@roseofanjou, @cosimoidemedici
The spectacular candle-lit ballroom is flowing with guests, in heavy, elaborate costumes -- a rich display of their wealth-- lavish and dripping with splendor. A formation dance is in progress, the pulse of the music pouring a minor key in three-quarter time; large formations of pairs perform elaborately choreographed moves, and then, dissolve from one formation into another, waltz about with finesse, and break, and scatter, and form again, dancing down to the end of the set, and then, they mile about, seeking out their partners for the next set. The buffets are lavish and the wine is being poured in abundance--a splendiferous dinner. The scent of flowers and sour wine is in the air through the lush candles that are sprawled across the tables and windowsills, displaying the ballroom’s grand, pillared walls and high ceilings, a collection of light pouring over stone and marble from the chandeliers.
Amphelice is sat with Rose, her stomach coiled and tight with a pool of tensions, her mind abuzz with the potential the night holds; she glances at Sir Nicholas and every sinew in her body tightens, her blood thick with vast amounts of guilt and tension; her lashes flick over her cheekbones, and she exchanges a meaningful glance with Annabelle, offering a smile over the glimmer of the candles. Cosimo and his wife are sat at their table, too, an endless source of tension, and she is grappling with her self-restraint, for she is thoroughly aware of his general presence, and the looks Ophelia is casting toward her direction-- however subtle-- are heavy and thick with bitterness and, perhaps, jealousy, too. For all intents and purposes, she has spent a significant amount of time glamming herself up for the night, for she knows his wife is sat with him, ever present at his side, and comparisons will be unavoidable; she longs to appear vastly prettier than his wife, to stir him and please his eye; in spite of the tension that is burning at the base of her spine, she appears collected, too, her demeanor pleasant and proper, her face lit with tilting smiles, her cheeks rosy. She is wearing a long dress, its laces loose and light, drifting about her legs like clouds, offering daring flashes of her thighs, her skin, pearl-white and silken. Beneath her skirts, she is wearing delicate white silk stockings clocked with pale pink. Her hair is charming, too, a mass of loose, inviting curls, seamless and adorned with strings of pearl drops--overall, she is glowing, gold and ivory, a sight to behold. Occasionally, she allows herself to toss a sidelong glance at Cosimo, and every time she catches his gaze, she burns with a melting thrill that travels all the way to her toes, her looks from under her long lashes a blatant invitation.
She is besieged with requests to dance, too--her and Rose. By every rule of proper etiquette, she can not refuse a man a dance, unless she is to give up dancing for the rest of the night entirely. She has never, from the night of her coming-out ball, ever sat out a dance at a ball, and it is a distraction from the stress that is clotting her lower stomach. She dances with Chevalier d'Éon, a proper gentleman in manner and looks, who appears quite taken with the splendor of her eyes-- blue flecked with green--, the swell of her mouth, looking at her with such heartfelt admiration that makes servants giggle and whisper words, and then, she returns to the table, catching Rose’s arm as she slips from her dance partner too, the arc of her delicate back straight and steeping in poise; a Viscount approaches the table to offer his greetings, and lingers, ogling Rose’s luscious cleavage and Amphelice, too, a gleam in his eye--he smiles and chatters, teasing her with prods and flirtations, with pokes and suggestive winks, until it is all she can do not to slap him across the face-- a lecher, leering at her, and Rose, too, unwilling to understand her (--their) rejection of him. He asks her to dance, and she thinks of lying, and saying that she is already engaged, but if she is left without a partner, she will never survive the shame. Nevertheless, she lies with a forced smile, and he turns to Rose with a flourish to ask her to dance with him, his gaze drawn to her mouth. Amphelice holds her thigh under the table and offers another practiced smile with ease. “Alas, you may not,my Lord. She has no dances to spare, for she, too, has been claimed.” she offers, and he swallows a sharp response, tosses an appreciative glance at Annabelle, and then, leaves with a tight smile.
She dips her face to whisper to Rose’s ear, feeling Ophelia’s gaze on her again. “--I feel ill.” she says, her voice lower, “is she looking at me?” she asks, and then, glances toward Sir Nicholas again while he is being served a generous amount of red wine, and she feels her pulse sputter with a foreboding sensation. She seeks Annabelle’s gaze, and holds it, and sits a little straighter in anticipation, for she knows it’ll take a while for the poison to work its way through the strong man’s system.
