Is he imagining that the champagne tastes better with every sip? It's certainly not good but it becomes more bearable as he gets through the flute, and sure, that's what usually happens, but he is definitely going insane because now it tastes like his favourite fruit wine (as far as a whiskey man has a favourite fruit wine).

The notes are plum and cherry, tart on the palate and sweet as it comes down to the end. He's almost through the glass. That was quick.

"Ghastly, isn't it? They never put any real good stuff out at these balls," a melodic voice sighs from behind him.

That's. Not possible. There wasn't a woman behind him, he would have known, would have noticed-

The newcomer tilts her head in his direction. She's stunning in the way the Sharmas are - dark brown eyes lined with kajal, skin the colour of almonds, luscious dark hair that is swept up into a soft, loose sort of gathering atop her head. Her dress gathers under her bust in a sliver of orange-pink silk that seems reluctant to part with her skin. As he looks, it seems to take on strange shimmering hues underneath the pink, but it might just be the candlelight moving over the fabric strangely. 

Her neck and ears are adorned with gold, and velvet slippers peek out from under the hem of the dress. She seems older than most débutantes, but she looks around the ballroom with old familiarity and some tightness to her lovely eyes. 

He jerks away from the voice and whirls around, faster and sharper than can possibly be socially acceptable -

Oh. 

He swallows, conscious of his suddenly hammering heart, the battle reflexes crackling along too-still muscles. 

You walk too quietly, he absolutely does not say. 

"Good evening," he manages, inclining his head a little too jerkily - what do you actually call a lady you don't know? He's always been introduced, er, "madam."

She gives a wry chuckle at his flinch, apologetically. "Please accept my apologies, Your Grace. I've been told I am lighter on my feet than most."

She stands with a dancer's poise slightly behind him, as if beckoning the shadows to conceal her from the rest of the ballroom. Her own drink is down to its dregs, and she stares apprehensively at the dancefloor. 

"Lighter than anyone I've ever met," he mutters, his eyes distant for a moment. 

He shakes himself, and meets her eye. 

He remembers the aristocratic forms, remembers his lessons, sets his mouth. 

"I believe you have the advantage of me, madam."

She tilts her head at him, a slow smile making its way across her face. "Do I, now?"

The sweet, smoky scent of jasmine, rose, and some spice wafts over as she leans towards him. "I have to confess that I do not mind that in the slightest."

But she catches his eye and acquiesces, in a conspiratory manner, "I am not sure that it would be much good for your reputation to make my acquaintance, I'm afraid." 

Her scent is warm, heady. He smiles a little. 

Ophel would tell him to be careful, that now of all times he cannot afford another controversy - but Ophel is not here. 

Ophel is not here, because he lived his whole life afraid of what people would say. 

Maybe his approach has been wrong all along. Maybe the thing to do, is to start so many rumours nobody knows which ones to pay attention to.

"I find," he grinds out, "that I am not much inclined to care."

As he watches, she grows taller, some un-shy part of herself revealed to him; a burden lifted. 

She lifts her glass, delicate fingers adorned in a beautiful pieve of jewellery that starts at a lovely bracelet at her wrist, chained out into a central ruby in the middle of her hand, which then spiders out in chains to a ring on each of her fingers. As he watches, the ruby winks at him, glittering strangely, as if the surface is not quite as even cut as it should be.

"My goodness, you've not been here so long and they have already irked you. Tell me, what is it about good society that troubles you so?" She asks, her voice droll.