The Tomcat (4)

As the ball swirled around them, Sirius found himself drawn into the orbit of a circle of noblemen, Count Ashford among them. The gathering was a familiar dance of polite conversation and thinly veiled competition, each man subtly touting his latest acquisitions, political maneuvers, and marks of status.

Ashford, however, played the game with the subtlety of a carnival barker. With broad, wine-sloshing gestures and unfiltered pronouncements, he dominated the discussion with a bluster that would have been pathetic if it weren't so loudly delivered.

"Ah, but you see, gentlemen," Ashford declared, swirling his ruby-red wine with an exaggerated flourish, "there is no estate in all of Vaelmont that can hold a candle to Rothwale! Not only do we host the season's most sought-after gatherings, but our cellars? Simply unparalleled. The best grapevines in the country, I tell you! Put those pretentious Lornish vintages to shame. Why, I'd wager even Duke Ravencourt himself—should he ever decide to grace us with his presence—would raise a glass in agreement!"

His wife, Countess Beatrice Ashford, a woman with the perpetually patient expression of a long-suffering statue, resisted the urge to roll her eyes heavenward. "I'm sure His Grace would be... thoroughly impressed, dear," she murmured into her own glass.

The men around them exchanged a round of carefully neutral smiles and knowing glances. While none dared openly contradict their host, their muted, polite laughter was commentary enough.

Sirius, a master of reserved observation, offered only a curt, noncommittal nod. "A fine estate is a testament to its resources," he stated, his voice cool. "But its true measure is taken by the wisdom of its steward."

Ashford's laughter boomed, utterly missing the barbed compliment. "Well said, Count Whitefield! Well said! Wisdom and wealth—that is the combination that separates men of legacy from the rest of the rabble!"

Nearby, Vincent stood with the group, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else, resisting the profound urge to massage his own temples.

Meanwhile, Louis had steered Annie toward a cluster of his friends, a pack of young noblemen gathered like handsome vultures around the grand buffet table. Annie, eager to ingratiate herself, leaned forward with a practiced giggle, adopting an air of casual, breezy charm that belied her calculated intent.

"Oh, but hunting sounds simply thrilling!" she exclaimed, the golden silk of her skirts whispering as she shifted closer to the group. "I do wish Father would allow me to join Louis sometime. Just imagine it—a girl with such... daring pursuits!"

The young men chuckled, exchanging amused, indulgent glances. "A lady hunter?" one mused, stroking his chin. "That would certainly be a novel sight. But surely, Lady Annabelle, a beauty such as yours is meant for more refined activities than chasing prey through the mud."

Annie pouted dramatically, resting her chin in her palm. "Oh, but that's what makes it so exciting! I find all those delicate, feminine pastimes so dreadfully boring. I'd much rather be in trousers, running wild in the forests with strong, intelligent men!"

Louis smirked, unable to resist. "If only you could manage to wake before noon instead of sleeping the day away like a pampered cat, then maybe we'd actually consider taking you along."

"Louis!" Annie smacked his arm, shooting him a glare that promised retribution. The siblings' familiar bickering drew easy laughter from Louis' friends.

"You never told us you had such a spirited little sister, Whitefield," said Gregory, a minor Rothwale lord's son with tanned skin and a head of pale blonde hair.

"You should join us for drinks sometime," added Leonard, a lanky figure who looked like he'd blow over in a strong wind. "Guaranteed you won't regret it!"

Annie smirked. "Now that sounds like a proper plan. Just us lads. No nagging or unnecessary drama."

"Well said!" Gregory clinked his glass against Leonard's. "Well said indeed!"

Their chatter continued unabated as Elise casually approached the lavish buffet table, her intent focused solely on acquiring a glass of wine. The moment she reached for a crystal goblet, a ripple of recognition went through the group of young noblemen.

"Lady Elise?" one of them blinked, his eyes widening. He practically shoved past Louis and Annie to get a closer look. "You... you're the Elise Whitefield? The one from the guild?"

Another murmured in awed agreement, his gaze caught between fascination and unease. "I've seen the sketches in the Gazette, but in person... you're even more... formidable than they say."

"You really do have your hair cut so short. How... unconventional for a lady of your standing," a third observed, though it sounded more like a compliment than a critique.

Elise simply bowed slightly, unfazed by their dramatic awe. "A pleasure."

"Nonsense, the pleasure is ours," Leonard insisted, his earlier bravado replaced with genuine admiration. "You were the one who exposed Marquess Davidson! The one feeding on his own staff!"

"That was you?" Gregory let out a low, impressed whistle. "Damn. That took guts."

"And to think, a lady with such a... fearsome reputation could also be so..." One of the young men let his gaze linger on her sharp features and pale eyes for a moment too long before grinning. "Well, let's just say, deadly and beautiful is a potent combination."

"Is it true you started hunting when you were just a girl?"

"No, eight! I heard eight! And you're only, what, twenty now?"

"Do you have a betrothed, yet, my lady?" a particularly bold one, Robertson, blurted out.

"For God's sake, Robertson," another groaned, elbowing him. "She slays monsters for a living; she's not going to be interested in a fop who can't even hold his sword properly."

"Sod off!"

Louis, who had been forced to the periphery, watched the scene with a darkening expression. His grip tightened on his goblet until his knuckles turned white. "Her again," he muttered under his breath, the words dripping with bitter resentment.

Annie, standing beside him, had gone rigid. She masked her frustration with a bright, tinkling laugh that sounded like shattering glass. "Well, well, Elise," she cooed, her smile not reaching her eyes. "It seems you've managed to captivate the entire table without even trying. How very... like you."

Elise's unreadable eyes flickered to her sister for a brief second before returning to the wine she was now pouring.

"Tell us, Lady Elise," Gregory leaned in, captivated, "is it true you once took down a nest of vampires single-handedly in the old merchant district?"

"I heard it was seven of them. In the rain," Leonard countered, eager to contribute.

"Oh, to be a vampire defeated by such a—"

"Is it true Viscount Ashford is still desperately in love with you?"

Elise resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. All she had wanted was a drink.

Eventually, Louis, his irritation reaching a boiling point, finally had enough. He slammed his goblet down on the table with a sharp crack, making several people jump and drawing every eye.

"Oi. Enough."

He crossed his arms, his expression thunderous. "My sister is not a carnival attraction for your amusement. She has more important things to do than satisfy your morbid curiosity."

A stunned silence fell over the group. The noblemen, suddenly realizing their fawning had crossed into disrespect, scrambled to bow and murmur hasty, apologetic goodbyes, each trying to offer a final compliment before Louis practically herded them away like sheep.

Annie watched them retreat, then turned back to her sister with a smile so tight it looked painful. "Well," she murmured, her voice sweetly venomous, "I suppose some people don't even have to try, do they?" Then her expression darkened, her voice dropping to a cold, barely audible whisper. "Must be nice, always being the better sister."

Elise held her gaze, her own face an unreadable mask of calm. She said nothing.

With a frustrated huff, Annie spun on her heel and flounced off after her brother and his now-subdued friends.

Left utterly alone, Elise remained where she stood, her full goblet finally in hand. She let out a slow, quiet breath and turned, strolling towards the nearest floor-to-ceiling window. She gazed out at the night sky stretching over the vast, manicured grounds. The stars were scattered across the darkness like scattered diamond dust, their cold, constant glow a stark contrast to the hot, noisy, fleeting drama of the ballroom behind her.

She took a slow sip of her wine, savoring the rich flavor and the precious, fleeting moment of solitude.

"A fine evening indeed," a voice purred from behind her.

It was a deep, velvety baritone, each syllable crafted and delivered with an effortless, hypnotic charm that seemed to still the very air around them.

Elise turned.

And there he stood. A man of such haunting, sculptural beauty that for a single, suspended heartbeat, the cacophony of the ballroom seemed to fade into a distant hum. All that existed was the space between them.

He was clad in a suit of deep, wine-dark burgundy that clung to his tall, powerful frame with elegant precision. The soft sheen of black satin at his cuffs and collar played against the rich wool, drawing the eye inexorably upward—toward features too perfectly composed to be anything but art.

His mahogany hair was swept back into a neat, low tail, though a few deliberately unruly strands framed a face that belonged on a classical fresco: long, dark lashes, defined brows that hinted at irony, and high cheekbones that cast elegant shadows when he moved. His jaw was a study in sharp, clean lines, untouched by stubble, all smooth planes and subtle contrast.

And then, his eyes. Phoenix eyes—long, narrow, and tilted at the corners with a natural, penetrating sharpness. They were a deep, warm umber, glinting like polished lacquer under the chandeliers. Their exotic shape gave him an unreadable, faintly dominant gaze that was sultry even in its stillness.

"But it would be a shame to waste such a beautiful dress on a conversation with the stars," he said, his smile slow and deliberate, a knowing glint in his mesmerizing gaze.

Elise recognized him instantly—the nobleman from the execution. The one who had been an island of calm in the sea of grotesque spectacle. To see him here, in the heart of Ashford's opulent den, felt surreal, like a phantom from one world stepping into another.

Her gaze swept over him, taking in the effortless refinement, the subtle but undeniable air of command that he wore as naturally as his own skin. He was undeniably striking, yet something about him remained impenetrable, veiled beneath layers of practiced charm.

She gently swirled the wine in her goblet. "I find the sky far more engaging than the obligatory pleasantries of a ballroom." Her eyes, cool and direct, finally met his.

He chuckled, a low, rich sound that vibrated through the space between them. "Even so, I feel compelled to note... we've met before, have we not?"

"Indeed. I hadn't expected a second encounter," she replied, her tone even.

His lips curved into a slight, intriguing smile. "Nor I. Yet fate appears to have a sense of whimsy."

Elise merely tilted her head. "Or it is merely a small circle of acquaintance."

"That too," he conceded with an easy grace. "But I must admit, I am... pleasantly surprised. I had not anticipated finding the most captivating sight in the entire ballroom hidden away in a quiet corner."

Elise regarded him with glacial coolness. "You are rather forward, sir, to offer such flattery before even exchanging names."

His smile deepened, a spark of genuine mischief lighting his eyes. "A grave oversight. Shall I remedy it with another compliment, or would a proper introduction suffice?"

She arched a delicate, skeptical brow. "I would prefer candor."

"Then you shall have both." He took a measured step closer, his voice lowering into a more intimate register. "Candor—you possess a presence that commands attention without the slightest effort, whether standing beneath the open sky or amidst this gilded spectacle. And as for my introduction..."

He paused, as if weighing his words on a scale. "For now, let us say I am merely a man who appreciates intriguing company and even more intriguing conversation."

Elise let out a quiet, noncommittal hum. "How conveniently vague."

"I find it adds to the mystery," he murmured. "Tell me, then—what is it about the stars that captivates you so?"

She took a slow sip of wine. "They are undemanding conversationalists."

"Oh?" His brow lifted in genuine amusement. He moved to stand beside her, following her gaze out into the night. "How so?"

Elise traced the rim of her goblet with a gloved finger. "They do not expect me to lie to them. And they never lie to me."

"A poignant point. Are you often required to lie to your fellow guests?"

"Without a doubt," she replied without missing a beat. "I would hardly be praised for admitting I have no interest in the state of Lord So-and-So's new hounds or Lady Such-and-Such's summer renovations. Hence, 'I am well, thank you' is a necessary social fiction."

For a brief moment, he was utterly still. Then, he laughed—a silky, surprised, and utterly captivating sound. "A devastatingly wise observation," he mused, recovering his composure. "Though, if I may offer a counterpoint... one might argue that even stars deceive. The light we see is merely a ghost, an echo from a time long dead."

Elise tilted her head, regarding him with a new flicker of interest. "You are a student of astronomy?"

"Among other philosophies," he said, glancing up at the celestial tapestry. "Perhaps I simply appreciate the irony. That even the most constant, brilliant lights in our sky are not what they appear to be in the present."

Elise studied his profile, something pensive and calculating stirring behind her pale blue eyes.

"How poetic," she commented, her voice a soft challenge. "Tell me, tomcat—what is your name?"

"Tomcat?" he repeated, his voice dipping with delighted amusement. "Now that is a first."

She met his gaze, her own unwavering. "You strike me as the type who always lands on his feet."

He let out another quiet, silken laugh. "A fair assessment." He leaned in, just a fraction, closing the comfortable distance between them. "And if I were to give you my name, would my lady find me more or less agreeable?"

She held his mesmerizing gaze, her expression unreadable. "That would depend entirely on the name."

"If my lady is so curious..." he began, his voice dropping to a near-whisper as he stepped even closer, his towering presence suddenly encompassing, intimate. "My name is—"

"Ah! Your Grace! Duke Ravencourt! Welcome, welcome!"

Count Ashford's booming voice shattered the moment like a hammer through glass, pulling the attention of everyone in their vicinity.

Elise went perfectly still.

Duke Ravencourt...? He's here?

Her eyes, moving on instinct, drifted toward the source of the interruption, a flicker of analytical curiosity rising within her for the legendary, elusive Duke...

...Only to find Count Ashford waddling directly toward them, his arms spread wide in a gesture of grandiose welcome, his beaming smile fixed squarely on the man beside her.

She blinked. Once. Slowly.

Then, with dawning slowness, she turned her head back to look at him.

He hadn't moved. Not a muscle. The same amused, slightly mischievous smile still played on his lips. The same knowing glint remained in his devastating phoenix eyes.

She stared.

Silence stretched, thin and taut.

And then, the pieces clicked into place with the finality of a lock turning.

Her blood went cold. Her breath caught in her throat.

"...You're—"

He tilted his head a fraction, meeting her wide, stunned gaze with unshakable calm. Then, he let out a soft, utterly unrepentant laugh, the sound of a man who had been caught in a delightful game.

"Ah," he murmured, his voice like a secret shared just between them. "It seems the tomcat is, indeed, out of the bag."