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Chapter Four: By Whistfylle

The evening had been dreadful. Each new partner only left her aware of his inadequacies when compared to the one mad whose steps never faltered and conversation never flagged. She no desire for other companions, and this forced intimacy of the formal dance left her reeling in distaste.

Every graceful turn made her more aware of the imperfect man opposite her. Her mind wandered until she found herself scrutinizing their unpleasantly large pores, or slightly crooked teeth. Her smiles barely concealed cringes, her demurely lowered eyelids hiding the disgust she had developed for all males that would never measure up to Him.

Watching over the rim of her crystal glass, she ignored the rich, drifting scent of cabernet in favor of another more alluring sense. Her eyes were drawn to the flawless posture, the commanding gestures, and the white flash of his grin.

One giddy woman clung to his arm, obviously vapid and floundering in boring, married life. The threads of grey blending into her dark hair did not make her any less child-like as she fluttered her lashes and fairly pranced with the simply pride of standing beside him.

Another lithe beauty lounged against a black marble column, looking on from behind ringlets of ruddy mahogany. Her violet eyes flashed like a cat stalking prey, feasting on the fine sight of male flesh in silk and velvet.

She observed, enraged and fascinated. Her nostrils flared with indignation as she recognized the hussy's gaze as one of her own, and realized that his steely eyes were meeting it levelly.

The red-haired temptress extended a languid hand in offering to the bard, graciously dismissing his more elderly companion in the same gesture. Her bejeweled fingers drew several sidelong glances as they glittered against the night of his sleeve. Leaning closer to him, a few words stirred her upturned lips, something darker blazing in her stare.

The bard did not hesitate, responding to the invitations in her touch and look without breaking either. He took to the floor, guiding with pressure at the small of her back, though the true lead was the intensity of the gaze they shared. She followed in dainty steps that mirrored his, responding as if drawn by a web of intricate, invisible threads.

The Lady garbed in emerald, nearly flung her still-full goblet at the nearest passing attendant, gathering the lush green brocade of her skirts as she entered the fray of the ballroom unescorted. The dodged waltzing couples left and right, light on her feet and focused on her mission.

Her bosom heaved against the heavy stays of her gown, the pure rage igniting her veins and stealing her breath as she made her way toward the couple. The other woman shifted nearer still to whisper a few words to the bard's ear, and bared a coy smile. Another wave of adrenaline shot through her to see him so close to anyone else.

Her extremities felt numb as she came upon them, with the unfamiliar sensation of a growl building at the back of her throat.

"Whore!"

The sound of  her hand meeting the other woman's cheek was almost as startling as the sting it left behind on her palm. She stared at the red welt blossoming against the dark skin, feeling nothing but the haze of anger and the answering physical pain.

Startled fingers flew to clutch the injury, the flashing of their gem encrusted rings once more drawing attention. The silence was complete, but for the distant strains of conversation from the lavish courtyard and the rustle of skirts coming to a half. Fourty pairs of eyes focused on her, some narrowed to slits, some wide and offended. The musicians stood on their dais for a better view, barely able to contain their smiles at the shift of entertainment.

Her lips thinned to a pale line as she strode forward, the brilliant facets of the enormous emerald at her throat washing her face in lurid green. She stopped a bare inches from the injured woman, her expression suddenly twisting to an ugly sneer as she raised her hands and shoved with all the weight of her slight frame. The taller woman tottered on her tapering heels, then like a dying flower she collapsed in a puddle of carmine satin.

A collective gasp rose from the crowd, though they seemed frozen with indecision. She rounded on the Dhe'nar with her small hands balled into fists at her sides.

"Fetch my cloak," she hissed through gritted teeth. "I believe.. it is time to return to the Manor."

Stooping to bestow a light kiss on her forehead, he touched her cheek as he straightened. His fingers lingered, that sly trademark grin beginning to slowly spread across his face.

"Lady Gylaume, surely you who most often keep my company would not begrudge your friends the same, " the bard replied, his countenance an impression of perfectly retrained amusement.

The Faendryl began to smile involuntarily in return, and then the full implications of his words were realized. She jerked back, shocked by his rebuttal and suddenly aware of the gaping social faux pas she had performed.

He regarded her with a mild expression as she swiftly backed away in horrified disgust, then turned on his heel to offer a hand to his fallen partner.

She waited, hoping still, and glaring at the broad curves of his shoulders. He made no move to face her, smothing the dark fabric of the other woman's gown as he helped her to her feet.

"I only asked if he would dance with my sister..." Tears had smeared the kohl around her eyes, and the fall had disturbed her elaborate coif, giving the woman with auburn locks a tragic, pathetic air. "She is lonely since her husband passed, and this gentleman is apt at making one feel wanted..."

The tinkling of female laughter pursued Lady Gylaume as she fled the dance floor. She could feel the crowd pulsate and write with the burgeoning rumors of her undignified, unforgivable transgressions. The weight of collective revulsion left her with a film of shame, relieving her of pride and poise more skillfully than any rogue might lift a gem. And it only grew more intense, as she waited for her ever faithful servants to inform her of the Dhe'nar's return.

Daylight found her curled beside the only window in her chambers facing the interior of the city, with a vacant stare and her white knuckles curled around a band of golden metal.