Ewan wanted nothing more than to run away. To his rooms, to take a cold bath, to get vigorous exercise--anything that would calm his passions. There were so many women. And they all smelled of fragrances and he could see parts of their bodies that normally weren't so terribly much on show. And he lived in mortal terror that one day he'd see his sister that way and be unable ever to speak to her again. It was bad enough that she appeared to be dancing with every eligible man going.

It set his teeth on edge.

Though Ewan normally held that strong drink, like tonight's barely-watered wine, was an abomination unto the eyes of God when consumed in excess, he gulped down his second full glass of the night and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he wished he hadn't. There was a woman in front of him--another one.

She could never get sick of it. Ever. It was moving so fast, living so freely, creating blurs and movements and shapes that weren't there. And she was still living that way despite all the drama that had happened in the past few weeks. She was still living the way she always did because it was the only way she could - stopping would let everything engulf her, so she had to keep moving in lightning speed.

The lightning speed was still visible as she came back from her encounter with Edmund and sipped some wine as respectably as she could. After all, there was only so much scandal one girl could take. Being drunk at her ex-lover's engagement party to a Duchess was not good. So she scanned the room for something to distract her - namely, another man. Edmund was dallying so sensually with Esabell that she needed something to distract her. Anything.

Her gaze settled on a man who looked rather lost. It would be easy to flirt with such a man, but of course he'd become rather dull after a while and then she should probably move onto someone else. But an instant answer was what she wanted, not a lovey-dovey moment. She'd had those and they never worked out well. All they ended in was jealousy and revenge and unhappiness through and through.

She patted her skirts down and floated over to him, composing herself with all the royalty of a Queen. Of course, that would be lovely - imagine herself as Queen! She could be so powerful then. Esabell and Edmund would be ants beneath her feet. She'd have the best of everything - but of course, she wouldn't be able to do half the things she could now. Still, it was a lovely idea.

"Hello, m'Lord," she said, dipping into a curtsy. She wanted to get straight past all these tiring introductions. "Lady Cecily Lambert." She flashed him a little smile and breathed in, reveling in the happiness she was feeling. It may only be a skin-deep happiness, but it was better than none at all. She'd only felt true happiness twice in her life, and the last time ended in the skin-deep happiness she felt right now.

"How are you finding the celebrations?" She tried to keep her voice free of jealousy as she watched Esabell talking to a courtier, and tilted her head as if she truly cared about how he found the celebrations.

Ewan gulped. "Uh. They're nice enough." He wrenched his eyes away from the flush extending down her neck and looked away, blinking rapidly. Then, realizing he'd forgotten to introduce himself, he hastened to do so.

"I'm the Lord Ewan Kinnear," he said, bowing (a bit of motion to clear his head, that's what was needed). All this standing still was making him brood and think of the worst possible things. "Would you like to dance?" he said abruptly. With any luck the dance would be fast, and he would be able to distract himself with motion.

And you'll enjoy touching her, said Satan in his head, but he ignored it. Dancing! It was innocent. Everyone did it.

But that had never in all the ages of man been a good excuse, and it wasn't one now.

She looked at him in exasperation, and a little concernedly. Of all the men in the room she chose the one who couldn't look at her for more than a couple of blinks, then had to get said blinks out of his system by furiously batting his eyelashes in the way she could see many women doing. She considered him for a moment, head tilted to the side.

He seemed flighty and shy to say the least, but the way he looked at her made her feel different. Almost like the way Edmund looked at her and Francois looked at her together. And she didn't like it. Not one bit. So she shook her head a little, gathered herself, and looked at him a little accusingly.

Lord Ewan - she'd never heard of him. But then she hadn't heard of many people beyond her own circle of Pemberton. She really needed to visit other Duchies - who would have thought that they'd have as much fun as they were having here? But that could hardly be all the time. Marcheford probably has a bigger library than ballroom, she thought scornfully.

"Of course!" she said, a little surprised that he had asked her when he had trouble remembering his own name. But she moved towards the dance floor and locked her arms in position with his, then started to dance along with the many other couples in the hall. She smiled boldly at him, her head angled proudly. "What Duchy are you, Ewan?" she said, losing the title as she liked to do.

"Marcheford," Ewan said, closing his eyes, then opening them again, as they moved through the steps of the dance. His breathing slowed He felt like more a gentleman. "It's a wonderful duchy, and I love it dearly. Our academy was wonderful, even if I was always in trouble for pranks." He had no idea what he was saying, the words coming out automatically, to break the tension.

"And you, Lady Cecily?" he added. "Where are you from? Not Marcheford, I don't think." He hadn't seen her. Then again, he tried to avoid women entirely. There. He was making completely normal conversation. Aoife taunted him for nothing at all.

His eyes trailed down her face to her décolletage again, and he gulped, averting his eyes, adam's apple bobbing nervously in his throat.

Marcheford! She sighed inwardly. Well, that was that hope dashed. She'd never move to Marcheford. Never. Of all the Duchies, that was her least favourite. There were few men, no fun, heaps of learning and it also seemed to be the smallest. She assumed that Pemberton was the biggest, especially with women. She knew of... three men in Pemberton, and droves of women.

"No," she said skeptically, "not Marcheford. Right here in Pemberton, of course." What other Duchy's lady would boast a dress of the most vibrant hues teamed with all the beauty trims invented? She said nothing of his talk of pranks - she didn't want to speak of Marcheford. But she found the idea of him playing pranks rather funny and very unexpected.

She raised her eyebrows as his gaze shifted again. He and Francois had that in common, it seemed. She wasn't too concerned but she found it laughable that such a man was attracted to her. It made her happy, too - she hadn't met one man in her life who didn't like her physique. That was more than Esabell could say.

She wasn't terrific at dancing, but she was still better than most. She found the majority of them boring, but when one struck up a bright tune it was more than easy to glide across the floor. She smiled at him again and moved a little bit closer, trying to tug him from his comfort zone. "What do you think of the couple, Ewan?" she said, gesturing in Esabell's direction and trying to hide her annoyance.

"Oh? I know Lord Edmund a little," Ewan said, edging away from her, though there was only so much he could do that and remain in the dance. Her closeness was making his palms feel clammy and his heart race. "He seems a good sort. And the Duchess--" He couldn't talk about the politics of their realms, or what he really thought of her--he thought she was conniving. He thought they all were, though Duke Alden was the best of the bunch.

"Well, she isn't my Duchess," he demurred, keeping his body carefully away from hers. Their torsos brushed, ever so slightly, and he shivered. It was very pleasant. He ought to do this more. Perhaps if he accustomed himself to it, he wouldn't react like this? Maybe he would be worse.

His eyes were drifting again.

"I like your dress," he said, a tad desperately. He hated it. It was far too tight in the bodice, and far too showy.

She nodded a little, trying to pretend she cared. She would have loved to have a big gossip-fest about Esabell and uncover all her dirty little secrets... but Ewan seemed much too introverted to do such a thing. She didn't really know any Dukes or Duchesses except for Esabell and Elspeth. She hated Esabell madly, of course, but had an admiration for Elspeth. She seemed to strong and secure.

She was slightly unconcerned about how he was feeling, because she cared more about how she was feeling. He was a nice man but much too shy for her liking - she was also starting to wonder if he had a backbone. She couldn't abide people with no backbones. It made her so frustrated that they wouldn't think for themselves or talk for themselves or be themselves. She remained confident that there was always a part of someone that could be torn off to show their true nature.

He hated it? She didn't care. She could tell many people didn't like it and its extravagance, but then it was a Pemberton ball and she was Cecily. Besides, it wasn't that low cut. She wasn't showing her cleavage half as badly as that other woman drifting around - she'd heard someone say the name Caroline Kemp. Well, Cecily felt very modest indeed next to such a woman.

But she smiled her thank you and proceeded to ask about if he liked balls and the sort of thing he did in his spare time. She glanced around for a moment, just watching the dancers... and for a second she realised she would give everything to be one of those people. But within a moment that thought was gone and replaced by a tilt of the head and bat of the eyelashes.

"I don't like balls, to be honest," Ewan admitted, hoping he wouldn't offend her with his bluntness. "I like fencing, reading, archery--er, mostly things pertaining to combat, really," he went on. He kept his eyes carefully on hers, pretending she was just another of his friends. It was rather difficult due to the long sweep of her lashes and the brilliant red of her lips.

"And yourself?" The dance was slowing, almost at an end, and he thanked God for it. Though it was a petty and paltry thing for which to thank Him. "What do you like to do?" He felt as though her presence were strangling him into frustration. He would have loved to flirt--and such--but--

But--

He didn't know how. Oh, he knew how theoretically it was done. But he didn't know how he could accomplish it. Ir just wasn't something Ewan Kinnear did.

She thought about that for a second - he had mentioned reading only second, after fencing, then said about combat. Why, he wasn't that much of a Marcheford learner after all! That made her a little happier, although she couldn't see why. Maybe because she hated the place, or maybe because it would be easier on her if she didn't have to think about talking to a genius.

"Anything. Dancing and riding and walking most, of course. And talking to people," she said confidently, having answered this question many times before. A typical scenario with a typical kind of man. She hid her sigh and forced herself to be happy again. It wasn't hard - she just had to think of the scene and she would be.

Cecily could - she liked to. It made her feel pretty and wiped away so much. With this thought in mind, she said, "I must say you look dashing tonight, Ewan." It was such a transparent compliment but well played - she wasn't exactly a novice at this sort of thing. Of course she wasn't quite as used to it as Francois. She tended to spend her time with men in fast motion, usually not slowing down enough to actually talk to them.

"Thanks, I have been dashing a lot, mostly away from women who want to talk at... me..." Ewan trailed off, wincing. He worried she wouldn't get the joke. Or worse, that she'd be offended. "Not that you're talking at me. You're actually one of the quieter ones."

What had gotten into him? Well, she'd seemed to have a sense of humor. And then she had gotten him set onto the track whereby he spoke freely whatever was on his mind. And then jokes came out. That was just what happened. And then he offended people, and if they were men they punched him in the shoulder playfully--

If they were women, usually they slapped him. Or at least, it had happened once before.

"Er. I'm sorry, milady. I don't know what gets into me sometimes." The song ended. He stepped back, eyeing her with trepidation.

She was about to point out that it was a compliment when she got the joke. A very feeble one it was, too, so she laughed a little unbelievably. He really was something around women, wasn't he? She shook her head. "That was a terrible joke, I trust you know that?" The people Cecily conversed with generally didn't joke - they were involved in politics and pasts, really. It brought her back to her roots, to that place she used to call home, sitting with the girls and just joking. It was nice.

"Hmm, thankyou, I guess?" she said on his remark of being one of the quieter ones. She wouldn't talk at people because she hated it when they did that to her and usually she got very annoyed and had a shouting match with them. She hadn't displayed her anger here yet, because there was little than was annoying her at such a lovely ball - but when she did everyone would know.

She preferred him when he was joking to when he was just standing and stuttering. Cecily wanted people to be open and happy and not so introverted - well, she'd succeeded with Edmund. At least there was one tick to add to her resume. However much that tick tried to erase itself. She smiled and shook her head again. "It's fine - actually, I like it. Would you care for a drink? Then you can share other such hilarious jokes with me."

"You're teasing me," Ewan said reproachfully, reaching out to tap her lightly on the shoulder in a masculine gesture of camaraderie. "But yes, milady," he said, a bit meekly. One Obeyed Women. Where had anyone ever gotten the idea that the men were in charge of anything except war strategy and weapons? In the arena of diplomacy, tact, and personal relations, anyone in a skirt could beat him with one hand tied behind her back.

"I could tell you the joke about the hermit--no, that's not appropriate," he realized, coloring slightly. He followed her (he ought to be leading, surely? oh well--) to the side of the dance floor, and took a glass of wine, covering his awkwardness with a slow sip of the barely-watered liquid. "Most of the jokes I know are barracks humor, milady," he admitted. "Er. Here's a funny rhyme I've heard. It's a tad bit lewd, but I think you can handle it." The wine was relaxing him, he noted with relief. He cleared his throat and gestured with his glass before declaiming,

"
A wanton wench, being newly wed
Unto the pleasures of a married bed,
Ask’t the physician, ‘which he though most right
For Venus sports, the morning or the night.’
He answered her as he did deem most meet:
‘The morn more wholesome; but the night moresweet.’
‘Nay then,’ quoth she, ‘since we have time and leisure,
We’ll to’t each morn for health, each night for
pleasure."*

Ewan's face was red by the time he'd finished. It was certainly different to tell these sorts of jokes in company with a woman...





((OOC: *an actual joke from the Elizabethan era; I have more, some of them better.))

"Cecily," she said shortly. "Call me Cecily. That is my name, after all." She still hated formalities though she was better in scenes like this - balls and dances and such big public events. Here she was the 'lady-like Cecily', and so she curtsied and used titles (briefly, sure) and seemed a little less Lady-like than some people would wish, but at least she was acting the Lady at all.

She listened to his halting argument with himself as she plucked a glass of wine from a nearby tray and sipped it absently. Wine generally didn't have a great effect on her, because she'd been drinking it since she was at least 6, when she used to steal it from the richer people in her hometown. It was very easy to forget everything with wine.

She listened with growing anticipation to his joke and laughed at the end of it, because she was used to such jokes. She wasn't the kind of person to blush and giggle at such a joke - but it seemed he was. "Ewan, surely that is not the most suggestive joke you have ever told a woman?" She found his young boy attitude annoying, if a little cute, but she liked his jokes. It was so nice to laugh and actually mean it. "Tell me another," she demanded, but with a smile.

"I don't tend to tell jokes to women, barring my sister and mother," Ewan protested, feeling faintly put out at her judgment. But at least it made him bold enough to go on. Clearing his throat, he took another long sip of wine--and was surprised to find the glass was empty. He put it down and picked up another, gesturing with it.

"Right. Cecily then. I'll take your remark as a challenge and go one further... here's a riddle for you." He cleared his throat again, ostentatiously, and began in his most stentorian baritone:

"Thus my riddle doeth begin;
A maid would have a thing put in,
And with her hand she brought it to;
It was so meek, it would not do:
And at the length she used it so,
That to the hole she made it goe.
When it had done as she could wish,
‘Ah, ha!’ quothe she, ‘I’m glad of this!’"*

"So what is it?" he asked, pretending he was talking to his friends or Kian or his father. "You might be surprised; what's the maid doing?" He took another sip of wine and watched this strange lady. If all women were so relaxed about dirty jokes he might get along with them better.



((*OOC: again authentic 1600s joke, including the spelling))

He'd moved onto his second glass, but she hadn't yet. He seemed almost like her friends back at home, but not quite. For one, he blushed at dirty jokes. For two, he was a Lord. Three, he spoke with better articulation and language than her country friends. She squared her shoulders at his talk of a challenge but almost immediately felt at a loss for what to say.

She was not good at riddles - she was a Pembertonian, after all. She didn't generally think about this sort of thing, or challenge her mind very much. On that front, she also didn't have a natural mind for learning. She could think thoughtfully, and speak and write, but she didn't generally bother to learn. This was what made this riddle extraordinarily hard for her. She was a live-life-fast kind of person, not a slow, musing, thoughtful kind of one.

She racked her brains for a little bit, but couldn't for the life of her get the answer. "Erm..." she would have thought it would be something dirty, especially after his last joke, but she wouldn't say such a thing aloud. With a shrug she gave up. "I have no idea," she declared, turning back to her wine. She hadn't even finished her first glass yet - she'd been to preoccupied with the riddle. But she was still intrigued about the answer. "What was it?"

Ewan smiled more easily now and reached over to ruffle her hair lightly, as he would with his sister. The gesture came naturally, though afterwards he was seized with guilt and insecurity. He'd touched her without asking--was that entirely proper?

He took another long drink of wine, and set down his second glass.

"It's a needle, actually, silly," he said, making a wry face. "Now here's another one, but you'll have to promise not to kill me. Aoife punches me whenever I tell it, because she says it disparages women--but I just find it funny." And more than a little true, based on his experiences, not that he would ever say!

"Demanded of one, why hee being a man of so large a nature and bodie, would be marryed to a woman so small. To which he replyed: Since that I was to make choice out of thinges that were evill, I thought it most wisedome to choose the least."

"Get it?" He paused, feeling rather uncomfortable now, watching her. She was very pretty, really. He looked away, berating himself. "But now I'm the one talking at you... do you know any jokes, or...? Or maybe I ought to just go. It is getting late. They won't be offended if I leave, I hope." Though he wanted to keep an eye on Aoife.

She followed his hand as it ruffled her hair and poked her tongue out at him before trying to un-ruffle it again. She finished her first glass of wine and put it on a tray - she felt a little more floaty, but that was the only effect the wine had on her. She listened to his answer and thought about it. She couldn't wholly remember the joke, but she remembered little bits of it that seemed to fit. Well, he'd got her there.

Who was Aoife? She'd never heard the name before. She assumed they must be close - who else would punch him? But then she listened to the joke and she saw why he was getting punched by women - it was a bold joke to say, especially in the presence of one met not that long ago. She punched him on the arm, lightly, of course, and was laughing as she did so. "Why, Ewan, you certainly know how to make a women annoyed."

At his words she pursed her lips a little in annoyance, because she was enjoying his company and didn't want him to scurry off and be lost in Marcheford again. "I shouldn't think they would care, really, to be frank - they seem all too involved in their own affairs," she said, looking around for Esabell and seeing her with Duchess Lucy. "But Ewan -" she turned back to him and took his hand "- we have to meet sometime after this ball, so you can tell me some more of those wonderful jokes." There was a small note of teasing in her words at this, because his jokes were either dirty, hard for her to understand or insulted her gender. "Oh - I would love to meet Aoife, too."

"Er--right," Ewan said, holding her hand a little (well, not just a little) uncomfortably in his own. He ought to kiss it, he felt, judging by what others did. He did so, brushing it with his lips, and felt his heartbeat triple in speed. "Yes, we'll speak again. With Aoife--she's my little sister," he explained. That would show her he didn't know how to get along with girls. He'd show her his skill with women firsthand. "Perhaps we could all have an outing together, the weather's gotten nice and Aoife and I both love to ride."

He realized that this sounded terribly much like an innuendo, and backtracking, trying to point out Aoife. "See? There's my sister, dancing with that--" His eyes widened. One of the performing gypsies? "Excuse me, Lady Cecily." He dropped her hand and rushed off, calling back over his shoulder, "I'll see you later!"