François had actually sobered up slightly, which was a terrible thing, in his estimation. Pressing a hand to his sore ribs, he walked over to the side of the dance floor, intended to get more alcohol.... but he couldn't see a server. And an austere-looking but nevertheless beautiful older woman dressed in finery whose colors were unmistakably those of Benthey caught his eye. He had been to Benthey before, and been most impressed by the reigning ethos.

"Your Grace," he murmured, bowing low to her. "Your beauty was like a beacon despite the vaunted modesty of Benthey dress. I have already enjoyed your duchy's excellent hospitality. And I had hoped, if it is not too much to expect of Your Grace, that I might receive the infinite favor of a dance." He took her hand gently in his and brushed his lips over her knuckles in the gentles of kisses, then straightened up. He hoped she would not ask where he'd gotten the bruises on his face.

The Duchess of Benthey was definitely impressed with her surroundings. Though she was used to the minimalistic style of her homeland, the extravagance that Pemberton displayed was just on the side of overly decadent; but not by much. Servants continuously circled her, like vultures, offering champagne and cheeses, every now and then carrying tiny skewers of meat or fruit skewers arranged into tiny edible flowers. The ladies and gentlemen themselves were stunning as well, in their finest gowns and doublets.

Elspeth had been enjoying watching a young pair dance and flirt near her position by a lone column, when a stranger approached her with words of honey. She looked up from her flute of champagne with just enough time to resist slapping him as he brushed her knuckles with a gentlemanly kiss - she wasn't offended, just startled by his suddenness. And, of course, the terrible bruises on his eyes and the odd tilt to his nose that suggested a recent break. Well, he seemed to be sober, at least enough for flattery.

"If I may just have the pleasure of knowing your name," she replied, careful to keep her chin held high, emerald pendant gleaming at the neckline of her bodice. Her dress matched the color, a resplendent dark green velvet, with a silver chemise worn beneath and embroidery at the hem of the bodice and under the A-line top. Folds of velvet cascaded from this silver pattern, in a loose, yet not shapeless, fashion, ending in a small train. Even the sleeves were embroidered, cut off and tied on again with silver ribbons, and coming out from under the green to cover the backs of her wrists and hands. Most importantly, the green made her emerald eyes shine with a controlled sort of passion and pride.

"You seem to already know mine."

"I am the Lord François Villon," he said, smiling ruefully to erase his impropriety with charm. He could play the slightly rough sort tonight. The bruises added to it, certainly. "Recently arrived in Pemberton, the duchy of my forefathers. My apologies for the lack of introduction; I was dazzled into forgetfulness by your beauty." He blessed the silver tongue that never deserted him, not even after pummelings and drunkenness. Gently, he put a hand on her waist, took her other hand in his, and led her out onto the dance floor.

The musicians had been playing mainly simple waltzes--either they didn't know the more complex dances of his homeland, or they thought them improper. François felt that the latter might well be the case, though Pemberton had not as yet impressed him with its modesty of conduct. Only the futility of its manners irked him, but nothing to be done about that. And courtliness was a game he knew, and knew well.

He let the Duchess in the dance, his gaze taking in her features and more importantly her expression in half-glimpses, as they moved around the dance floor. He felt some pain from his ribs at the motion, but ignored it.

"Your Grace, I am a newcomer to this land... I would love to hear more about the region you govern."

Elspeth did all she could not to snort loudly - most unladylike! - and rebuke his flattery with a harsh remark. She settled for rolling her eyes as he led her to the dance floor, knowing full well that William was somewhere within the crowd, in the arms of another woman perhaps, but watching them all the same. One dance, and then she would retreat from the half-drunk Lord guiding her around the floor.

"The region I govern is known as Benthey, but of course you knew that. We boast the largest military in Adesia, and yes - I am the reason that King Ambrose was able to take the throne without resistance." The Duchess paused to let that little tidbit sink in - by now she was certain that she was one of the most hated people present at the ball. The most hated person, of course, being the King himself , yet oddly enough he was still the one that everyone wanted to dance with.

The fools. If they thought he'd wed them, they were wrong, but Elspeth banished such thoughts from her mind. Still, the words of Edmund rang in her mind - an arranged marriage? Not the most pleasant of ideas. "Other than that, we are one of the chief exporters of gemstones, iron, and sometimes weapons. I cannot say that we are even half as lavish as Pemberton, but I feel there is a certain charm to Benthey. After all, it is my home, and I love it dearly."

After giving the man a quick and careful evaluation, Elspeth levelled eyes with him (as they were of an almost equal height, he stood only a few inches taller). "If I may say so, Lord Francois, it is a pity this were not a masquerade. A mask would do well to hide those terrible bruises. They must be painful. And however did you break your nose?"

François filed this information away in his mind carefully. So her duchy would be close to the king, then. This only strengthened his conviction that he had indeed chosen the right duchy. Pemberton and Benthey seemed to be closely aligned, and if Benthey was in good graces with the king, so much the better. He winced at her comment about his bruises. François, for all his vices, wasn't a vain man. He prided himself more on his well-chosen words and physical grace than the beauty of his gaunt features.

"As for the bruises, I happened to find myself in a disagreement with Lord Edmund Duncan," François said, watching her piercing green eyes, set beneath level eyebrows. "We settled it by a duel." He inclined his head briefly, guiding her around the dance floor with smooth, practiced movements, despite his inebriation. "The soon-to-be Duke and I still don't see eye to eye," he added quietly, "but then disagreements are what makes life interesting, wouldn't you say?"

"A pity," she replied to his cool and unconcerned retelling. "I must say that I am fond of Lord Duncan, to a degree - his loyalty at court was always a boon to me. How sad that you cannot get along." Her expression remained carefully cordial, yet she'd not let the comment slip from her mind.

"However I do agree with you, in these times it seems that disagreements are the spice of our lives. Not to say I enjoy them." Her thoughts fell upon Wylyam, certainly the "spice" of her life, in that sense. It was fortunate for her that they had not crossed paths since she'd left for the Sapphire Court - it would hardly do to have a row in the midst of Pemberton's engagement ball.

"I'd forgotten how I enjoy dancing, not that I am awfully good at it." In reality, the duchess was a lovely dancer, but she hardly liked to admit it. Benthey was not exactly a country of dancers.

François nodded graciously to her last comment. "You do have terpsichorean skill, your Grace," he demurred quietly, spinning them around in time with the other dancers. He liked that she was almost as tall as he was. And she really was a good dancer, for all her modesty. Unusual in a duchess, and he wasn't sure it was advantageous--modesty.

"Is it better to be feared or loved, would you say?" he added, watching her. "As a ruler, you must think on this often enough. I myself would disagree with Machiavelli on the point of fear, which in my eyes is far better reserved for the apparatus of state than for the leader himself... or herself," he granted. He leaned forward a little, watching her intently. He kept his expression without guile.

"Is it better to be feared or loved, would you say?" Well, that was a question, indeed. Francois was right, she had thought about the concept, if not deeply or exactly as he'd asked it. But of course it had occurred to her, as a leader. "It is better to be loved," she responded, the briefest flicker of something - sorrow? - in her emerald eyes. It was replaced by the usual calculating gaze, as she watched him watching her. A conundrum.

"It is infinitely better to be loved than to be feared. The people of Benthey are a strange sort to outsiders, to be sure, but. . . there is a passion, and a loyalty about them that is just astonishing. To be loved, in a place like that?" The duchess smiled, shaking her head just slightly as though she herself could not even imagine being loved like that.

"Your people would do anything for you, if you but proved that you would go to great lengths for them."

François felt a flicker of pain shoot through him at her words, and not a physical pain at that.

"Love, Your Grace?" he murmured, covering his sadness with brazen irony. "Love is a myth, a carefully spun myth just as the ornate stories of greatness and godliness that kings and other rulers spin are myths," he said softly. "Love is a pretty story. A contrivance like any other. A spectacle like the gallows used to control people." He wanted to laugh, but held back, though there was dark mirth in his eyes.

"A myth like the story of the Gods the pagans held to. A myth like the God we believe in. Love your neighbor, love God--these are the basic tenets of our religion--" He found he couldn't stop himself. "--these are what make us obey. But why obedience?" he whispered, almost desperately. "Why obedience, Your Grace, and what is love but obedience?"