Corby had done it. She'd come in with Martin and the other traveling musicians, then slipped away to an antechamber and hastily changed into her ladies' clothes. She took off her cut-glass necklace and wound it around her wrist instead, as a bracelet, and put on the tourmaline necklace she had stolen. The dress was a faded pink, the color of old roses, and she felt it became her well. At the very least it brought out a flush of health in her face that wasn't there. She helped it along by pinching her cheeks hard and adding a daub of carmine for color to her cheeks and lips (after biting them to raise the blood). Carmine was dear, so she didn't use much, but she wanted to look her best. Her hair she tamed into a facsimile of a updo, looping it with fake pearls made of glass and hoping no-one could tell the difference. At last she was done, and examined her reflection in the rippled glass of a nearby mirror. Comely enough, she thought, even if the skin under her eyes sagged with fatigue and her eyes themselves glittered slightly with fever.

If anyone asked, she'd claim it to be excitement. She cautioned herself against talking too much. Corby hadn't spent too much time around gentlefolk, but she knew they talked different than she did. So she'd keep her mouth shut or Lord and Lady everyone to high heaven and with luck it would be fine. She took a long, deep breath, growing a little dizzy as her ribs pressed against the front-laced corset, and made her way into the ballroom. She would be the Lady Caroline Kemp. Would De Kemp be better? No, plainer would be easier, she decided.

She surveyed the prospects, trying to hold herself not like a whore, with a loose stance, drooping shoulder and jutting hip, but like a lady, prim and proper. She wished, belatedly, that she'd got a fan to wave in front of her face. But she hadn't one. And none of the other ladies looked so painted as she... but as a matter of pride (and care to the expense of carmine) she didn't wipe her makeup off. Instead her gaze caught on an older gentleman with wild hair and beard, done out in expensive garb. Now there was a right pick. And he looked familiar too, p'raps from a picture she'd seen recently.

"Excuse me, milord," she said, trying to cut the rasp of her cough out of her voice as she curtsied to him. "I am the Lady Caroline Kemp." She'd stop there. If she said anymore she might say something wrong.

His dance with Duchess Esabell Sherbourne ended well, with no crushed toes or anything of the sort, but it seemed that the instant that Westley bowed to the lady and took off to find a respite, a servant almost immediately thrust a glass of wine beneath his nose in offering. Westley's jaw very nearly dropped in surprise and, much to his horror, acquiese, but he quickly recovered and with a quick prayer was able to deny it and move on, albeit a tiny bit shaky from the sudden encounter. The wine smelled so sweet and tempting, almost as the ladies had of his youth when he had succumbed so easily every evening that he spent in Pemberton. Yes, no doubt this duchy was to blame. It kept stirring up memories before his mind's eye that he'd shoved to the back of his conscious thoughts long ago, times of when he was a young and very nearly handsome teenager with money and flowery words to tempt the girls around him. Focus, Westley. Reminiscing could be good, but not about those days. Instead, he came to a pause on the edge of the dance floor, nearby the tables where many sat to rest. He very gently leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms loosely over his chest, simply scanning over the people on the floor and not being tempted by the alcohol around him, no way, no how. No matter how delicious it might be...or how lovely it smelled...or - wait, what was that?


He glanced down suddenly at the young woman who had abruptly came out of nowhere and dropped into a curtsy before introducing herself. A single eyebrow lifted abruptly and he scanned over her face, trying to figure out if he'd ever seen her before but indeed failing miserably. The surname of Kemp meant nothing to him, so she couldn't have been from his own duchy of Harleston. Perhaps she was from Pemberton, then. If she was, no doubt she was a lady of loose morals or something of the sort. He'd rarely seen a lady in Pemberton unlike that. The coloring across her lips and cheeks suggested vanity, which meant that her family was also no doubt wealthy and that she was exceedingly spoiled. With these observations out of the way, he pushed himself off of the wall and, still looking down at her with naturally intense eyes from his taller height, dropped into a bow that couldn't be described as graceful but could indeed be identified as regal. He was used to ruling over something, though no pride or arrogance showed in his stance. It was simply confidence, and a great deal of it. Rising out of his bow and regarding the younger woman with a neutral expression off of his face, he debated introducing himself before deciding that he certainly had nothing to hide.


"Good evening, Lady Kemp," he began in that stunning baritone voice of his that had the potential to captivate nearly any soul if he chose to do so. "I am the Duke Westley Castyll of Harleston. 'Tis a pleasure to meet you this fine night." Was it a pleasure? He really didn't know quite yet. He somewhat doubted that it would be, but some sort of conversation, perhaps a dance, would keep him away from the ever-present threat of alcohol, at least. Reaching up to dash a hand through his rather messy, yet imposing, hair, he let his bushy eyebrow remain lifted before his light brown eyes drifted over the dance floor. Another song was preparing to begin...so why not? His gaze flicked back to the younger lady as he offered his ring-covered hand. "Care to dance, my lady?" It was nearly a drawl that he used to ask his question, something that he had carefully honed down as if it was an art. He knew the power of his voice. He knew the power of his gaze. Not even the most pious man of Harleston was beyond using either to get something that he wished to have, whether it be diplomacy, intimidation, or a simple distraction. At the moment, it was the most latter that he wished to have, and he doubted that Lady Kemp would deny him of a dance, especially if she had been the one to come over and introduce herself to him with little pretense. What else could she want? There was little else that he could even offer.


Except for money...power...fame...Wait, no, he certainly couldn't offer all of those at once. To do so would be giving away the hand that he held, and there was only one person that he planned to give that to. 'Twasn't even his own choice. 'Twas the Duchess Rochester of Ashton's choice. That was why his ring for Lady Rochester lingered in his chambers at Edythen Manor, waiting for the time when he would properly propose to the girl. Speaking of, where was that girl? Do not even dwell on her, Westley. Indeed. He needed to enjoy the night, with or without her, beginning with the company of Lady Kemp about the dance floor.

"Oh, your..." Corby paused, thinking up the proper form of address for a Duke. "Your Grace," she hazarded, having heard it before, and seen enough penny stage plays about nobility to approximate. A Duke! She was dancing with a Duke, and he seemed entirely taken in by her ruse--a fact which pleased her endlessly. He was also a commanding presence, and worse his rank like a familiar cloak. His voice spoke of nobility, and she wished she knew how to do that half so well. But then she supposed nobility learnt those things. What else had they to do with idle time, servants to take care of them?

Until the fear caught up with her, and she realized the music was entirely unfamiliar. Oh well--what could she do? If he refused to dance she'd need to think of a reason. Pleading sickness might scare him off, and she couldn't well admit to not knowing how to dance! Likely it was some common sort of dance. Oh well... she was nimble enough, she supposed, and nothing like tipsy. Drunkenness had been the ruin of too many whores for her to succumb to it.

"Your Grace, I would be delighted," she said, trying to sound prim and proper. She let him take hold of her hand and put his other hand on her waist as apparently befitted the song, and looked around at the other dancers for some sort of a cue. "And begging your pardon, but I'm a tad clumsy, I fear," she added, in what she hoped was a genteel whisper. There--that would have to suit as an excuse.

His eyebrow slid up almost instantly when she seemed to stumble slighly over his title. Good heavens, was she drunk? However, he could smell no alcohol on her breath, as he could on many ladies and lords this evening when they joined in on boisterous laughter and raucous conversation. She held no accent either, so she couldn't be foreign or anything of the sort. However, she also didn't seem very surprised. This woman was slowly becoming a mystery in Westley's head that needed to be solved. However, he made no comment on the hesitation of her words. It would be better simply to think it over in his mind and not give her any indication that she was doing so. When she acquiesed to a dance, he nodded his head lightly. Just as he was preparing to place his hadn on her waist, however, she grabbed it and moved it herself. She was simply out to break all boundaries of propriety, was she not? It was as if she'd never attended a ball or danced before in her life. Hmph...no, that was no doubt a wee bit extreme. If the slight rasp in her voice was of any indication, she was recovering from an illness or something of the sort. Perhaps her mind simply still wasn't working to its full capabilities after being sick. Regardless, what sort of lady would come to a ball if she was still ill? Why did women have to be so silly as to do such a thing, when they needed to recover?


Thinking that he should attempt to keep some sort of conversation going, he nodded again to Lady Kemp and her comment about being clumsy. "Then you will forgive me if I step on your toes as well, I trust?" He gifted her no precious smile, though the lines about his face softened a bit as his eyes twinkled slightly with amusement. He said no more on the subject, but proceeded to lead the young lady through a simpler version of the dance so that there would be less chance for error. Only a few steps into it, however, he chose to speak once more. "Pardon me for asking, my lady, but have you been ill recently?" He lifted his eyebrow a little higher. "You do not sound your best. Why would you come to a ball and endanger your health? Will there not be other balls for you to attend?" It was a rhetorical question, of course. There would certainly be other balls for her to attend, especially if she called Pemberton her home. He could recall when he was in the prime of his youth, much like she was, and he would take the long journeys to Pemberton nearly every fortnight to engage in their great parties. It had been when Mathias still lived, still believed in such a great deal of excess and whatnot. While he had very little contact with Duchess Sherbourne at this point - so little that he wasn't prepared to even think of her by her first name as he had Mathias - he doubted that she would take part in planning such frequent and excessive parties.


Drawing himself back from the musings, he realized that he no doubt was being an awful dancing partner. He hadn't the slightest idea of the proper things to converse about to a lady, much to his dismay. He could whittle a woman down in a political discussion, much as he had with Duchess Rochester even if she didn't think that he had, and he could charm one into his bed, but he couldn't carry on a simple conversation with ease. Lady Ziare had attempted to assist him with that, of course, but he supposed that the majority of her suggestions hadn't stuck in his mind. He'd have to think back on them a bit later to attempt to remember them, perhaps even writing them down. Wouldn't he need them to draw his soon-to-be-fiancee into a greater sense of security? He didn't wish to scare the little thing off. You are musing a great deal too much again, Westley. With that thought bringing him back to the present, he continued to focus on the younger woman that he was leading through the dance, listening for any response that she might make. He didn't wish to miss a single one, after all.

"There will be other balls," Corby said noncommittally, glad that the steps to the dance seemed to be simple. She brushed a little closer to the lord, knowing what effect this had on most men. She'd danced of course, but usually in a bawdier manner than these prim and proper steps; and her body was after all her living. She stepped on no toes as the song progressed, and carried her head high, looking up at the man who held her. She'd had older men before, and he was hale and healthy too. She gave him a half-smile, licking her lips. "And I'm none so ill."

"And no balls will be so grand as this one, I don't think," she added, after a moment of contemplation. "After all, 'tisn't every day a Duchess or a Duke marries, is it, mi--Your Grace?" she said, correcting herself hastily. She'd never spoken to a duke before, after all, and calling nobility 'milord' and 'milady' came natural. "Tell me, are you planning any marriage?" She'd be disappointed if he were, but there was still that other duke, Alden--and anyway, perhaps it'd behoove her to aim a tad lower than the Duke. No good ever came after overambition. And she wasn't mainly after power; no, her chief concern was wealth and comfort and ease.

She continued to smile up at him, glad of the red in her lips and cheeks. She could feel strands of curly hair coming loose from her coiffure, but men liked that, she found. It reminded them of the disheveled ardour of the bedroom.