The compliment meant more to him than many others he’d heard that night. “Thank you.” He let go of her hand and felt a pang at the loss of contact with a unique woman and turned to Cratag and Signet. “So you, Cratag, knew Del from . . .”
“Brittany.”
Raz stared. “The southern continent?”
“That’s right,” Cratag said.
“I know her because our parents were friendly,” Signet said, “and she was in a grovestudy group that met in Celandine Park, like mine did.”
“An older group,” Del said with a smile.
“Circles and circles,” Signet said. She leaned against her husband, looked at Raz. “Odd how that happens, isn’t it? Del is a cartographer.”
“Cartographer,” he said. “Mapmaker?”
“Yes,” Del said. “I scout and measure the terrain of Celta. I’m on the trail most of the time.”
Why did that seem like a challenge?
On the dais, musicians struck up a Grand March. Signet linked her arm in Cratag’s and pulled him away to take a place in the dance line.
Del flinched. She hoped Raz wouldn’t ask her to dance; she’d forgotten the intricate steps of the pattern. More and more her thin layer of civilization was eroding. Raz obviously was more comfortable with Signet—that type of arty woman—than with her.
She was warm, heated from the inside out since he’d grasped her hand, her blood hot and racing. Her tanned skin would keep her from showing a deep flush. A little pinkness might hit her cheeks, but Raz would be used to women flushing in his presence, probably liked it. Preferred pale or pinkened skin to golden.
He turned with courtesy. “Would you care to dance?”
She shook her head. “I don’t recall the steps, thank you very much.”
His smile showed in his eyes as well as his lips. She felt her breath actually catch. Lady and Lord!
Their gazes locked; she could almost feel a link between them unrolling like a string that led through a dangerous maze.
“Raz, shall we?” The question came from their hostess. She smiled benignly on Del. “My HeartMate will be opening the dancing with Lily Fescue, the lead actress of the play.”
“Of course,” Del said. She should have figured that out, shouldn’t she? She was so rusty at social events. “Thank you for the invitation, I’m enjoying myself.”
The older woman beamed at Del, then whisked Raz away.
That Del was enjoying the event surprised her. But she liked Cratag and Signet Marigold, though Signet had stretched the truth when she’d said their parents had been friendly. Within the ranks of GrandHouse and GraceHouse nobles, status was mostly based on how early the house had been founded. Sometimes that could be overcome by wealth. Del’s parents had certainly believed so and had done their best to raise the Family a few notches in the social scale. They might even have done it, Del didn’t know. It must have been bitter to them that all they’d “worked” so hard for would be left to a daughter who didn’t care a silver sliver about Druidan noble society.
She’d stopped talking to her parents years ago and had only a twinge when she recalled their deaths a decade before from a sickness that had swept Druida. Another reason she disliked the city; too many people close together to spread disease.
She watched the dancers, all lined up according to status. Status meant nothing in the wilds, and she preferred that. The atmosphere that had smothered her when she’d walked in began to descend again and she rolled her shoulders and went for another glass of springreen wine.
The party had been uncomfortable and tiresome before Signet D’Marigold had come up to Del. Talk had been boring and the people shallow. Her gown—with no trous!—had been restricting; she had to watch how she held her arms so the long pocket sleeves didn’t sweep around ridiculously. Her shoes hurt. That was what she got for being on time. She should have known that Raz Cherry, an actor, would make an entrance.
All the
“Brittany.”
Raz stared. “The southern continent?”
“That’s right,” Cratag said.
“I know her because our parents were friendly,” Signet said, “and she was in a grovestudy group that met in Celandine Park, like mine did.”
“An older group,” Del said with a smile.
“Circles and circles,” Signet said. She leaned against her husband, looked at Raz. “Odd how that happens, isn’t it? Del is a cartographer.”
“Cartographer,” he said. “Mapmaker?”
“Yes,” Del said. “I scout and measure the terrain of Celta. I’m on the trail most of the time.”
Why did that seem like a challenge?
On the dais, musicians struck up a Grand March. Signet linked her arm in Cratag’s and pulled him away to take a place in the dance line.
Del flinched. She hoped Raz wouldn’t ask her to dance; she’d forgotten the intricate steps of the pattern. More and more her thin layer of civilization was eroding. Raz obviously was more comfortable with Signet—that type of arty woman—than with her.
She was warm, heated from the inside out since he’d grasped her hand, her blood hot and racing. Her tanned skin would keep her from showing a deep flush. A little pinkness might hit her cheeks, but Raz would be used to women flushing in his presence, probably liked it. Preferred pale or pinkened skin to golden.
He turned with courtesy. “Would you care to dance?”
She shook her head. “I don’t recall the steps, thank you very much.”
His smile showed in his eyes as well as his lips. She felt her breath actually catch. Lady and Lord!
Their gazes locked; she could almost feel a link between them unrolling like a string that led through a dangerous maze.
“Raz, shall we?” The question came from their hostess. She smiled benignly on Del. “My HeartMate will be opening the dancing with Lily Fescue, the lead actress of the play.”
“Of course,” Del said. She should have figured that out, shouldn’t she? She was so rusty at social events. “Thank you for the invitation, I’m enjoying myself.”
The older woman beamed at Del, then whisked Raz away.
That Del was enjoying the event surprised her. But she liked Cratag and Signet Marigold, though Signet had stretched the truth when she’d said their parents had been friendly. Within the ranks of GrandHouse and GraceHouse nobles, status was mostly based on how early the house had been founded. Sometimes that could be overcome by wealth. Del’s parents had certainly believed so and had done their best to raise the Family a few notches in the social scale. They might even have done it, Del didn’t know. It must have been bitter to them that all they’d “worked” so hard for would be left to a daughter who didn’t care a silver sliver about Druidan noble society.
She’d stopped talking to her parents years ago and had only a twinge when she recalled their deaths a decade before from a sickness that had swept Druida. Another reason she disliked the city; too many people close together to spread disease.
She watched the dancers, all lined up according to status. Status meant nothing in the wilds, and she preferred that. The atmosphere that had smothered her when she’d walked in began to descend again and she rolled her shoulders and went for another glass of springreen wine.
The party had been uncomfortable and tiresome before Signet D’Marigold had come up to Del. Talk had been boring and the people shallow. Her gown—with no trous!—had been restricting; she had to watch how she held her arms so the long pocket sleeves didn’t sweep around ridiculously. Her shoes hurt. That was what she got for being on time. She should have known that Raz Cherry, an actor, would make an entrance.
All the
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