Mordred had been very young when he had first come to understand how much of an asset his face was. Nature had given it beauty, and practice had made it exceptionally mobile, and he knew how to use both to his advantage. Large eyes made innocence easy to feign, a cupid’s bow of pale lips whispered of an untapped sensuality, and a long sharp nose with strong cheeks could add dignity to any look. The baron so often looked like he should have been made of paint and canvas, as if he had stepped elegantly out of some renaissance painting. Sometimes, he had found, the difficulty came in making himself feel touchable and earthly; that he was a man of flesh and blood not a statue of cold marble or a doll of unforgiving china. The smile he offered Alethea as her fingers slid between his achieved just that, bring a warmth to his face and making the skin around his eyes crease just a little, lending a reassurance to the penetrating icy blue.
He could detect little hesitation in her interactions. The girl lent into him, surrendering to the strength of his arms as she whirled elegantly to the music, like a little ivory bird. There was little timidity, little shyness, as if she were inviting his hands to wander as they willed. If he had been a different kind of man, one with hotter blood and less control then she would have been placing herself in danger. Mordred’s hand moved firmly to her waist as the music changed and the steps adjusted to match, his gaze gifting her the attention he detected she desired. Inwardly he pondered her; a confused paradox, part girl, part woman, her innocence clear but tarnished by a worldliness that fitted her as snugly as the bodice of her gown.
The steps carried her away from him. She spun, her skirts flying out around her as her guardianship was transferred temporarily to the next man along. Mordred joined hands with his new companion, a woman with dark hair and a demanding mouth. He had had her before. In amongst sheets and winter blankets she had taught him where to touch and how to look, to play her body like an instrument with strings. A few steps, and a few smiles later and she was gone, spinning off back into the growing crowd that whizzed across the dance floor. Alethea came back to him, her cheeks flushed prettily, and the baron offered her his hand again.
“Do as you like,” he told her in gentle tones as she lay out her soul for him to see, “show them what you want them to see, not what they want you to give them. You have grace enough to make them love it.” The music slowed, and the baron drew the little lady closer to him as his heart thumped its rhythm against his ribs, “you dance wonderfully, by the way.” The compliment hovered in the small space between their faces, and he re-enforced the sentiment with an encouraging smile as if willing her the confidence to follow his advice.
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