Page 154 of Warlords, Witches & Wolves

Chapter 4

Jean-Paul du Laq watched the whirling throng of dancers decorating the emperor's ballroom and wished there was something stronger than campenois on offer to drink. An imperial ball was never his first choice of entertainment—too many damned people and too much politicking for it to be actual fun—but as the heir of a duq, sometimes duty took precedence over his own wishes. His father was not yet old and, goddess willing, there would be years before Jean-Paul had to assume the title, but lately, duty was encroaching more and more often.

From his father came more demands to show his face at the palace and take his place in the court, when in reality, Jean-Paul was far happier serving in the army or spending his spare time at the family's estate, Sanct de Sangre. That side of being a duq—the running of the estate, seeing the land and the people flourish under his family's care—he would enjoy when it became his turn. This part—the social whirl and posturing and scrambling for power—he was yet to develop much of a liking for.

He appreciated the view, to a degree. Watching beautiful women in beautiful gowns was never a hardship. He would have enjoyed it more if his father's speeches about carrying on the family line weren't growing more frequent. He was only twenty-eight. Plenty of time before marriage grew pressing. But he knew that some of the women here tonight—and their parents—would be watching him. Trying to determine how to win his favor. The son of a duq, heir to one of the oldest titles in Illvya, was a prize.

But he was in no mood to be hunted. So lurking on the outskirts of the room where Aristides’s servants had placed thick rows of anden trees in golden and silver inlaid pots was the wiser course of action. The trees helped him blend in. He was taller than most of the men here, and the black and silver of his evening jacket only made his height more apparent. But sons of duqs weren't allowed to slouch or dress to blend in, so he had no choice but to stand out in most crowds.

"Hiding in the bushes again, du Laq?" Theodor du Plesias asked, gliding up from behind him.

"Not well enough if you found me," Jean-Paul retorted.

Teddy grinned and held up a slender glass bottle filled with pale green liquid. "Thought you might need a drop of something stronger than campenois."

"I knew there was a reason I tolerated you," Jean-Paul said. He held out his empty glass. Teddy poured in a careful measure. Absintia was potent. It could cause actual harm if brewed incorrectly, or if you drank it like wine. But he trusted Teddy to have the good stuff. And Jean-Paul would avoid a second glass. He couldn't afford for his wits to be addled. Not when the room was full of husband-hunters and their mamas.

The absintia was herbal fire as it coated his throat and stomach but soon resolved into a pleasant warmth that melted away some of his boredom.

"So, can I coax you out of the bushes?" Teddy asked. "It's a dull way to spend an evening in a room full of pretty girls."

"Easy for you to say. No one is forcing you to marry and carry on the dynasty." Teddy was a third son. His father, the Marq of Elimen, already had five grandchildren and counting from Teddy's elder brothers. Which left Teddy largely free of the kinds of parental pressures Jean-Paul was becoming uncomfortably familiar with.

"Marriage is not on my mind," Teddy agreed amiably. "But that doesn't mean female company isn't. There are some interesting girls here tonight. Aristides invited some of the senior mages and their families, and some of the parliamentarians, too." He waved his glass of absintia out toward the dancers. "Some of them must be looking for some fun."

He had a point. Jean-Paul had no intention of going after a politician's daughter. Too close to a courtier. But the mages were safer. And young witches from outside the nobility were raised with rather a more liberal mindset in relation to male companionship than the girls he'd known since infancy. But, with the absintia lifting his mood, dancing sounded more pleasant. And if dancing led to more, should the lady be willing, even better.

"Do you know where these paragons of, er, congeniality might be found?" he inquired, placing his glass in the pot of the nearest tree.

Teddy laughed and beckoned him forward, closer to the dancers. Jean-Paul had chosen the rear of the ballroom, far away from the area kept cordoned off for the imperial family and their chosen guests. The perfect vantage point from which to survey the entire ballroom. Helped by the fact that his height allowed him to see over the crowd with ease.

Teddy, only an inch or two shorter than Jean-Paul, gestured across the room. "There, the girl in the deep red dress. That's Chloe Matin, Henri's daughter."

Jean-Paul found the girl—young woman—Teddy meant. Her gown, the pinkish-red of good wine, wrapped around a very nice set of curves, highlighting creamy skin and blending with the touches of red and black in her hair. But then she stepped to one side, and he saw the woman standing next to her. She wore blue that gleamed like the finest sapphire and, as she turned to laugh up at something Chloe had said, the angles of her face caught his eye and held it. Her hair was darker than Chloe's, the original deep brown of it still twined with the red and black streaks that proclaimed her to be an earth witch and a water mage, like her friend. Her skin was paler than Chloe's, too, cool pearl against the blue. And her eyes, well, those were as bright as her gown. She looked across the room toward him, but her gaze flicked past him with no sign of recognition. But the brief touch of that look sizzled through him like lightning.

"Who," he breathed, "is the one in blue?"

Teddy's brows drew down as he contemplated the question. "Imogene...something. She's in the mages, apparently. Friend of the Matin lass."

"Which part of the mages?" Jean-Paul asked. He wasn't sure what he'd thought someone so...vivid might do for a living, but the army wouldn't have been his first choice.

Teddy shrugged. "I don't know." He nudged Jean-Paul's ribs with his elbow. "Perhaps that's a question for the lady herself. If she's caught your eye."

Jean-Paul was still watching Imogene, too riveted by her still to react to Teddy's jab—either the physical or verbal one.

"She has, hasn't she?" Teddy said with another nudge. "Good choice. A career girl, if she's in the mages. She won't give you any grief."

Jean-Paul didn't really register the words, but he knew what Teddy meant. A mage—a career soldier—would know how things worked. She wouldn't be after marriage. Might be amenable to a dalliance to burn out this fire leaping in his gut and speeding his heart.

He ignored the part of him that had a vague notion that a heat like this might not be so easy to douse and stepped out onto the dance floor.

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