Rital of Proof Read Online Free PDF Page A

wonder the Top Slice was mad to get him. There were very few surviving Santorinis. In Forus's past, many of them had been fought over to the death. A work of art but never pristine. Sensual, raw, dark, and compellingly exquisite. With intricate personalities to match. Each of the offspring had been unique to himself and different from all the others.
    But was he a Santorini?
    There had been rumors about his father. The men of the Reynard line were known for their uniqueness and their passion. Green often speculated that was why the Duchene had been so lenient with Jorlan. His parents had died in a transport accident. Theirs had been a rare love, still talked about in the salons today. Loreena Reynard had been an unusual woman who had flaunted convention—not for principle's sake but simply to be different. She had been a willful, stubborn damselle and Daret, with his stunning looks and tendency toward wildness, completely captivated her.
    Jorlan had been young—seven Forus years at the time of their deaths. An impressionable age. It was noted that Jorlan had inherited the best and worst of their characteristics. He was impassioned, incredibly intelligent, willful, wonderfully witty, occasionally brooding, and sometimes hot-tempered. In addition to all that, a few of the more respectable members of the Slice, who had had an opportunity to converse with him, had reported that he was unexpectedly complex and inscrutable.
    In short, a blaze-dragon.
    The musicians struck up the first dance of the evening—a slow joined septille in soft muted shades of pink.
    "Will you dance with me?"
    She held out her hand while placing her crystal chalice on a nearby table. As soon as its base rested on the masoglass surface, it began to chime softly, resonating with all the other chalices in the room that had been set down in similar fashion. The combined chimes created a beautiful sound of continually blending notes that signified the formal beginning of the evening's festivities.
    The large hall was lit with the tapers of a thousand jacama branches. The flamelights were hung upside down from the vaulted ceiling where they burned clean.
    There was no way Jorlan could politely refuse. Lymax gave him a look that plainly said "I told you so." Reluctantly, he took her small hand in his and let her lead him onto the middle of the floor.
    The dance area filled up quickly as eager young veils accepted hands for the opening septille.
    They joined in the dance.
    Green's right arm encircled low on his trim waist, her left hand resting on the curve of his left hip. He was taller than she had originally realized. Amazingly tall, in fact.
    He tried to hide the slight tremor in his loins, but Green was aware of it. Her nearness was affecting him. She decided that she rather liked affecting this handsome, brash young man who was too opinionated by half for his own good.
    So she decided to tease him.
    Just a bit.
    She knew it was wrong of her, but he was almost asking it of her by the visual challenges he had thrown down this evening. Perhaps it was time someone taught him a little of the ways of women.
    Not too much, a warning voice said. He was still the grandson of a Duchene—and a Duchene Green respected. But enough to show him that it was not wise to spark unless you meant to have a fire.
    As the Marquelle led him into the steps of the intricate, slow dance, which mimicked the rite of courtship, Jorlan felt distinctly uncomfortable. He had not wanted to attend this soiree, the first of the Season. His grandmother had insisted. While she had given him her promise to acquire his consent, she had in no way agreed to his stubborn refusal to entertain offers. Of course, he hadn't mentioned that part to the Marquelle.
    Not that he thought she would offer for him. Her mode of living and own reputation for avoiding the Ritual of Proof was affirmation of that.
    As they continued on with the dance, the Marquelle glanced up at him through dark auburn lashes.