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Chapter 5

Imogene accepted a glass of campenois from a circulating servant, waving her fan idly in her other hand. The ballroom was becoming, as ballrooms always did, overly warm now that the dancing was underway. She was glad to sit out the current round of dances. The emperor's ballroom was large, but so was the number of people filling it. She'd wanted another drink more than she wanted to dance her way through the crush with the last nervous young aristo who'd approached her, so she'd declined him with a smile designed to be both firm and politely demure, pleading a need to retire temporarily. He'd shrugged and moved on to another group of young ladies, not seeming fazed by the refusal.

The pale blonde in bright yellow he'd asked next had accepted, and Imogene had watched them join the dancers before she'd made her way back toward Chloe. She had no idea how many people were in attendance, but it would be easy enough to lose someone in the crush. She and Chloe had agreed to stay close while they got the lay of the land, so to speak. Imogene had spotted a few faces she recognized from the Imperial mages and the Academe, as well as the odd aristocrat or politician, but those had been few and far between so far. She needed to take some time, gather some information, before she made any choices that might lead to something more than being steered around the dance floor.

She'd so far danced with four of the men who'd asked. Two had been pleasant, but nothing more than that, and the third dull. The fourth had earned himself a well-stomped set of toes when he'd attempted to let his hand drift farther down her back than was acceptable, given she'd offered no encouragement for him to take liberties and that they were in a very public place. That would be another benefit if she bonded with a sanctii—handy for dealing with wayward suitors.

Illvyans, on the whole, didn't have the ill-informed superstitions and fear of sanctii that some of the other countries in the empire—and beyond—did, but they still viewed them with a healthy degree of respect. Or the ones who had any brains did. Of course, she couldn't say for sure that the young man in question met that criterion.

That was the problem with balls. There was no time to converse with a man before having to accept or decline an invitation to dance. No time to judge his intelligence or personality before being stuck with him for the duration of a set.

She needed a different strategy. Retreat from the dancing and try to find men who were keeping farther afield of the festivities to talk to. Of course, that would mean abandoning Chloe, who loved to dance.

She glanced over at her friend, who was happily talking with several other men and women their age and didn't look as though she needed any assistance.

Good. With Chloe occupied, Imogene was free to explore for a while and see what she might find in the quieter parts of this ball. If such places existed.

But before she could decide which direction she might try first, there was a minor commotion to her right, and she looked up to see a man—or perhaps a small mountain—striding through one of the sets of dancers, moving in her direction.

A sensible person would have backed away. He really was unreasonably tall and wide and looked capable of flattening anyone in his path. The dancers dispersing to either side of him seemed to have formed the same conclusion. But Imogene, instead of being sensible, found herself unable to look away. He wasn't just tall. There was strength to go with the height—not even the excellent work of his tailor could hide the powerful lines of his body completely and make him look like a tame courtier. But he was more than any other well-built man. No, he was more...arresting than that.

His face was carved from planes and angles that shouldn't have added up to pleasing but somehow did. His hair was black—curly, possibly, if it hadn't been tied back. His eyes, well, she couldn't tell yet if they were blue or gray or something in between from where she stood. And the only thing about his eyes—whatever color they were—that seemed important was how firmly they were fixed on hers with the kind of intent determination that, again, would have made a sensible person retreat.

She couldn't look away. And had to fight a startling desire to walk to meet him.

It would have been easy to do. A path was rapidly clearing in front of him, as though a blood mage had cast a spear of power straight across the room to push people out of his way. But she saw no sign of magic. It was just self-preservation on the part of those moving. And, she realized, as heads began to turn in her direction to see where this mountain of a man was headed, self-preservation was fast being replaced by curiosity for those who had made it safely out of his way.

She lifted her chin. Most of the people at the ball had no idea who she was. Which was fine by her. The life of a courtier had never been her goal.

The mystery man was getting closer. And his gaze didn't break from hers. Her dress felt too tight, as though Dina had just freshly tugged on her corset strings. Her breath didn't want to come easily, and she was suddenly far too aware of how overheated the room was.

Ten feet away. Five. A step more. He stopped there. She just had time to register that his eyes were indeed a thunderous shade of gray before he swept into a flawless bow.

So flawless he had to be nobility. Only one raised to court from birth would have that degree of effortless perfection in his gestures.

As he straightened, she dipped into her best curtsy. It might not have been as perfect as his, but she fancied she managed it gracefully enough. Diplomats were also schooled in manners, after all. Reyshaka utilized a complicated system of bows with matching hand positions depending on gender, rank, and age for both sexes, so it was something of a relief to return to the simplicity of a curtsy, even though executing it did nothing to ease her breathlessness.

When she rose, he was smiling at her as though she were his favorite dessert. Behind him, interested faces were peering in their direction.

"My lady, may I be so bold as to introduce myself?"

She snapped her fan open, pretending to consider. She wanted to know his name. From the interest of the courtiers, he was clearly someone important. "I suppose I might as well make the inconvenience of all those dancers you displaced serve some purpose and say yes."

His smile widened. "Excellent. I am Jean-Paul du Laq."

He didn't add any titles. He didn't need to. She didn't know the name of every minor nobleman who decorated the court—it wasn't required for her current rank in the mages—but she was well versed in the names of the highest families. After all, some of them passed through the Academe di Sages where she had done her schooling—schooling which included many hours of the history of the empire and those who'd done the conquering—and a number of them graced the ranks of the Imperial mages. And even without that, anyone who read the news sheet stories about court life could hardly fail to know who was who in the upper ranks of nobility.

Du Laq was the family name of the Duq of San Pierre. The only way to hold a higher rank would be to be a member of the royal family itself. They were a family as old as the bones of the empire and had served generations of emperors.

And the name of the oldest son of the Duq of San Pierre was Jean-Paul.