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desired in that respect—and he would have been here, if such a thing were achievable.”
    “In that case, I do see what you mean, Your Grace. Though, indeed, a man of one court does not equal a man of another. They cannot hope to rival the refinement of Morphaea with its urban splendors of Duorma—Letheburg’s Palace is nothing to Duorma’s Palazzio. We breed nobility, lofty and true, I always recall, when I am back at home up north, or when I visit your own idyllic estate, or when I attend the gracious court of His Majesty Orphe Geroard. Nothing but the Silver Court itself will ever exceed the courtly pleasure of sweet Morphaea.”
    “Yes, and now you flatter and tease, my charming dear girl—but, do go on in this precise manner, with such delightful exaggerating!”
    “Well, only a little!”
    In that moment of their rapturous native reminiscence, a slim, dark nobleman approached the Duchess and Countess. He bowed deeply before them, interrupting the splendid stream of gossip with his sudden presence.
    “Ah, my dear Vlau! I am perfectly flabbergasted to see you here after all!” exclaimed the Countess Lirabeau, and even the white sheen of powder could not conceal a sudden blooming of rose color in her cheeks. “For some reason I didn’t imagine for a moment that you were seriously planning to attend. But you are here, and I am . . . gratified!” With a flutter she turned to her more matronly companion, saying, “Your Grace, may I introduce the Marquis Vlau Fiomarre?”
    The Marquis bowed again, his impeccable elegance of movement so pleasing that the Duchess Rovait could not help but allow her gaze to linger on the young man’s willowy frame clad in somber black. His serviceable, but badly fitting wig was almost carelessly under-powdered, revealing at the edges his real hair with much of its natural darkness showing, gathered behind him in a queue. But none of it mattered, for his shoulders were wide and his eyes black, disturbing with their intensity. His eyes affected her with a thrill, for despite her maturity, the Duchess was not immune to male charms.
    “It is a pleasure, Your Grace. And well met again, My Lady Lirabeau. My deepest thanks for your most kind references in my admittance to this Imperial Assembly.”
    The Duchess Rovait dropped her fan so that it dangled on a satin tassel at her wrist, and then picked up her lorgnette and trained it at the young man. “Fiomarre,” she mused. “Why do I know this name? Is that one of the south-east provinces?”
    “Almost correct, Your Grace,” he replied in a somber voice, focusing a gaze of his beautiful, disturbing eyes at her. “It is a small Styx principality to the south and west of here, bordering with Balmue. We grow grapes and olives, Your Grace. That is, my father’s lands grow these crops—”
    “Aha!” Christiana Rovait said, as her brows swept upward and her lorgnette dropped back on its golden chain. “Now I recall, young man, Fiomarre cognac! I knew it sounded familiar. Wonderfully virile, dare one say it—erotic stuff.”
    For the first time the Marquis Fiomarre’s serious face allowed a faint trace of a smile to soften his expression—but only for a moment. And he bowed once again, acknowledging the Duchess’s blatant compliment.
    There was a lull in the chatter as noteworthy new arrivals appeared at the grand entrance of the Silver Hall.
    “The Right Honorable Lady Amaryllis Roulle of Morphaea, the Right Honorable Lady Ignacia Chitain of Styx, and the Right Honorable Lord Nathan Woult of Morphaea!” a Chamberlain announced.
    And the Silver Court turned to ogle the newcomers, for these were three of the most dashing and popular of the younger set, and together they called themselves the League of Folly.
    Lady Amaryllis was a slim tall beauty with black hair and pale delicate skin—a dark antique pagan goddess. Tonight she wore a brilliant scarlet gown trimmed with black velvet and braid of the exact deep ebony shade as