
"I’m in the mages," she said, not wanting to provide him with too much information immediately.
Another lift of that very dark brow. "I haven't seen you before."
"You're in the mages?" She couldn't remember meeting him. And he would have been difficult to forget. Belatedly she thought to look for his magic, but if he had any, he wasn't using it. She saw no connection to the ley line that ran beneath the palace and none of the glittering colors dancing over his skin, which was how she usually saw magic.
"No, just the regulars." He shrugged. "I have a little magic but not enough to be of interest to the mages. Fortunately, I have other talents."
Plus no lack of confidence, it seemed. That went with being the son of a duq, she supposed. And, truthfully, it wasn't unattractive. His tone wasn't smug, just matter-of-fact and, unless she was mistaken, somewhat flirtatious. She smiled back at him. "I'm sure you do, my lord."
His nose wrinkled. "Jean-Paul, please."
"That is hardly proper on such a formal occasion."
"It's a ball. The purpose of a ball is to let people socialize and get to know one another, surely?"
"I always thought a large part of the purpose of imperial balls was to get nobles such as yourself safely married off." She looked pointedly down at his hand so he'd understand she'd noticed his inspection earlier. The long, tanned fingers were bare. "Is that why you're here, my lord?"
"I'm sure it's why my parents wish I was here," he said. "But no, Lieutenant, I have no particular desire to rush headlong into marriage. My father is young and healthy, and I have siblings should something unfortunate happen to me. I'm here to enjoy myself. Drink some campenois, dance with some pretty women. Would you grant me a dance, Lieutenant?" He proffered a hand.
She stifled the immediate instinct to reach out and take it. "Is one of your talents dancing, my lord?"
"I get no complaints," he said. "And a new set is forming." He crooked his fingers. "You wouldn't want us to be late."
"I haven't said yes yet," she pointed out.
"You haven't said no either. I'll take that as a promising sign."
"You, my lord, may be overly sure of yourself."
"Perhaps. But that doesn't mean you don't want to dance with me."
He had her there. Because she did want to dance with him. Wanted to feel his hand on hers and see if moving with him to the music was as fun as this initial conversation had been. After months of familiar squad members and politics in the Reyshakan court, which had involved just about the opposite of flirtation, his attention was somewhat dizzying.
So, in the mood to be a little giddy, she reached out and took his hand.
Chapter 7
Jean-Paul du Laq may have crossed the ballroom like a mountain on a mission, but he definitely didn't dance like one.
No, being on the dance floor with him, strong, warm fingers wrapped around her hand and touching her waist, was perhaps more like being swept around the room in the eye of a storm. She had the oddest sensation of something swirling around her, huge and important and wild, but also of perfect stillness as she stared up into smiling gray eyes and let him lead. Just her luck that the orchestra had decided this was to be a set of waltzes rather than some of the statelier Illvyan dances, where she would have had time to step away from him now and then to catch her breath and to let her brain regain control.
Instead, she whirled around with him, barely aware of the music, somewhat breathless from more than the fit of her dress and completely unable to stop herself from smiling with delight.
Perhaps he was an illusioner, this son of a duq? He'd claimed to have little magic, but that could be a lie. A way to disarm an unsuspecting female so he could work some sort of dazzlement. But she saw no spark of magic around him, none of the glimmering haze of power that marked a mage at work to her eyes. So there was nothing to blame for this giddiness but the man himself.
The music started to slow as the musicians began the transition to the next dance, and Jean-Paul eased their pace. Unfortunately, he also pulled her closer. Not more than was acceptable in public, but close enough
that she could feel him radiating heat and smell warm linen and warm man.
A scent she wanted more of. But no. She bit down on her instinct to close the gap between them farther still and forced herself to speak. "So, my lord, you said you were in the regulars? What exactly do you do?"
"I'm in the centiene."
Hardly the regulars. The centiene were the emperor's elite cavalry. Which made sense for a man of his rank. She tried to picture a warhorse large enough to carry him comfortably and felt her mouth quirk again. Not a beast she would like to tangle with.
"Captain?" she ventured. Her brain was failing to provide his age or his exact title. Older than her, she thought, but less than thirty. There were no gray threads in his hair, and while the lines by his eyes crinkled attractively when he smiled, she judged them to be from time outdoors, not age.
"Major," he corrected.
"Impressive," she said. Either he was very, very good at command or he was older than she would have guessed.
"Did you think I was a dilettante who had purchased a commission on the merits of my family's name rather than earning my command?"
"My lord, I have not known you long enough to judge, but no, you do not strike me as anything but competent." He was hardly the languid, foppish sort of aristo who largely seemed to spend money rather than do anything to earn it that she had sometimes encountered. He was the scion of an ancient family. Destined to lead and protect. She doubted he had been raised to be anything but determined and accomplished.
"Are you judging that by my dancing?" His hand tightened, and he twirled them faster, completing two full rotations where the dance only called for one.
"That, my lord, sounds like you are fishing for compliments. Does your ego require reinforcing?"
The laugh that was his answer boomed across the ballroom.
Impressively, roaring with laughter didn't make the man skip a beat of the dance.
"Not usually, Lieutenant, but perhaps after a few hours in your company, I may need time to recover from being so neatly skewered." He grinned at her.
She doubted much could skewer this man. "A few hours, my lord? I don't think the set will last so long."
"There will be another set after this one. If you are inclined only to dancing."
Definitely not skewered. No dint to his confidence for him to be hinting at perhaps the chance for more. Some women would have thought him presumptuous. Or outright overstepping the bounds of good manners. Whereas she was just...well, judging by the heartbeat ringing in her ears at the thought of his hands touching other parts of her body, inclined to something more than dancing. But that didn't mean she would give in so easily.
"And if I were inclined only to dancing, my lord, would you still want to spend a few hours in my company?"
His expression turned thoughtful for a moment, and she wondered if he was going to say no. But then his hand tightened on her waist, just a fraction. Enough to draw her an inch closer, as though he rejected the notion of letting her go. "As it turns out, Lieutenant," he said, his eyes intent on hers, "I think I would."
She lost her breath. And perhaps her mind. The room continued to spin around them as they danced on, and she kept her eyes locked to Jean-Paul's. He seemed like the one true thing in the world. A sensation both reassuring and alarmingly seductive. A sensation she didn't want to come to an end. Not just yet. She needed to stay here where she could just dance and not think too hard. Not until she was sure she was ready to let him lead her on to the next step of this dance of theirs. She wanted what came after. Her body told her that. She ached to move closer to him. To touch more. To taste.
But a corner of her mind was also whispering that perhaps this was more than she'd gone looking for.
She didn't want to let that thought in. So instead she gazed into gray eyes that caught her like a storm and just danced.
And when they stood breathing hard after the set concluded, she decided that she would indeed chance the storm to see what happened. But, as Jean-Paul escorted her off the dance floor, there was a gold-and-silver-liveried servant waiting for him.
"Major," the man said. "I was sent to find you."
Imogene's heart dropped. Jean-Paul’s hand, where it rested on hers tucked through his arm, flexed.
"My father?" Jean-Paul asked, sounding impatient.
"No, your emperor," the servant said.
Jean-Paul blew out a frustrated breath. She had some sympathy for that emotion. But he couldn't ignore the emperor's request.
She slid her arm free and stepped away. "You must go, my lord. Thank you for the dance."
He bowed fast and then straightened. "Don't go anywhere until I return, Lieutenant," he said fiercely, then caught her hand to his lips to kiss the back of her glove.
Chapter 8
Jean-Paul followed the servant through the palace halls, recognizing the route toward one of Aristides’s favorite audience chambers. That was a reassuring sign. If something had gone seriously wrong, he would have been ordered to the barracks to join the rest of his squad as soon as they’d left the ballroom. Mostly, though, he was aware that every step he took was in the wrong direction. He wanted to be back with Imogene, not doing whatever the hell this was. His body was rumbling with frustrated...well, he didn’t want to think too closely on the sensation. Lust, yes. The woman was beautiful. But there was more than lust at play here. A thought perhaps, more disconcerting than why he was being dragged from the ballroom and her company.
But when the servant ushered him into the chamber with a discreet "The Marq of Lasienne" and he saw who stood talking with the emperor, his frustration at leaving Imogene and concern about what had happened to cause Aristides to drag him out of the ball was swamped by a pulse of deep irritation.
He bowed to Aristides with a quick "Your Imperial Majesty," then turned to greet the other man. "Father. Fancy meeting you here." He tried to keep the impatience out of his voice and hoped to the goddess that this wasn't to be another of his father's “It's time to start paying more attention to your duties” talks, backed up with the weight of Aristides’s presence.
"Jean-Paul." His father nodded a greeting. Dressed in a jacket embroidered with cresting waves in the du Laq blues, Andre du Laq glittered only slightly less than the emperor, whose jacket was a symphony of gold and silver. Knowing how much Aristides sometimes disliked the displays he was obliged to make, Jean-Paul could only imagine it had been chosen by the empress. "I hope you are enjoying the evening."
Well, he had been until now. But that wasn't a tactful response. Particularly when he didn't yet know what Aristides wanted.
He focused back on the emperor. Aristides was some eight years older than Jean-Paul, but they were friends of a kind. As much as you could be friends with an emperor. "You asked to see me, Your Imperial Majesty?"
"Yes," Aristides said. "I have a new assignment for you."
Jean-Paul's neck prickled. He wasn't sure he would like the next words out of Aristides’s mouth. "I am, of course, happy to serve." Though somewhat confused. The emperor's Imperial Guard was run through the mage corps, not the regulars. Jean-Paul's military duties were assigned via his commanding officer, not Aristides.
"We have received word that the ambassadorial delegation from Andalyssia will reach the city tomorrow. I'd like you to oversee their security detail."
Security? Not usually the realm of the cavalry. "Isn't that something the Guard should do?" he asked.
Aristides shrugged. "Things are still delicate with Andalyssia. We thought it best to make them feel as though we are paying them due deference. And so—" He pointed at Jean-Paul. "—they get you."
Delicate was a nice way of saying that the idiot in charge of the last mission to Andalyssia had been a moron who had somehow managed to upset an entire country. Jean-Paul didn't recall the precise details, as it had been some time ago, but he knew the Imperial army had been braced for rumblings of trouble from that part of the empire following the mission. They hadn't e
ventuated, but it had still taken months for the Andalyssians to agree to come to Lumia to meet with Aristides. It rarely took months for Aristides to get his way on a matter, which was proof of just how delicate the situation was. Aristides was buttering the Andalyssians up. Which made Jean-Paul’s role crystal clear.
"You want the son of a duq to make them feel important." Jean-Paul rolled his eyes and didn't look at his father. Andre had campaigned with Aristides’s father and had made a name for himself as something of a diplomat in his youth. He still acted as an advisor to the emperor on matters of some of the farther-flung parts of the empire at times. Usually those times involved Andre having a broader game in mind. Or just being in the mood to meddle. In this case, Jean-Paul hoped he wasn't trying to gain favor with Aristides in order to get the emperor to lean on Jean-Paul to be a good boy and marry.
"Precisely," Aristides said. "But don't worry, you will work with my guards. We just need you to play nice and make sure our friends from Andalyssia are happy. We will hold a welcome ball a few days after they arrive. That should placate them somewhat."
Jean-Paul hid his wince. He didn't mind balls like tonight’s so much, the ones that were more social occasions for the court than anything. They, of course, came with politics and posturing, but not to the level seen at the more formal balls held when Aristides had a point to make or a message to deliver. Those were far more tedious, every move and word needing to be considered and analyzed. He had to pay attention to court politics. It was part of being who he was. That didn't mean he had to enjoy the worst aspects of it. But he did have to obey his emperor. "Of course, Your Imperial Majesty. I look forward to it."
Aristides’s mouth quirked, but he didn't call Jean-Paul on the lie. Instead he turned to Andre and said, "There, my lord. Your son has accepted his task. Perhaps you would allow us to talk alone for a few moments? I hate to think I am keeping you from this evening's pleasantries."
