Snippet #1502076

Damien strolled idly around the edge of the dance floor, hands clasped behind his back. A number of couples were making their way down the dance. Some were better matched than others, but he could find none that did not do credit to themselves in the art of dancing. His warm ocher eyes slid over fabric and lace sedately. It was a cool night in April, and the smell of spring wafted in through the wide french windows that stood open at one end of the large hall. Candlelight from the magnificent chandeliers bathed the room's occupants in a soft flickering glow.

Coming to rest near one of the windows, he adjusted his cravat, tugging it into place with practiced ease. Arms folded against his chest, he turned his gaze upon the street beyond. Carriages rattled past, announced by the clip clop of horses' hooves on the cobblestone. Golden light spilled from the room and pooled on the shrubbery. Beyond this small puddle of illumination, darkness swallowed up the avenue. The city beyond had already donned the dark cloak of night.

Inhaling softly, the gentleman returned his attention to the dance floor. Couples whirled past, their scents washing over him gently. The sweet, pure scent of virgins mingled with the darker, musky scent of the less pure. Damien allowed himself a smirk. The young men and women continued their dancing, unaware that each had been exposed to his scrutiny.

Miss Fairmount passed him in the arms of a young swain he presumed was her lover. Miss Montford's scent washed over him next, as untainted as the day she'd been born. Mr. Kingsley and his fiancee spun past, and he wondered briefly if Mr. Kingsley had been the one to deflower her, or if she was having relations on the side. Mr. Cox, Miss Dryer, Miss Glaston, Mr. Whitby, Miss Younge---they became a blur of scents and faces, slipping past in a never-ending stream.

Tiring of this manner of passing the evening, he resumed his rounds about the room. A few harried-looking stragglers were just arriving as he passed by the entryway. He spared them an uninterested glance without halting. The evening was shaping up to be a singularly tedious affair.