The music was of tasteful volume and meter. Lord Darmond stood outside the dance for a moment, drinking weak wine and watching the newly presented ladies in their first movements of public life. One, a daughter of a mere baron, stood aloof. She looked Welsh, with dark hair and eyes against her appropriately pale skin. An unusual beauty in a court full of wheaten locks. Darmond smiled at the sight. Her maids were probably nervous wrecks, for no lady dared wear her hair dark. If nothing else, a wig should cover such a fault. A stuborn woman, then, and stronger in mind than all her maids and her mother.
Strength appealed to Darmond.
A new dance began. The lord joined the line, noting his quarry's position. Four turns through; perhaps half an hour from the size of the dance.
Some other peer from Parliament took advantage of their close proximity to discuss a point of law. Lord Darmond answered by rote, having been approached over this subject three times this night already. Step, bow, turn, switch. Some nervous young lady whose maids were too free with the paint chattered at him about a lovely garden. Turn, bow, two steps, switch. This lady, a married woman, danced silently. Her eyes watched her husband. Again; step, bow, turn, switch. The figures turned slowly. Both lords standing on either side of Darmont pressed him for answers he refused to give. Another set, and the dark-haired lady stood before him. She was quiet from blonde snubbery, so Darmont spoke first.
"How many maids have lost to you, lady?"
The dark eyes broke into delicious sparkle, but she was too well-trained to smile openly. "Ten, your Grace, since I was twelve."
Darmont approved. "And you mother?"
The slight look of reproach reminded him of his imposition. "She despairs of any great peer noticing me now. Her head is on nothing but carriages."
Darmont nodded sagely as he bowed, then the next turn came and she moved into the next figure. Stubborn woman, indeed. He considered his next move through the remaining steps of the dance, answering those who passed him in the figures with bare courtesy.
The dance ended. A new one began with new lords and ladies lining up. The dark-haired woman went out into the garden.
A few discreet questions gained only slim answers. She was merely the daughter of a baron. She would never be married, according to the ladies of the court, while she carried on so.
More of the awful wine occupied Darmont's hand. Someone nearby was quoting some low sonnet. The lord's muse chuckled. Another moment to gloss the poem, then into the maze to hunt. It did not take long to find a corner in which to wait.
The lady appeared. Her dress of slate blue disguised her in the low light. Only her pale skin gave her away. She inclined her head to him. He bowed.
"My lady." The words were ready and a sparkle lit his eyes. "Shall I compare thee to a winter night?"
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