A Chance Encounter, Once Again
Apr. 22nd, 2017 12:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mslaviniaIt's late in the false-evening and the Feast is in full swing; holiday conventions ensure it looks more like what passes for day in the fallen city. The doors of the Smythe-Hargreaves’ house open every so often, to allow the aristocracy in their masquerade finery to pour into their spacious ballroom. It's the sort of event that's meant to tempt the young and promising nobility into attending so that suitable matches can be found for them. To that purpose, black-clad servants discreetly circulate with the finest vintages among the crowd, which is comprised not only of London’s eligible elite but a number of notable artists, writers, actors and dancers--the sort of people who make for entertaining parties.
Lavinia Mason has no illusions about the purpose she serves here, as backdrop to the social machinations of the aristocratic matchmaking economy. Nearly as lucrative an industry as Mr. Fires' factories, she thinks, as she finishes her glass of Broken Giant. She doesn't look terribly out of place, the aquamarine necklace gleaming at her throat and complemented by her earrings, but she can't help but feel acutely aware that this is, essentially, work. The more she's seen in society, the more this audience might recognize her name when she publishes the novel she's busily finishing: this party is as much a social calculation for her as it is for the young nobles flitting and flirting their way through endless waltzes.
She's just finished dancing with someone-or-other’s second son, both of them being exceedingly polite as they maintain the expected social pleasantries. He's not well-versed in poetry or the ballet, and most of his interests seem to be centered around hunting--lizards, mostly, but once an enormous fungal column, which he describes in great detail. Lavinia wonders with amusement what Midnight might make of him, but immediately decides it would be too cruel to subject the other woman to that. She's relieved when he leaves her at the side of the room, but her heart sinks instantly as a weak-chinned man beetles up to her, asking for a dance.
“Oh, no, I couldn't possibly,” she says with an apologetic look, thinking this very well might be the notoriously bad dancer Olive has warned her of. “I'm afraid I'm quite heated, and should take some refreshment.” Looking about the room for someone she recognizes, or at least a distraction, her eyes fall on a tall, thin figure dressed in a dark suit, with luminescent green licking at the cuffs, and an asymmetrical metal mask covering much of his face. The man’s dark brown hair, too long to be quite fashionable, is tidied and smoothed back into a part as much as possible. Lavinia smiles at him, hoping to catch his eye, even as she wonders what reason Edward Lowell might have for being at what is essentially a matchmaking event.
Even as the weak-chinned fellow departs, mumbling something under his breath about inconsistent artists, Edward approaches. Lavinia’s vibrant red hair and slender figure are not so rare to make him certain of her identity, but the smile she offers him could belong to no other. Her company is a welcome distraction from his social duties, the quiet, subtle pressures from his family that press on him like the close still air of the cavern presses in upon a Surfacer.
“Would you care to dance?” he asks her with a slight bow, knowing better than to break the social fiction of the party, the safe anonymity that a carefully-curated guest list can offer.
The voice is the one she'd expected, and she smiles again before the look turns rueful. “I would be delighted to, but I'm afraid I've already turned down the gentleman in the silk cravat over there. I told him I needed refreshment.” A note of true regret lingers.
“Then it would be remiss of me if I didn't offer to fetch you a glass of wine,” he counters, wondering if she's trying to subtly dissuade him from her company without being rude. “Will you permit me?” There isn't really much she can say to the offer, he knows, but he can at least observe her reaction to know if his presence is an irritant.
She grins at him, pleased he's offered a solution that will allow her to continue their conversation without accusations of bad manners or inconstancy. It's always the women upon whom the bulk of suspicion and scorn tends to fall, but Edward’s care for the unspoken social codes means she's able to relax a bit in his company. “Very gladly,” she returns, and takes his offered arm.
In the matter of a few steps, a servant happens to pass by with a tray full of glasses, the exhaustive work that ensures their black-suited presence seems invisible and unobtrusive to the guests, while securing the painstaking coordination of an event of this kind. Lavinia quickly unbuttons her gloves before selecting two glasses. As the servant disappears into the crowd, Lavinia turns to Edward and holds one out to him.
“Have you enjoyed the Feast thus far?” It feels an innocuous enough question to ask him, far more so than inquiring if he received her gift or if he has a particular sweetheart he had been hoping to see here.
“I have,” he says, taking the offered glass. He briefly wonders if his gift was too presumptuous, if a decanter of chartreuse would seem too intimate to Miss Mason. Perhaps he should have sent a playing-card instead. “The Duchess’ banquet is always pleasant. And Ms. Fnord’s tailoring has served me well this year.” He looks down at his clothing as if still taking in the effect, straightens the green-washed cuffs of his bronze-black suit. “When one is attired so creatively, it's difficult not to be swept up in the experience.”
She can't help but wonder what constitutes being swept up in the Feast--assignations in the pleasure garden, stolen kisses in the Forgotten Quarter--and swallows. What he does with his free time is surely none of her affair, she admonishes the sharp stab of jealousy blooming in her chest at the images her mind conjures. “Yes,” she says, searching for something to say that's appropriate. “It's something of a relief to don a costume and enjoy a semblance of anonymity.”
His mouth tips upward. “If you're hinting that you'd like to play at true anonymity, I can let you alone, or else pretend I've never met you before this evening.”
She laughs at that thought, her earlier discomfort dissipating at their easy banter. It's an enticing proposal, actually--to pretend as though the complexities of their acquaintance don't exist, to conjure up that night he'd found her on the stairs and see what might unfold if Henry Lowell had never crossed her path at Clara’s party. “Do you know, I think that might be an amusing diversion,” she says, smiling from beneath her own mask. Lavinia extends one small hand, gloved in peacock-blue silk to the elbow.
Edward takes it in his own. “I would be honored to dance with such a splendidly attired peacock.”
“You shouldn't wish for a peahen instead? The female of the species, in her dull colours, blending in amongst the foliage?” Teasing comes easier, she finds, once she's free from the usually-lingering concern that he might judge her for her past errors with his brother.
“Why would I wish for a dull partner when I could have a brilliant one?” He flashes a grin, teeth bright in the ballroom’s flattering light. “I’m not used to bearing such bright colours myself, and wish to take the opportunity to explore the experience.” He has no real intention of pretending she's a stranger to him; he doesn't know that he even could, not when some nights the flash of red hair from across a crowded room is enough to make him dart his eyes curiously in that direction.
The personal disclosure strikes her as more intimate than he'd share with an actual stranger, but she can't bring herself to suggest that he's betraying the point of the exercise. “Well, we’ll just have to ensure you make the most of the Feast.” She takes a sip of wine and flashes him a daring smile from over the lip of the glass, an enigmatic, enticing look she's honed over her time at court.
He knows the look, has seen her offer it at parties--and though it seems to him that a flicker of actual interest animates her expression this time, he doesn't want to presume. The men and women she uses it on probably assume the same, he knows. Still, he can't help returning a slightly more daring smile than usual, spurred on by their repartee. “Is there anything in particular you had in mind, or will I have to shift for myself?”
Drinking quite a lot and flirting with interesting strangers is not the activity she wants to suggest, even if it is the one that comes most readily to mind. “Well, if you can manage a table at Dante’s Grill, that's supposed to be the most sought-after, from what I've heard. I've never managed it myself, though.” In fact, she’s never tried; she has no desire to hear the implication in the maitre d’s voice that she isn't important enough. “But for tonight...what could be more suited to the holiday than sharing secrets with a masked stranger, only to reveal their identity at midnight?”
“Unmasking? In this company?” He feigns surprise, though the thoughtful, keen look that's often in his eyes undercuts the effect somewhat. “I didn't take you for the type.”
“You're not supposed to know what type I am,” Lavinia reminds him, laughing. “I don't take my mask off for just anyone, you know.”
“I imagine you say that to everyone to whom you promise that,” he grins before taking a slightly theatrical sip; clearly not bothered by the implications of any potential debauchery contained in their banter.
“And what if I did?” She teases back. “It's only a mask. Not all masks stop at the skin. A very wise man once told me that.”
He hums appreciatively at her memory, looks at his glass before regarding her speculatively. “He must have been exceedingly clever, I'd imagine, to come up with that.”
She laughs, delighted by his response to her slightly brazen testing, and the unfeigned sound is clear and bright in the room. Several couples nearby turn to look at them; envy is clearly written on a curvy blonde’s face.
“They're staring at me,” Lavinia murmurs, dropping her gaze to her glass, refusing to look at him, so as not to be seen showing preference or personality.
“Let them stare. It's the Feast. There will be dozens of other things for them to stare at before the night is over. They're just jealous that someone can enjoy themselves without restraint.”
“That's the point--I shouldn't enjoy myself without restraint, not here. There are certain expectations of me.” Of a woman, of a poet, of someone without money and name, of a bluestocking. “I don't wish to endure social censure for breaking them, even if no one can prove it was, in fact, me.” Lavinia takes a long drink.
“I know the sort of chilling effect, unspoken and even outright denied, that you mean,” Edward responds gently. “I've come to find it easier to conform than to deal with the censure. They'll forget soon enough if you keep to the path.”
“How do you manage it?” Her voice is soft, curious and a little sad. “Their expectations, I mean--that sense you shouldn't put a toe out of line.”
“Mostly by behaving myself and being somewhat miserable,” he admits. The wine has loosened his tongue slightly, but not enough to prompt the confession; mostly it's just the sheer relief of being able to be somewhat honest for once. “My eccentricities are mostly kept behind closed doors these days, and I fill my days with unobjectionable activities. Work. The opera. Novels and sometimes other literature.” He runs a hand through his hair, resists the urge to adjust his heavy mask. “I'm sorry, you must find me dreadfully boring.”
“Not at all. You have habits beyond hunting and drinking,” she says, gesturing with one small hand to the rest of the crowd, “even if you'd rather they not be known very widely. You're a scholar--; anyone with half a mind can see that, and you turn that sensibility to whatever activity you encounter.” Conscious of how much she's said, not to mention how close she'd come to speaking his name while they're still maintaining the fiction of anonymity, she breaks off. “Besides, if I were to consider opera and poetry and literature dull, I would be a terrible hypocrite.”
“Well, certainly not all of it is.” He smiles at her. “But appreciating art and producing art feel like quite different activities.” He cocks his head and takes a long sip from his glass, swallowing whatever else he might say about his upbringing and how it stifles his mind.
“I suppose that's true. But if I had no readers to appreciate the art I produce, I wouldn't eat.” It's a bold statement in this crowd, which thinks of Echoes as a commodity to trade and accrue instead of the only means of survival. “A discerning reader is better than a mediocre creator, to my mind.” She shrugs slightly and takes a sip from the fine crystal glass, nearly empty now.
“It is the thing one would say to a discerning reader, isn't it? Or at least one who you imagine would fancy themselves discerning.”
Lavinia laughs and shakes her head, smiling as she looks down, as much of a tacit admission as she'll make in their current company. “Only someone who is in fact discerning would consider my motives for saying such a thing.”
“An impasse, then.” The song finishes, and ladies and gentlemen begin to part. “I don't suppose you're free to dance?”
“I'm not spoken for,” she replies, offering her right hand. A corner of her mouth quirks up, unable to resist the secondary meaning.
Intentional or not, he can't help but hear the implication in her words, and his heartbeat quickens beneath his subtly-patterned waistcoat as he offers her an arm to hold. “Shall we?” He doesn't trust himself not to slip up and say something unforgivably awkward if he attempts to match wits with her in this moment.
Despite his height, they settle easily against each other, almost as close as at Hallowmas. Edward's long-fingered hand rests on her hip, unusually still, as her fingers grip his arm as if the motion of the dance might spin her out of his embrace. She's quite a good dancer, but her steps tonight are even more carefully measured, determined not to offer any room for criticism.
Edward can match her skill, dance lessons in his youth ensuring that 'capable' is his base ability, though he isn't usually one for showy moves. But he can see what steps make her look most elegant, and adjusts his strides to allow her to show off. It's a careful, subtle craft, to look as though he does nothing to assist, and her grin suggests she knows how much skill he has.
“Do the Smythe-Hargreaves host an event of this sort every Feast?” It's a gamble of a question, revealing that this is her first invitation to the event, that she doesn't belong--that her presence is contingent on the hosts’ opinions of her and not any inherent quality she possesses. But the desire to know if Edward routinely attends a soirée that seems solely a matchmaking event is too strong.
“Not precisely,” he replies, steering her easily through a series of steps that privileges conversation over elaborate maneuvers. “Usually there are several of these per year, and one family or another hosts. It's rare that the same family hosts every year; people tend to compete with their social rivals. When the Prices hosted two years ago, it was in response to Lord Guilby’s soiree which snubbed them the year before.” Edward casts his eyes up to the ornate plasterwork ceiling.
“I suppose it's no more complex than the court intrigues I've seen,” she admits, though the historical recounting is enough to make her feel a stab of envy.
“It's all intrigue.” He sounds unhappy. “I'm only here tonight because Lady Ilworth made a passing comment to mother about how she wouldn't expect any of us to attend, given our social deficiencies. So I'm to be gracious and charming and not bleed on anything.”
Lavinia laughs, a low, sympathetic sound, modulated so as not to draw the attention of their fellow dancers. “An formidable request, I'm sure. Will it hurt your task if you're seen too much with one person tonight--should I cut you loose for the attentions of the other eligible ladies after this dance?”
He wonders at her grouping herself with eligible ladies, if it's meant to signify anything other than simple fact. “By no means, unless your own inclination for attending is to find a lucrative match--and in that case I would not stand in your way.” As much as it pains him to speak the sentence.
She shakes her head, and curls the fingers resting on his arm slightly tighter around his shoulder. “My inclination for attending is to increase interest in my forthcoming novel. I've already had enough experience with those who consider themselves eligible bachelors.”
Relief floods through him, spiked with a twinge of jealousy. He's never begrudged her the affair with Henry--how could he, when he hadn't even the chance to confess an interest before his brother cut in? But he can't help but feel the acute unfairness of circumstance. “You'll have a captive audience here, I'm sure.” He’s mostly speaking of the novel.
“I do hope you're right,” she admits as the music’s tapering signals the end of one song and the beginning of another. She doesn't elaborate on her concerns about her novel sales, listening instead to the new cadence to find its rhythm.
As the previous melody fades, the strains of a slightly different song begin to rise. Yet another romantic ballad in waltz form--but this time Lavinia recognizes the tune, the soft, subdued strains she'd once heard at the Mandrake. Whether the music or the lyrics compelled her attention first, she doesn't recall, but the synthesis of the two struck her in the chest: the story of an artist, singing to a lost lover of the loneliness that's settled in after they pushed their beloved away.
Now as the familiar melody swells, her throat suddenly feels tight. It's the aesthetics of the moment that have her heart pounding, she tells herself; the thick scent of floral perfumes hanging in the air, the feeling of silk on skin where her underclothes don't reach, the haunting strains of the melody, her companion's inviting mix of reserved poise and attentiveness. Edward's hand is spread across the small of her back, and she's suddenly acutely aware of his physical presence, his body’s proximity to hers, the distance between them. She's quiet for the rest of the dance, taking in the moment with her heightened sensibilities.
“Perhaps I haven’t always understood your skill as a dancer," she admits, as the song ends and the other couples begin to part. It's an understatement, heavy with meaning, of the sort they've exchanged before; but she can't muster more now, while her heart is pounding and her head is spinning.
His blue eyes glitter beneath his mask, never leaving hers. There's something in her voice he can't quite identify, and he's torn between drawing away from the temptation and reveling in the Carnival-aspect of the evening. "Perhaps I'm only a talented dancer during the Feast, when I move unencumbered," he returns, lips curving upward.
The smile she flashes him is slight and sweet and enigmatic, borne entirely of the moment. His comment sends a pang through her, a reminder that the feelings coursing through her can't flourish without their masks, within the overgrown garden of their history. She takes a breath. It will pass, she tells herself. It always does.
"I might prevail upon you for another glass of wine." Her voice is soft. It may not last beyond the night, and certainly not beyond the Feast, but she means to enjoy his presence while she can.
"Of course." Let the gossips talk; he thinks. He expects to fend off all manner of probing questions and pointed jokes from Stags members about how much of his evening he's spent in her company. "I'm sure we can find a vintage you'll enjoy."
"I liked the last," she admits as they weave through the crowd. "If there's any left, that is."
"It can't hurt to look." He hopes that's true.
Lavinia Mason has no illusions about the purpose she serves here, as backdrop to the social machinations of the aristocratic matchmaking economy. Nearly as lucrative an industry as Mr. Fires' factories, she thinks, as she finishes her glass of Broken Giant. She doesn't look terribly out of place, the aquamarine necklace gleaming at her throat and complemented by her earrings, but she can't help but feel acutely aware that this is, essentially, work. The more she's seen in society, the more this audience might recognize her name when she publishes the novel she's busily finishing: this party is as much a social calculation for her as it is for the young nobles flitting and flirting their way through endless waltzes.
She's just finished dancing with someone-or-other’s second son, both of them being exceedingly polite as they maintain the expected social pleasantries. He's not well-versed in poetry or the ballet, and most of his interests seem to be centered around hunting--lizards, mostly, but once an enormous fungal column, which he describes in great detail. Lavinia wonders with amusement what Midnight might make of him, but immediately decides it would be too cruel to subject the other woman to that. She's relieved when he leaves her at the side of the room, but her heart sinks instantly as a weak-chinned man beetles up to her, asking for a dance.
“Oh, no, I couldn't possibly,” she says with an apologetic look, thinking this very well might be the notoriously bad dancer Olive has warned her of. “I'm afraid I'm quite heated, and should take some refreshment.” Looking about the room for someone she recognizes, or at least a distraction, her eyes fall on a tall, thin figure dressed in a dark suit, with luminescent green licking at the cuffs, and an asymmetrical metal mask covering much of his face. The man’s dark brown hair, too long to be quite fashionable, is tidied and smoothed back into a part as much as possible. Lavinia smiles at him, hoping to catch his eye, even as she wonders what reason Edward Lowell might have for being at what is essentially a matchmaking event.
Even as the weak-chinned fellow departs, mumbling something under his breath about inconsistent artists, Edward approaches. Lavinia’s vibrant red hair and slender figure are not so rare to make him certain of her identity, but the smile she offers him could belong to no other. Her company is a welcome distraction from his social duties, the quiet, subtle pressures from his family that press on him like the close still air of the cavern presses in upon a Surfacer.
“Would you care to dance?” he asks her with a slight bow, knowing better than to break the social fiction of the party, the safe anonymity that a carefully-curated guest list can offer.
The voice is the one she'd expected, and she smiles again before the look turns rueful. “I would be delighted to, but I'm afraid I've already turned down the gentleman in the silk cravat over there. I told him I needed refreshment.” A note of true regret lingers.
“Then it would be remiss of me if I didn't offer to fetch you a glass of wine,” he counters, wondering if she's trying to subtly dissuade him from her company without being rude. “Will you permit me?” There isn't really much she can say to the offer, he knows, but he can at least observe her reaction to know if his presence is an irritant.
She grins at him, pleased he's offered a solution that will allow her to continue their conversation without accusations of bad manners or inconstancy. It's always the women upon whom the bulk of suspicion and scorn tends to fall, but Edward’s care for the unspoken social codes means she's able to relax a bit in his company. “Very gladly,” she returns, and takes his offered arm.
In the matter of a few steps, a servant happens to pass by with a tray full of glasses, the exhaustive work that ensures their black-suited presence seems invisible and unobtrusive to the guests, while securing the painstaking coordination of an event of this kind. Lavinia quickly unbuttons her gloves before selecting two glasses. As the servant disappears into the crowd, Lavinia turns to Edward and holds one out to him.
“Have you enjoyed the Feast thus far?” It feels an innocuous enough question to ask him, far more so than inquiring if he received her gift or if he has a particular sweetheart he had been hoping to see here.
“I have,” he says, taking the offered glass. He briefly wonders if his gift was too presumptuous, if a decanter of chartreuse would seem too intimate to Miss Mason. Perhaps he should have sent a playing-card instead. “The Duchess’ banquet is always pleasant. And Ms. Fnord’s tailoring has served me well this year.” He looks down at his clothing as if still taking in the effect, straightens the green-washed cuffs of his bronze-black suit. “When one is attired so creatively, it's difficult not to be swept up in the experience.”
She can't help but wonder what constitutes being swept up in the Feast--assignations in the pleasure garden, stolen kisses in the Forgotten Quarter--and swallows. What he does with his free time is surely none of her affair, she admonishes the sharp stab of jealousy blooming in her chest at the images her mind conjures. “Yes,” she says, searching for something to say that's appropriate. “It's something of a relief to don a costume and enjoy a semblance of anonymity.”
His mouth tips upward. “If you're hinting that you'd like to play at true anonymity, I can let you alone, or else pretend I've never met you before this evening.”
She laughs at that thought, her earlier discomfort dissipating at their easy banter. It's an enticing proposal, actually--to pretend as though the complexities of their acquaintance don't exist, to conjure up that night he'd found her on the stairs and see what might unfold if Henry Lowell had never crossed her path at Clara’s party. “Do you know, I think that might be an amusing diversion,” she says, smiling from beneath her own mask. Lavinia extends one small hand, gloved in peacock-blue silk to the elbow.
Edward takes it in his own. “I would be honored to dance with such a splendidly attired peacock.”
“You shouldn't wish for a peahen instead? The female of the species, in her dull colours, blending in amongst the foliage?” Teasing comes easier, she finds, once she's free from the usually-lingering concern that he might judge her for her past errors with his brother.
“Why would I wish for a dull partner when I could have a brilliant one?” He flashes a grin, teeth bright in the ballroom’s flattering light. “I’m not used to bearing such bright colours myself, and wish to take the opportunity to explore the experience.” He has no real intention of pretending she's a stranger to him; he doesn't know that he even could, not when some nights the flash of red hair from across a crowded room is enough to make him dart his eyes curiously in that direction.
The personal disclosure strikes her as more intimate than he'd share with an actual stranger, but she can't bring herself to suggest that he's betraying the point of the exercise. “Well, we’ll just have to ensure you make the most of the Feast.” She takes a sip of wine and flashes him a daring smile from over the lip of the glass, an enigmatic, enticing look she's honed over her time at court.
He knows the look, has seen her offer it at parties--and though it seems to him that a flicker of actual interest animates her expression this time, he doesn't want to presume. The men and women she uses it on probably assume the same, he knows. Still, he can't help returning a slightly more daring smile than usual, spurred on by their repartee. “Is there anything in particular you had in mind, or will I have to shift for myself?”
Drinking quite a lot and flirting with interesting strangers is not the activity she wants to suggest, even if it is the one that comes most readily to mind. “Well, if you can manage a table at Dante’s Grill, that's supposed to be the most sought-after, from what I've heard. I've never managed it myself, though.” In fact, she’s never tried; she has no desire to hear the implication in the maitre d’s voice that she isn't important enough. “But for tonight...what could be more suited to the holiday than sharing secrets with a masked stranger, only to reveal their identity at midnight?”
“Unmasking? In this company?” He feigns surprise, though the thoughtful, keen look that's often in his eyes undercuts the effect somewhat. “I didn't take you for the type.”
“You're not supposed to know what type I am,” Lavinia reminds him, laughing. “I don't take my mask off for just anyone, you know.”
“I imagine you say that to everyone to whom you promise that,” he grins before taking a slightly theatrical sip; clearly not bothered by the implications of any potential debauchery contained in their banter.
“And what if I did?” She teases back. “It's only a mask. Not all masks stop at the skin. A very wise man once told me that.”
He hums appreciatively at her memory, looks at his glass before regarding her speculatively. “He must have been exceedingly clever, I'd imagine, to come up with that.”
She laughs, delighted by his response to her slightly brazen testing, and the unfeigned sound is clear and bright in the room. Several couples nearby turn to look at them; envy is clearly written on a curvy blonde’s face.
“They're staring at me,” Lavinia murmurs, dropping her gaze to her glass, refusing to look at him, so as not to be seen showing preference or personality.
“Let them stare. It's the Feast. There will be dozens of other things for them to stare at before the night is over. They're just jealous that someone can enjoy themselves without restraint.”
“That's the point--I shouldn't enjoy myself without restraint, not here. There are certain expectations of me.” Of a woman, of a poet, of someone without money and name, of a bluestocking. “I don't wish to endure social censure for breaking them, even if no one can prove it was, in fact, me.” Lavinia takes a long drink.
“I know the sort of chilling effect, unspoken and even outright denied, that you mean,” Edward responds gently. “I've come to find it easier to conform than to deal with the censure. They'll forget soon enough if you keep to the path.”
“How do you manage it?” Her voice is soft, curious and a little sad. “Their expectations, I mean--that sense you shouldn't put a toe out of line.”
“Mostly by behaving myself and being somewhat miserable,” he admits. The wine has loosened his tongue slightly, but not enough to prompt the confession; mostly it's just the sheer relief of being able to be somewhat honest for once. “My eccentricities are mostly kept behind closed doors these days, and I fill my days with unobjectionable activities. Work. The opera. Novels and sometimes other literature.” He runs a hand through his hair, resists the urge to adjust his heavy mask. “I'm sorry, you must find me dreadfully boring.”
“Not at all. You have habits beyond hunting and drinking,” she says, gesturing with one small hand to the rest of the crowd, “even if you'd rather they not be known very widely. You're a scholar--; anyone with half a mind can see that, and you turn that sensibility to whatever activity you encounter.” Conscious of how much she's said, not to mention how close she'd come to speaking his name while they're still maintaining the fiction of anonymity, she breaks off. “Besides, if I were to consider opera and poetry and literature dull, I would be a terrible hypocrite.”
“Well, certainly not all of it is.” He smiles at her. “But appreciating art and producing art feel like quite different activities.” He cocks his head and takes a long sip from his glass, swallowing whatever else he might say about his upbringing and how it stifles his mind.
“I suppose that's true. But if I had no readers to appreciate the art I produce, I wouldn't eat.” It's a bold statement in this crowd, which thinks of Echoes as a commodity to trade and accrue instead of the only means of survival. “A discerning reader is better than a mediocre creator, to my mind.” She shrugs slightly and takes a sip from the fine crystal glass, nearly empty now.
“It is the thing one would say to a discerning reader, isn't it? Or at least one who you imagine would fancy themselves discerning.”
Lavinia laughs and shakes her head, smiling as she looks down, as much of a tacit admission as she'll make in their current company. “Only someone who is in fact discerning would consider my motives for saying such a thing.”
“An impasse, then.” The song finishes, and ladies and gentlemen begin to part. “I don't suppose you're free to dance?”
“I'm not spoken for,” she replies, offering her right hand. A corner of her mouth quirks up, unable to resist the secondary meaning.
Intentional or not, he can't help but hear the implication in her words, and his heartbeat quickens beneath his subtly-patterned waistcoat as he offers her an arm to hold. “Shall we?” He doesn't trust himself not to slip up and say something unforgivably awkward if he attempts to match wits with her in this moment.
Despite his height, they settle easily against each other, almost as close as at Hallowmas. Edward's long-fingered hand rests on her hip, unusually still, as her fingers grip his arm as if the motion of the dance might spin her out of his embrace. She's quite a good dancer, but her steps tonight are even more carefully measured, determined not to offer any room for criticism.
Edward can match her skill, dance lessons in his youth ensuring that 'capable' is his base ability, though he isn't usually one for showy moves. But he can see what steps make her look most elegant, and adjusts his strides to allow her to show off. It's a careful, subtle craft, to look as though he does nothing to assist, and her grin suggests she knows how much skill he has.
“Do the Smythe-Hargreaves host an event of this sort every Feast?” It's a gamble of a question, revealing that this is her first invitation to the event, that she doesn't belong--that her presence is contingent on the hosts’ opinions of her and not any inherent quality she possesses. But the desire to know if Edward routinely attends a soirée that seems solely a matchmaking event is too strong.
“Not precisely,” he replies, steering her easily through a series of steps that privileges conversation over elaborate maneuvers. “Usually there are several of these per year, and one family or another hosts. It's rare that the same family hosts every year; people tend to compete with their social rivals. When the Prices hosted two years ago, it was in response to Lord Guilby’s soiree which snubbed them the year before.” Edward casts his eyes up to the ornate plasterwork ceiling.
“I suppose it's no more complex than the court intrigues I've seen,” she admits, though the historical recounting is enough to make her feel a stab of envy.
“It's all intrigue.” He sounds unhappy. “I'm only here tonight because Lady Ilworth made a passing comment to mother about how she wouldn't expect any of us to attend, given our social deficiencies. So I'm to be gracious and charming and not bleed on anything.”
Lavinia laughs, a low, sympathetic sound, modulated so as not to draw the attention of their fellow dancers. “An formidable request, I'm sure. Will it hurt your task if you're seen too much with one person tonight--should I cut you loose for the attentions of the other eligible ladies after this dance?”
He wonders at her grouping herself with eligible ladies, if it's meant to signify anything other than simple fact. “By no means, unless your own inclination for attending is to find a lucrative match--and in that case I would not stand in your way.” As much as it pains him to speak the sentence.
She shakes her head, and curls the fingers resting on his arm slightly tighter around his shoulder. “My inclination for attending is to increase interest in my forthcoming novel. I've already had enough experience with those who consider themselves eligible bachelors.”
Relief floods through him, spiked with a twinge of jealousy. He's never begrudged her the affair with Henry--how could he, when he hadn't even the chance to confess an interest before his brother cut in? But he can't help but feel the acute unfairness of circumstance. “You'll have a captive audience here, I'm sure.” He’s mostly speaking of the novel.
“I do hope you're right,” she admits as the music’s tapering signals the end of one song and the beginning of another. She doesn't elaborate on her concerns about her novel sales, listening instead to the new cadence to find its rhythm.
As the previous melody fades, the strains of a slightly different song begin to rise. Yet another romantic ballad in waltz form--but this time Lavinia recognizes the tune, the soft, subdued strains she'd once heard at the Mandrake. Whether the music or the lyrics compelled her attention first, she doesn't recall, but the synthesis of the two struck her in the chest: the story of an artist, singing to a lost lover of the loneliness that's settled in after they pushed their beloved away.
Now as the familiar melody swells, her throat suddenly feels tight. It's the aesthetics of the moment that have her heart pounding, she tells herself; the thick scent of floral perfumes hanging in the air, the feeling of silk on skin where her underclothes don't reach, the haunting strains of the melody, her companion's inviting mix of reserved poise and attentiveness. Edward's hand is spread across the small of her back, and she's suddenly acutely aware of his physical presence, his body’s proximity to hers, the distance between them. She's quiet for the rest of the dance, taking in the moment with her heightened sensibilities.
“Perhaps I haven’t always understood your skill as a dancer," she admits, as the song ends and the other couples begin to part. It's an understatement, heavy with meaning, of the sort they've exchanged before; but she can't muster more now, while her heart is pounding and her head is spinning.
His blue eyes glitter beneath his mask, never leaving hers. There's something in her voice he can't quite identify, and he's torn between drawing away from the temptation and reveling in the Carnival-aspect of the evening. "Perhaps I'm only a talented dancer during the Feast, when I move unencumbered," he returns, lips curving upward.
The smile she flashes him is slight and sweet and enigmatic, borne entirely of the moment. His comment sends a pang through her, a reminder that the feelings coursing through her can't flourish without their masks, within the overgrown garden of their history. She takes a breath. It will pass, she tells herself. It always does.
"I might prevail upon you for another glass of wine." Her voice is soft. It may not last beyond the night, and certainly not beyond the Feast, but she means to enjoy his presence while she can.
"Of course." Let the gossips talk; he thinks. He expects to fend off all manner of probing questions and pointed jokes from Stags members about how much of his evening he's spent in her company. "I'm sure we can find a vintage you'll enjoy."
"I liked the last," she admits as they weave through the crowd. "If there's any left, that is."
"It can't hurt to look." He hopes that's true.
