At least Fulke didn't insist on spending too much time with her. It did, on the other hand, leave her rather at loose ends. She couldn't dance; first of all she didn't know most of the steps, and secondly, she felt too huge and clumsy even to make the attempt. Well--no great loss. There was more to be gained from watching others than from making a spectacle of herself. She stood to one side of the dance floor, keeping track of who danced with whom and what sorts of looks they exchanged, reading their words in their eyes.

She sipped slowly at a goblet of heavily watered wine, and tied to keep herself from yawning; not from boredom, only because she was tired. Idly, she plucked at a stray thread on the low neckline of her gown.

He had bought her a dress--had Fulke. It was much-needed by now, as she had long been unable to fit any of her corsets. This dress was red, with a grayish sheen and hints of pink, and a silver underskirt. It had a high waist, which gathered just below her breasts and left the roundness of her belly in evidence. Few people, she guessed, would have trouble telling her identity--after all the rumors--even with the silver mask she wore. But she hadn't come to the ball for the purpose of concealment. Relative anonymity would be enough.

For awhile, Corby amused herself picking out men who'd been her patrons in years or months past. She picked out Pippa, a woman she'd met in Ashton--which surprised her. Wasn't she a commoner? But she was talking to Duke Alden. He was a handsome one, she could see half the women slavering over him. Then there was the King, who didn't really look at home at a ball like this. The women she lumped into a mostly undifferentiated mass. There was the Lady Kinnear, whom they said had been sleeping with her brother. She was dancing with one of them, all right, but there was nothing unnatural-looking in it. Then there was that peacock-man--she spotted him nearby. Had the King's ear--he might be well-worth talking to, so she gave him a bit of a smile.

Though Mal wouldn't do anything outright horrifying at this gala, it was tough to keep him from being himself. Wine goblet in hand, his wolfish gaze was perusing the crowds. If there was one thing Mal could do aside from be an outright drunken ass, it was dance. Hence, balls such as these were his territory. He could cut a mean jig on the dance floor. Currently, he was scanning for targets. His eyes landed upon one woman and he felt his smile curl upwards. She was smiling back at him. Her dress was cut so as to make it clear that she was pregnant.

...Bad sign! Evasive action! his common sense screamed, She's already packing under that dress!

However, Malcom Michaels was never one to listen to common sense. An annoying little bugger, that one was. It usually only ever kicked in when he was sober and trying to be on at least vaguely acceptable behavior. When Mal thought with a different part of his anatomy, the result was slightly different.

That's just proof that she belongs to someone else...and it's twice as fun to hunt someone else's kill, so long as it's not right in front of them...well okay, so long as it's done blatantly right in front of them. Brushing off the part of his mind that had a vague recollection of rumors about a pregnant common-born whore-turned-Lady, he downed what was left of his goblet and set it on a passing by servant's tray before sidling across the room.

Which brings up an interesting point. Malcom rarely ever 'walked'. He might sidle, stroll, strut, peruse, stalk, sneak, swagger--and even, on rare occasion when he was feeling exceptionally devious, slither--but he rarely ever simply 'walked' somewhere. Walking was for commoners and beasts. So, while Mal--well, lets just say he probably approached with some form of movement that began with the letter 's'--he put on his most charming smile, even as, with perfect timing, the orchestra began to play a slow song.

"My Lady, I'm sure your feet must be tired already for being at an event such as this, but if it wouldn't trouble you, I would adore a chance to have this dance." He half-bowed to her, his roguish grin and easy eyes clearly stating that he was in quite the friendly and jovial mood...and those eyes glittered with just a hint of something that she might indeed recognize.

...Was that mischief?

Corby felt herself flush; it wasn't the heedless blush of a virgin, but her calculated and ingrained response to male flirtation. And it was quite obvious--the Lord Michaels was flirting with her. Despite her obvious condition, and despite the wedding ring on her finger... not that she paid much heed to it herself. But in front of Fulke? Oh, let him go f*ck himself, she thought, with the complacency born of despair. He likely would, anyway, since it hardly seemed he desired her anymore. Married life, as she'd predicted, didn't see to agree with her most lustful tendencies.

Besides, there was something flattering about this man's interest--practiced though his approach clearly was. He was a professional charmer, and sure. As one professional charmer to another, she had to admit, privately, that she liked his style. If she had been unencumbered by the baby, she might have tried to match his crude grace, but as it was she only smiled, and brought one hand up to the neckline of her dress, drawing his eye.

"I'm not much of a dancer, milord," Corby said, modulating her voice in an approximation of dulcet courtliness that touched on the parodic. "But then you seem to be dancer enough for both of us, so if you don't mind trodden toes and a bit of bumping around--"

She smiled, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips. It wasn't precisely the brash flirtation she'd used when she was a whore. It was the leisurely version thereof, with no demands placed on her other than her own pleasure. Now this was what she'd wished for when she'd wished to be a lady at court. All of a sudden, her entire body felt lighter, though she could feel her child move inside her--surely in response to the sudden increase in the rate of her beating heart.

Mal saw her flush and his grin widened. Whether it was a trained response or not, a blush was a blush, and showed appreciation on at least some level of such attention. He knew he sounded practiced; like a professional charmer, but he didn't care. Oftentimes, when a woman felt the charms of a professional, even once it's been identified as such, it's just as flattering if not more so because someone who had such skills would choose to apply them to her...well, oftentimes even as obviously practiced as it might sound, it worked just as well as sincere words.

Which was not to imply that his words were not sincere, rather that it was not the spur of the moment honesty that usually made so many of the younger lords flush viciously after saying something without realizing they'd spoken aloud so much as a calculated approach.

Her hand to her neckline, a motion that he had seen done many times before, was intended to draw his eyes' focus, and he did not decline such an invitation. He was aware of the purpose, for he'd seen many other well-trained female charmers use this simple but deadly technique, but to ignore it was to seem immune to her charms, which could sometimes turn a charmer off...so until he could read her better to know if she preferred the kind who danced the dance or the kind who intentionally played hard to get, following through would be best. Besides, it's not like an invited gaze at a woman's chest was torture, exactly. He let it linger for just an instant longer then appropriate--a calculated instant that she would likely be quite aware of--before letting his gaze slowly caress its way up her skin back to her own.

"If you'll pardon me for saying, but I believe you're greatly underestimating yourself, My Lady..." he began, catching the darting tongue which caused him to shift his weight. The shifting was done intentionally, a repositioning that most men did when they feared that they may, perhaps, become a bit too...excited. It was a sign of a man's awareness of his own genitals, which was usually one of the initial signs of attraction and arousal which if, based on her behavior, she was as knowledgeable as she seemed, it was likely a recognizable thing.

"...but I would be most delighted to test such a theory out for myself," he finished, his gaze holding hers with a mischievous twinkle still present even as he held out his hand, offering to lead her to the dance floor. Admittedly, his own heart was beating at a bit quicker pace then usual, but it often did when he was playing such a game. Besides, with the ring on her finger calculated in, he really couldn't lose. She wouldn't be begging him for any sort of actual relationship as she was already married, she was with child so she wouldn't get pregnant by him, and yet she was flirting back quite openly, which meant that she clearly wasn't very satisfied with her home life at the moment...and unsatisfied wives were usually some of the most insatiable lovers he'd ever met. On top of it all, while she wasn't the courtly sort of beautiful he usually found, but she did have a sort of prettiness to her that one didn't often find amongst the nobiles.

He really wasn't seeing a downside to this if it happened to lead somewhere.

"Underestimating indeed, if you think my price is a few kind words," Corby said. Her voice was lower than usual, more throaty--closer to her true tones, roughened by years of winter coughs, than to the lilting modulation she put on to impress. She laughed, to show she wasn't entirely serious, and watched him. If she had been her old self she wouldn't have hesitated; her gaze slid downward, to take the measure of his response, then back up when she realized most women wouldn't be so bold. And the words were all wrong. He'd set her back in the mindset of price--as if she had any value anymore!

It was a startling realization: that their interest was now set on equal footing. That she had less power as a lady than she'd had as a whore.

"I'd love to dance," she said abruptly, taking his hand in hers, though her grasp had instinctively aimed somewhat lower. Corby watched what the other women were doing, and guided the lord's hand to her waist. She paused momentarily then, recalling something.

"But I don't have your name. I'm the Lady Corby Marshal." She ducked her head briefly. The name still felt strange, false--ill-fitting. "My husband is the Lord Fulke, but no need to concern yourself with him." The note in her voice wasn't bitterness, exactly, just a kind of resignation. "And you are, my lord? Or do you prefer not to share?" It struck her that this wasn't how things worked in sophisticated circles, but she knew no other way of functioning. It was always the man's prerogative--whether to expose himself for what he was or not. Her smile didn't waver as they began the dance, though it was touched with melancholy.

"My Lady, I thought nothing of price, but wished only to share your company for a while," he replied, his tone equally playful, though noticeably smoother due to his easier lifestyle. She abruptly accepted his offer to dance, and as the pair went out onto the dance floor and she guided his hands, he chuckled softly but let her lead metaphorically.

If there was one thing Malcom Michaels knew aside from swordplay, it was dance, and skilled as he was, he could make up for Corby's lack of capability with relative ease, and he did so with grace and flair as the pair moved about. He listened to her words and let them hang there for a long moment as a rather devilish smirk flickered across his visage, only to remain in place.

"Needn't concern myself with your husband, hmm? Lucky me, that was my intention from the start, horrible man that I am. And speaking of, the man that I am is the Lord Malcom Michaels. Single, currently, and a member of King Ambrose's privy council." He thought on it for a moment and then chuckled softly.

"Considering that I don't think he has anyone else on it at the moment, I suppose you could say that for now I am his privy council." He shrugged softly as they danced. He was not bragging, as most might, merely stating fact. This one was a viable and useful fact, because it indicated that he stayed at the Sapphire Palace rather then keeping a home in any of the provinces. It also meant he knew secrets, and how to keep them. Scandalous affairs with married women who were pregnant with their husband's child, for instance.

"I considered letting the essence of mystery as to who I was linger a while longer, but I found that the desire to not be called 'hey you' more appealing than making you wonder." That same devilish smile still danced merrily on his face, even as the pair danced--perhaps a bit less merrily, but just as enthusiastically.

"So tell me, Lady Marshal...why would a husband leave his beautiful wife all alone at a ball where some roguish lord may well attempt to make a pass?" While it was true that she was not the classic beauty, he found her wild beauty and sense of allure just as attractive as could be found in most courtly ladies...perhaps moreso for the moment because it had been some time since he'd been a bit more wild himself.

The King's privy counsel! So that was her price. A connection like this could even be called priceless. To move closer to the King was no small victory, and could bolster her when it came to dealing with Duke Castyll.

Corby told herself all this, as Lord Michaels guided her around the dance floor, but what she really wanted to think of was nothing more than the warmth of his hand on her waist, and the ease of his smile. He wasn't the handsomest of men, but he radiated calm good cheer and, yes, virility, in a way that her slightly awkward husband did not. In a way few men, in her extensive experience, did.

"So tell me, Lady Marshal...why would a husband leave his beautiful wife all alone at a ball where some roguish lord may well attempt to make a pass?"

She smiled playfully, and found she was quite capable of conversation even as her body followed his in the movements of the dance. It wasn't entirely unexpected; her body, after all, had always been her stock-in-trade.

"A husband who cares more for his business than for the wife he doesn't love," she said frankly, matching his bantering tone. And if an edge of sadness lingered beneath her reply she didn't permit herself to acknowledge it, but drew a half-step closer to her dance partner instead, affording him a view of the tops of her breasts. One of her legs brushed his. She sought refuge--as always--in the physical.

She seemed surprised to hear of his position, and not in a bad way. It seemed having such a position would have its own uses aside from aiding Ambrose after all...

As she smiled playfully in response to his own teasing comment, even as their bodies glided across the dance floor, he couldn't help but let his smile dance wider still. Oh yes, he could have some fun with this one, she was making that quite clear. Clarified further still, even by her reply. He felt her move closer. Saw the exposure of cleavage that looked so enticing and alluring, and he was sure it was on purpose. Felt her leg brush his, and knew it was intentional. She was giving him all the signals. What a strange sensation, hunting someone who, herself, seemed a huntress.

"Love is a very overrated concept, and quite rare among nobles, I find," he responded, barely missing a beat even as he drew closer still, his leg now repeatedly brushing hers as they moved, with barely enough distance between them to keep from actual full-body physical contact, "I find it messy and problematic. I prefer the much simpler situation of lust. Pure physical want is just as pleasurable--more so at times, I believe, especially if the other knows what they're doing--and completely lacking in the mental damage department that the attachment of an emotion as strong as love can provide."

He might not have been so forthright on such a topic were it with another lady, but her very words and presence made it clear that she could handle a bit of directness. Perhaps she even preferred it. Regardless, the blatantly suggestive theme that had began since the very beginning was only growing thicker. She clearly had physical desire and needs not being met if he was reading her behavior right, and he was more then willing to meet them. She was married, so they had to be careful, perhaps sneaking off somewhere for a while only to return long before the ball was over so as not to seem conspicuous. Regardless, every time he knocked on the door of opportunity, it seemed that he was being welcomed inside.

Pun intended.

Corby's heart was pounding now--both from the thrill of a successful chase and the simple proximity of a male body. She tasted power as she hadn't for months. It was power, it seemed, that she missed, as well as an outlet to lust.

Malcom held one of her hands in his. Corby's hands had always been a bit of a liability to her--they tended to be cold--but his grip had warmed her. She slid a thumb silkily over his palm, the only gesture she could reliably make in such company.

"I know what I'm doing," she said.

She could afford to be straightforward with this man. She judged him as one of those who had enough security (afforded by power, of course) that they could follow their desires. That was what she wanted--what she had always wanted. So funny that it was a freedom only the truly well-born shared with whores.

The song slowed, and Corby thought it was likely coming to an end, though it wasn't music she found familiar. Well, and when had she had the chance to learn fancy tunes, she told herself scornfully. She knew more important rhythms.

Corby looked up at Mal, a hint of expectation in her languorously lustful smile.

Her breathing had quickened a bit...more then was likely to happen from dancing at any rate. At least, that was his guess. Then he felt it. Her thumb gently rubbing against his palm. It was already clear what direction this was going, the question was just how fast it would get there...which really depended on both of them as well as the mood.

His eyebrow flickered upwards in amusement as he felt the subtle caress, his congenial smile twisting ever so barely into a suggestive smirk. It made him look almost evil, but the glint in his eye made it clear he had nothing in mind that she didn't seem unlikely to agree to.

When she spoke her brief reply he let out a sharp expulsion of breath that was almost like a scoff, but was less cynical in its amusement. No, instead it seemed that he had the same train of thought she did.

"I'm glad to hear that..." he began, but didn't get a chance to finish before the music began to fade. As the dance stopped, he eyed her one more time, this time intentionally gazing up and down her form less like an observant noble and more like a hungry animal sizing up a meal. She was eying him expectantly and his grin curled higher still.

"Lady Marshal...this ball is great and all...but I think we'd be better off having a party of our own...where we both know all the moves...and this place is a bit inappropriate all things considered. Is there any way I could convince you to come with me to some back room for a while? I'd like to test your claim of how well you know what you're doing. I'll let my skill speak for itself."

It was blatantly obvious what he was suggesting, and he was offering her a last chance to back out. He might be a leach, but he was not a rapist. Based on her behavior, however, he doubted it'd be a problem. They both wanted it, and both were willing to disregard the possible consequences. All that was left was to find a private place to hold their two-person party.

"That sounds wonderful," Corby said. She took a moment to think of what was appropriate. In the past, she would simply have seized him by his shirt or the front of his breeches and dragged him into a convenient alley.

Instead, she smiled back at him and let one hip jut in her accustomed exaggerated posture. She kept her hands on him for just a little too long before she slid away. Then, affectedly, making fun of courtly manners, she raised the back of one hand to her forehead. "I'm afraid I feel terribly faint," Corby said, her expression sardonic and wicked. "Do you mind coming with me for a little air?"

She half-turned and pulled him after her toward the doors. It was a relief--the sudden cool, out of the heat and brilliance of the ball--but she reacted chiefly to the shared warmth that still lingered between herself and Mal. "Come here." She reached up, dragging his head down toward hers for a kiss, hooking one of her legs around his, her back against the wall.

He felt her hands still on him, for just a few beats longer then necessary, and on the inside he chuckled.

Oh, she's good...

As she fabricated their getaway and mocked courtly society in the same moment, he couldn't help but let his out a snicker. He knew already that he liked her...repeat performances were not out of the question with this one, from the looks of things...

"Of course, My Lady," He replied with a sweeping blow, equally mocking, before escorting her out of the large double doors and into the hallway. Of course they didn't make it far before she let all manner of courtly civility drop. Both of their bodies still lingered with the warmth the other had caused in more ways then one, and before either could cool they were pressed together, this time with an element of ferocity one wouldn't have found in the ballroom. She aggressively pulled him into a kiss and he went willingly; eagerly. His mouth met hers fiercely as they half-staggered, half-stumbled against a nearby wall, her back pinned against it as he pressed himself against her harshly, enticed all the more by her leg hooked around his.

One of his hands was running along the length of her thigh, his hand's grip not too tight, but firm enough to relay his hunger through that very touch. He was pressed against her, and if things spun any more out of control he might well pin her hands against the wall and take her there...but no, such quick trysts would be too soon over as such were usually rushed...and he wanted to take his time with this one. He wanted to savor the sensation of each and every curve on this woman's body, so after a long moment of the deep and fierce kiss, he pried himself away, though a portion of him regretted it.

"This way," he panted, his tone a deep, husky growl as he pulled her down the corridor. It wouldn't take long for them to reach the King's private room. Amby would understand, he was sure of it. He popped the door and slid them both inside, having hardly separated his body from hers for the entire trek. Once the door had been closed and locked, his hands were already on the laces of her dress, undoing them and pulling the cloth away even as his lips hungrily met hers again.

Oh yes, he intended to take his time with this one, and use most every trick he knew--a list that was quite extensive in its own right. This would take a while, but he was perfectly fine with that.

Corby fairly glowed with pleasure as she followed Malcom through the corridors. It wasn't every man who took the time to find a room. But this wasn't her old life, she reminded herself. He actually cared about her pleasure, or at least he'd pretend to (said her more cynical side)--because he wasn't paying her.

But it hardly mattered. Sensations tumbled past, the touch of his body on hers. She slid a hand along the muscle of his chest, her fingers dipping beneath his collar to touch skin.

She pulled away and laughed breathlessly when she saw the room, dazzled and disbelieving. It was magnificent, the bed larger than any she'd ever seen. The air smelled of flowers and expensive cloth, and it was all blue velvet and silk. Then the time for admiration was over, and she tipped her head back in ecstasy as Malcom unfastened her loose dress. Corby wriggled out of it, then pulled off her shift, unabashed in nakedness.

"Your turn," she said, her hands deft on his belt, pulling him with her toward the bed. "Take off your shirt." The backs of her legs touched the coverlet, and she pulled Mal down after her.

It was actually a few grueling--but immensely satisfying--hours later that he finally came to rest on the smooth sheets, naked except for the sheen of sweat that covered his body. He hadn't had that big of a workout in a long, long time. Still panting and trying to recover his breath he glanced over at her, and let out laughter broken by his heaving breathing.

"Alright...I accept your statement of knowing what you're doing...that was....fantastic." And indeed it was. Removing a woman's virtue was all well and good, but sometimes a romp with a woman who knew exactly what she was doing could be better than any virgin. The awkwardness women usually showed was gone, and instead the rhythm seemed natural and perfect. All in all, the best he'd had in the recent times that he could remember. His gaze slid to her and his smirk curled upon his face.

"That man is fool for not paying more attention to you," he commented, "But I'm not complaining...I'm perfectly willing to pay you that attention in his stead..." He closed his eyes for a long moment, focusing on intentionally slowing his breathing and heart rate to a more normal pace.

He had indeed cared about her pleasure--after all, knowing he was providing such was part of the ego trip that came with bedding a married woman--and besides, he got a special joy out of the power of knowing he could cause a woman to lose control of herself in that fashion. So yes, a fair amount of his time had been focused on her pleasure as much if not more so than his own, though admittedly his reasons were hardly altruistic.

He stretched languidly on the bed, having used muscles he'd forgotten he had in their little encounter, as comfortable with his own nakedness as she was with hers. Yes, even if she never sought his company again after tonight, it was still enjoyable and he didn't regret it in the slightest.

Corby's body still thrummed with pleasure as she rolled away from Malcom. Her body was damp with sweat, her hair sticky on her brow, and she felt delightfully flushed. Ever cautious, she raised one hand to her belly, reassuring herself that the baby was safe, despite the vigor of their activities. In answer, she felt the accustomed flutter, and let out her breath in a long, relieved sigh. Which hitched in the middle to accommodate a cough.

It wasn't unexpected. Less a malady, in Corby's eyes, than a mark of her low birth. She turned her head away from her bedmate and buried her face in the crook of her arm until her body stilled.

Then she lay back and rolled her head to the other side to look at Malcom. Her body was spread out on the bed, her legs akimbo. One arm drifted toward Malcom, and she rested it on his shoulder, taking pleasure in the feeling of firm muscle beneath her hand; the other, still, rested protectively on her abdomen. Oddly, even in such a vulnerable position, in a room whose opulence far beyond anything to which she could ever aspire, she felt very safe.

"I told you," she said, her voice low, rough-edged. She cleared her throat. "You weren't so bad either." Never tell a man he's good--he'll forget your pleasure, said the cynical voice of Catherine in her head, and Corby almost laughed. What Catherine would say if she could see Corby now.

Well. What she'd do was call her a silly slut for endangering her marriage, but she'd always been a bit of a stodge for a trollop, hadn't she.

"We ought to get back," she said. The last word turned into a long sigh. Corby wasn't, of course, unaccustomed to amorous exercise, but robust good health had never been something she enjoyed, and, despite her jokes about courtly female frailty, she felt exhausted.