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Valerian bowed low over Jacintha’s hand. “Lady, a pleasure as always.”

Such a courtly gesture, one Alaric knew he didn’t have the grace to emulate. That hardly mattered however, as the ability to speak had apparently deserted him. Why had he let Lily persuade him to come here?

Valerian smiled at him.

Alaric’s heart stuttered. Ahhh. Yes. That was why.

“Who is it you wish to introduce?” asked Valerian.

“Lord Ciral.” Jacintha pulled him forward. “A distant relation by marriage, from the mountains. He doesn’t get out into society very often.” So saying she pressed Alaric’s hand into Valerian’s. “If you don’t mind looking after him, I have other business to attend to.” She turned to the raven. “Prince Darvan. Come. There is someone I’d like you to meet.”

Before Alaric could even attempt a protest, she disappeared in a flurry of yellow skirts, dragging a bemused raven prince after her.

He was alone. With Valerian. And the lordling still held onto his hand.

“Jacintha doesn’t believe in taking no for an answer,” Valerian commented. “Her determination awes all of us.”

The statement didn’t seem to require a response, so Alaric maintained his silence.

“And I see she’s left her mark on you.”

“What?”

“Your arm.” Valerian grasped Alaric’s wrist and pushed his shirtsleeve back to reveal the crescent moon wounds left by Jacintha’s fingernails. “She always did like to lead. I can take care of those if you’d like.”

Alaric nodded, somehow managing to speak despite the fact that his heart was lodged in his throat and his lungs had ceased to function. “That would be acceptable.” Acceptable? Such a bland word to express the intensity of his anticipation.

Knowing what was coming next and experiencing it were two different things. Some of the fey had an ability to heal minor wounds with their saliva. A trait which had virtually disappeared from the goneril race, yet it remained in Valerian’s family line. He’d sometimes used the ability during love play. Almost in slow motion, Valerian lowered his mouth to the cuts. Feeling as if sight and sensation were remotely connected, Alaric watched Valerian’s pink tongue sweep slowly across each wound, gently closing each bleeding crescent before moving onto the next.

It had been too long.

A weakness invaded Alaric’s limbs, starting at his shoulders, down through his ribs and thighs. Only by locking his knees did he manage to remain standing.

“There.” Valerian raised his head. “All better.”

Alaric needed time to think. “Do you dance?” he blurted.

Valerian snorted and looked at him, amused. “Of course. What happens at that mountain retreat of yours that you need ask?”

Shoot. “We’re a very secluded branch of the family. We practice meditation and academic research rather than pursue aesthetic frivolities.” What am I saying? Alaric didn’t know where the words came from but he seemed unable to prevent them from spewing out of his mouth.

He was an artisan. He lived for aesthetics. Creating beautiful things was the only thing left that brought him any joy. If Valerian asked him anything about science or theology he wouldn’t know what to say. His mouth was obviously no longer connected to his brain. He needed to keep it shut.

“Well I believe every experience should be tried at least once.” Valerian took his hand. “Let’s see about broadening your horizons.”

Alaric ignored the stares he felt boring into his skull as the two of them made their way back inside and onto the dance floor. Do you dance? You couldn’t have asked him to do something you actually have some skill at? They weren’t the only males dancing so the scrutiny had nothing to do with that. He hadn’t spilled any food or wine down his clothes, his stomach churned too much to allow him to eat. And Jacintha had whisked him away before he’d managed more than a few sips from his nectar wine. The other revellers must have guessed he was under the power of a wish. Were they trying to work out who he was? What a foolish concern. That was surely the game of choice for this evening. He wouldn’t be the only one appearing under the guise of a glamour.

“Stop thinking,” whispered Valerian into his ear. “Relax.”

“I am relaxed,” Alaric said through gritted teeth.

“Then could you stop squeezing my hand quite so hard? My fingers have become quite numb.”

Mortified, Alaric dropped Valerian’s hand. The two of them stood in the middle of the dance floor staring at each other. Valerian had a calm acceptance on his face that looked straight through him as if he would wait all night for him to be ready. Did he know? Had he guessed? Other couples grumbled when they were forced to dance around them. Anyone who hadn’t been looking before turned to stare now. Alaric was peripherally aware of comments being exchanged behind raised hands, and the excited fluttering of fans.

The two of them continued to stand there, eyes only on each other.

So strange for him to be on the same eye level with the goneril. He was used to being the taller of the pair. He put a hand up to his chest to touch his betrothal ring, but of course it wasn’t there.

Valerian’s eyes flicked down to the betraying movement. He half-smiled, reached out and tucked an errant strand of hair behind Alaric’s ear. His fingers lingered on the curved point. “Are you ready now?”

Alaric swallowed, but didn’t move away.

The orchestra segued into a new piece, a waltz. The music floated over the dance floor. Couples continued to dance around them.

Valerian’s hand drifted down to Alaric’s shoulder, his other hand settled over the copper tunic at his waist.

Alaric mirrored the movement, just as he had done with Jacintha. But this was so different. Gods! He hoped Valerian didn’t expect him to lead.

Almost as if he could read his thoughts, Valerian smiled and took the first steps of the waltz, encouraging Alaric to follow him. Cautiously at first, then with enthusiasm, Alaric allowed himself to be led.

Over Valerian’s shoulder he was stunned to see Lily dancing with the raven prince. As she caught his glance, Lily rolled her eyes. Alaric surmised this outcome wasn’t one she had anticipated when she’d encouraged him to attend the ball. It appeared Jacintha had more than one trick up her sleeve. What concerned him more, however, was the smile of satisfaction on Darvan’s face.

The music slowed, Valerian drew him closer and thoughts of Lily evaporated from Alaric’s mind. He’d have time to speak to her later. He nestled his head in the crook of his lordling’s shoulder, breathing in the spicy fragrance of his skin.

The couples dancing nearby became transitory intrusions. All he was aware of was the man who moved with him, the pulse of blood against his cheek, the soft strains of music in the air. Valerian maneuvered them out onto the terrace where fewer couples danced.

Alaric held his breath.

Valerian slid his hand hesitantly from his waist to his hip. He waited, as if to give Alaric the chance to move away, and then pulled them even more tightly together, hip to hip, chest pressed against chest, groin to groin. Now it was only the pretense of dancing. They stood nearly motionless, moving slightly to the variations in the music. The other couples swirling around them—also dancing closer than protocol dictated—discreetly pretended not to notice.

This was more than Alaric had dared to hope for. He had thought maybe to speak to Valerian again, to spend time with him. To stand with him here, even under the eyes of these spectators, was more than he’d imagined his wish might bring.

He closed his eyes, trying to memorize everything. The sound of the music—how one of the violinists seemed to be constantly out of time. The feel of Valerian’s breath, almost panting, against his neck, the clutch of fingers digging through the material at his hips. The velvet of his companion’s tunic beneath his own fingers, the rich fabric warmed by the skin beneath.

“Come upstairs with me.”