Snippet #1526914

Contemplating the mundane ornament of the mansion walls is not becoming of a count. There is simply much to look at in the Capets' aside from a shield that could have been made from peasantly brass. A woman, whom Jacques recognized against the glare of Roman candles was Baroness Moreau, crept up to his side and uttered feigned surprise. "Oh, Monsieur, odd to see you here."

"Have I not been a guest at most, if not all, of your parties, Madame Moreau? I try my best not to miss any night away from the Beausoleil castle. The fireplaces are bright and burning, but company is dull." He stood up from his seat, easing out with his hands the crumpled fabric of his waistcoat. He took her hand and kissed it with a certain deference, like a parishioner to his bishop.

"Bonsoir, Madame la Baroness." This was improper for his title, but Jacques Beausoleil had forgotten momentarily. To which the Baroness replied, "Bonsoir. It's a good thing you've come; I'm in need of a dancing partner. If you'd be so kind?"

Bowing slightly with one hand still lightly gripping that of the Baroness', Jacques gestured to the ballroom with an open palm, "Aprés vous." But before Mme. Phillipa could start to the gentle rhythm of the waltz, the gracious silhouette of Madame la Duchesse Aveline Penelope Beaudelaire had appeared before them. Jacques only recognized her from her purple and gold satin dress: one of his courtiers kept correspondence, whose nature was most likely romantic, with another from the Duke's court. The gaudy dress, updates on its completion and the unnecessary drama from alterations and last-minute additions had been a topic for six exchanges before they decided that this peculiar interest in royal fashion had already robbed them of their interests in each other. With a polite curtsy to le Comte and la Baroness, the Duchesse had asked for an introduction.

"Bonsoir, Madame Beaudelaire. Je m'appelle Jacques Beausoleil, le Comte du Lyon."