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He almost, almost, did not attend the ball. After all, he had already made his unofficially required annual public appearance towards the beginning of the season and was accordingly left to his own devices for the remainder of his time at the capital. Surely none of society was expecting his attendance at an engagement ball.
None, it seemed, except for one of the two whose engagement was being celebrated, and it required very little thought to figure out which one.
Still, that itself was worth considering, if only to prevent less enjoyable considerations from occupying his mind. Regardless of their previous association, Lady Camellia was never one who would do anything that might taunt him in the slightest, or, if their most recent interaction was any indication, even communicate with him at all if she could avoid it, not that he could blame her for that. The invitation was almost unthinkable to have been from her. But her… But Lord Randall, it appeared, had no such misgivings and, given his conviviality, seemed inclined to invite anyone who might have a passing relation to the parties in question.
Which he did, though perhaps not in the way the lord believed.
Still, Camellia appeared… content, or at least was genuinely willing to accept the man’s hand, which he knew was no small concession in it of itself, and whatever else happened, he would always wish the best for her, something that she tended to undervalue on her own. Not to mention the fact that, given her more reticent nature, the celebration would not be so large in scale that his absence would be unnoticed, something which might raise more undesired questions than his attendance would.
He wondered briefly when conforming to societal niceties became such an exercise in irony.
And so, he found himself standing in the corner of the ballroom, watching as a small crowd whirled on the floor or else mingled by the refreshments. Most were only vaguely familiar, a testament to his asocial tendencies, but they clearly recognized him; the surprised and calculating looks directed at him when they assumed he was not paying attention were evidence enough for that. In fact, it was some miracle that they had not descended upon him in full force, though perhaps he had the couple’s insightful choice of friends to thank for that, even more so than the drink and generally unapproachable expression he nursed.
It was, however, not enough to prevent Lord Randall from greeting him, leading his fiancée along by the hand. Then again, perhaps he should have been expecting it; the pair had shown themselves to be consummate hosts, and his determination to remain as far from the festivities as possible no doubt had caught their attention. He had attended, after all. It was only logical that he would have to interact with them.
That did not stop him from stiffening, ever so slightly, when he noticed their approach, a sentiment that she echoed, given the shock that crossed her face, replaced almost instantaneously by a polite smile.
Their reactions, however, did nothing to reduce her fiancé’s enthusiasm.
“Your Grace! A pleasure to see you again!”
Instinctively, his eyes darted to Lady Camellia, but instead of meeting his gaze, she dropped into a low bow, eyes lowered and hands clasped before her. “We are pleased you have decided to attend our humble celebration, Duke Lyon.”
Her greeting was everything appropriate from a minor noblewoman to a duke of Jiyel… and yet somehow all the worse for it.
Forcing some semblance of a polite expression onto his face, he bowed in turn. “It was a privilege and an honor to be invited.”
“So formal, you two.” Lyon nearly jumped, but Lord Randall only chuckled, shaking his head and clapping him on the shoulder. “One would think you barely know each other.”
“It has been four years, Randall.” Her voice, though chiding, was soft, almost hesitant, as apologetic eyes flicked to his face. “And I’m afraid much has changed since then.”
“Then you two should catch up!” He had, apparently, already encountered the lord enough that he was not entirely surprised to find himself pushed towards the lady. Unfortunately, that did nothing to quell his discomfort, particularly when he found himself grasping the hand of one Lady Camellia. “Go on for a dance.”
Before he could even formulate any sort of response, he was propelled towards the center of the room, Lady Camellia right beside him, as Lord Randall fairly disappeared into the nearest group of guests. It was almost impressive, given the man’s height was not far from his, and, as such, almost a head taller than the vast majority of people in the kingdom. Or, at least, it would have been had the situation not been so uncomfortable.
“I apologize, Your Grace.” He looked down, meeting anxious brown eyes, and told himself that it didn’t sting when she dropped his hand, taking a step away. “Lord Randall has always been enthusiastic about such things. He is more gregarious than I by far and I think he wishes to ensure that I find an equal enjoyment in companions.”
She chuckled, something resembling a smile, small and tremulous, crossing her lips for a heartbeat, and his chest constricted too tightly for him to form a response. Instead, he only inclined his head, offering his hand, and her smile, such as it was, turned melancholic.
“I have no desire to force you into a dance when all of Jiyel knows your distaste for such things, Your Grace.”
He shook his head. “Hardly.” When she didn’t react, instead watching him steadily with that faint sadness lurking in her gaze, he swallowed, forcing the words out of his suddenly dry mouth. “It would be an honor, Camellia. Please.”
That managed to catch her off guard, if the visibly stupefied look on her face as she accepted his hand was any indication.
As if on cue, the musicians played the opening strains of the next waltz, and he drew a deep breath, carefully leading her into the proper position and ignoring the gapes and whispers from the crowd. They did not go unnoticed by his partner either, a fact that was apparent when her expression somehow turned even more stilted.
Still, she said nothing as he stepped around her, save for offering him wordless apology when their eyes met. He shook his head, focusing instead on sweeping her across in turn, on recalling the lessons from his childhood, so many years ago. The lessons that he had reviewed in preparation for the Summit four years past, that he had anticipated using…
Keeping his face neutral, he carefully eased her into a turn, watching as she twirled, her gown rippling around her, light and graceful. When he caught her, she beamed, a warm, genuine smile that seemed to steal his breath. “A fine secret you’ve been keeping from us, Your Grace.”
For a moment, panic scrabbled at his throat and he nearly stumbled over the next step. “What?”
The sound was more croak than word, but she only grinned, a little sheepish. “The rumor on the Isle was that you didn’t attend the Ambassador’s Ball because you didn’t know how to dance and had no desire to advertise it.” She paused as he led her into a free spin, dropping away before returning to his arms, elegant and natural and something in his chest twinged. “I have no doubt society thought the same way, but I’m afraid your secret is out now.”
“You flatter me, milady.”
She said nothing more, only shaking her head with a soft, almost wistful look, and he followed her lead, putting the crowds and the people out of mind until there was only the two of them. Her grasp in his, light and trusting. Her hand resting on his arm, his palm against her shoulder blade. In synchrony and as one, a wordless conversation of giving and taking, a perfect communication of the mind. Warm and soft and right.
When he pulled her closer, leading her into a pivot, somewhat stilted but still with decent form, she laughed, cheeks flushed a faint pink, and for a moment, he relaxed completely, letting the faintest hint of a smile curve his lips as they spun smoothly across the floor.
Faintly, he heard the music taper away, sensed the other couples on the floor slow as the song came to an end, and he carefully led her into a final turn, bowing as she dropped into a low curtsy. Applause surrounded them, compliments and warm wishes, sights and sounds that slowly filtered back into his consciousness. Teasing remarks from the Jiyelese elite… not the delegates at the Summit.
That was four years prior, and a moment that had never come to pass.
He offered her his arm, feeling his chest tighten when she accepted it, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow with her face arranged back into a mask of inscrutability. “Thank you for honoring me with the dance, Your Grace.”
He cleared his throat. “It was my pleasure.”
Lord Randall, of course, had chosen to wait in the farthest corner of the room, and Lyon would likely have suspected that the man was planning something were he any less good-natured. As it was, however, he simply led her along, grateful that her presence, at least temporarily, served to protect him from any who might have wanted to approach him.
It did not, however, shield him from the weight of his partner’s gaze nor the gentle pressure of her hand on his arm.
“I must admit I was surprised you accepted the invitation.”
Her voice was soft, hardly audible over the music and conversation around them, and surely inaudible to anyone who might be listening in. For a step, he faltered, but when she said nothing more, he chanced a glance in her direction.
“I thought it would have been more telling had I not.”
She pursed her lips. “Perhaps. But you would also have been spared all of this…” She hesitated, looking about as though hoping to find the right word to describe the celebration plastered upon the wall. “All of this unpleasantness. Socializing.”
“Perhaps, but… I came to wish you well in person.”
Her smile was small, tinged with wistfulness. “I am glad you came.”
Unable to meet her gaze, he looked away and swallowed, feeling the strange lump in his throat shift with the movement. “I… I am as well.”
All too soon and yet not soon enough, Lord Randall stood before them, beaming as he accepted the hand of his betrothed. “Welcome back, my flower. I hope you enjoyed yourself and were able to catch up?”
She might have said something in reply but Lyon didn’t notice, preoccupied by the friendly gaze that met his, open and unguarded. “Thank you for humoring my request, Your Grace. I hope you know that any friend of Lia’s is a friend of mine.”
Yet another offering of gratitude added to the swirl of interactions and conversation, and between the forced pleasantry and polite socialization, it was all suddenly too much.
Glancing between the pair, he nodded, replying with something that, given the affable smile he received, was appropriate enough. Or, more likely, the lord was simply generous enough to accept whatever had managed to leave his mouth as agreement. At any rate, it was enough to allow for his escape, which was all that he wanted, the social consequences be damned.
Finally alone on the cobblestone, under the cool night sky, he released a shaky breath, watching as silhouettes continued to pass before the brightly lit windows of the ballroom, blissfully unaware of how the celebration was thoroughly crumbling the foundations of his very being. Then again, who would have noticed? Not even he had realized…
“Duke Lyon?”
He had to press his lips together to prevent something that resembled hysterical laughter from bursting forth. It was only natural that if anyone at the engagement ball were to notice, were to follow him out, it would be her. One of the couple that the ball was celebrating… and the one person in the entire seven kingdoms who still possessed the ability to send his world completely off-kilter.
“Lady Camellia.”
He said nothing more, and she approached slowly, footsteps faltering and stopping when she was almost close enough to touch. Almost, but still just out of reach. “I know I may very well be the last person you wish to see in this moment, but you left in a hurry without bidding farewell, and… well… I was worried…”
When she trailed off, he glanced down to find her watching him, sorrow resting heavily on her features, and he slowly released a breath, finding, though not to his surprise, that he was still—would always be—unable to resist her. “I apologize. I found I needed some air.”
Her answering smile was at once tentative and rueful. “I thought you preferred to tell the truth?”
That, the reminder, the memory, of a less burdened man’s long-lost words, was enough to coax a barking, almost harsh, laugh from his throat, and she was not quick enough to disguise her flinch. Not from him. “I did.”
What he left unsaid seemed to hang between them for several heartbeats before she nodded. “I suppose much has changed since then. For the both of us.”
“Indeed.” He shifted, noticing the way she moved subconsciously, balancing his change in posture without thinking.
Or, perhaps more accurately, she was reacting, adjusting. Adapting and rebuilding, just as he knew he had to.
He drew another shaky breath, closing his eyes against the pinpricks of heat behind his lids. “I hope Lord Randall makes you happy.”
For a second, she froze, expression startled, before she smiled, gentle. Sad. “He does.” A pause, during which time he could barely breathe, and then a warm hand brushed against his, light and tender, so quick that he almost missed it. “Thank you, Lyon.”
He nodded once, not trusting his voice, and waited until she returned to the ballroom before letting his mask fall.