MASQUERADE! [GROUP THREAD]

[LUCIEN DE LA TOUR D'AZYR]

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[style=text-align:center; text-size: 9px;]WORDS: 833 TAGGED: Sylvie
NOTES: mwahahah

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Just before he reached the destination of his approach, Sylvie’s alluring figure that seemed to dominate the room with ease, his eyes fell on a quite despising specimen of his own status, an obese comte strongly resembling a sweating pig in Lucien’s eyes. And he was making eyes at the Marquise. He would have laughed had he not felt a deep pang of indignation and territorial cravings. It was not jealousy or any of the sort, it was outrage at the sheer thought that anyone looking like THAT should even dare to dream of getting what he himself wanted to lay his hands on – in the very meaning of the word. He kept those feelings inside though, apart maybe from a dangerous flicker in his dark eyes. He may be dancing on eggshells soon, but he would do it with his usual vigour and cunning. No one came between Lucien de La Tour d’Azyr and what he desired!

But there was no need to worry at all, since Sylvie chose him in the blink of an eye. He was not so blue-eyed as to think much of her purring and flattering was genuine, but he still appreciated her approval. It would make this scene far more… entertaining for them both. A waltz was more than any dance he had known a pair dance that relied upon the willingness of both partners. A strong leading step of a man who held the woman firmly and securely… but the woman had to yield and give her own willingness, or else that dance would resemble nothing else than stumbling and jolting. A smirk grazed his lips as he felt her fingers strategically brush across the side of his throat. Oh, she was good! He really could learn much from this woman regarding the art of seduction. But he had his own aces ready… he was sure she would not be immune to them all.

Before he started the steps, he quickly yet softly took hold of the hand she had put against his and put it towards his lips – but instead of aspirating a kiss to her knuckles like any gentleman might have done, he turned her hand and placed the kiss instead on her wrist, before resuming the dancing position, his eyes flashing daring and wicked. His continous training and sparring on a beam had endowed him with a very good balance and sureness of every muscle of his body, and therefore he vainly accepted himself to be quite a talented dancer. He swept her across the floor in a controlled pattern, safely avoiding collisions with other dancing pairs as he savoured the feeling of his arm around her dainty waist. Right where it belonged, he found. He had drawn her in close, very close, but only grazing the line of impropriety. Another good thing about the waltz was the sheer fact that it was one of the few dances allowing continuous eye contact, and Lucien was intent to milk this to the last drop. It was a dangerous game to gaze into the Marquise’s eyes for too long, but then the same he had heard being said of his own.

“Quite bold our dear little king, and that at such a young age”, he murmured, smirking. “I wonder what might come next…”
This question was answered far too soon sadly, as the waltz was drawing to a close. Lucien though was not ready to let go of Sylvie so soon, and so he simply stayed by her side, his eyes widening slightly as Henri announced the next dance. If the waltz was the most scandalous modern dance he could think of, La Volta was the most scandalous dance of old times, never quite redeemed but secretly loved by all those who liked to use the dancing as a means to get close to their lady in question. “Oh la la…” the amusement was audible in Lucien’s voice as he searched the marquise’s gaze. “One day Henri d’Artois will turn out to be quite the ladies’ man.” The choice of dances almost made him sympathetic towards the puppet king. This certainly worked in Lucien’s favour!

Bowing in the traditional fashion, he then led the Marquise into the galliard and at the right moment placed his right hand on the busk of her corselet while his left hand found the small of her back, sending a sharp thrill of excitement throughout him. He had never been allowed to do that with her before, and of course a man’s hand on a woman’s corslet could entail so much… promise. Tensing his muscles he waited for her to prepair the springing into the air, so he could lift her, and all the while she was moving around him, of course his eyes never left hers. Once again, his fitness came in quite handy… he could hardly imagine that fat pig of a comte over there looking elegant and at ease while doing all those jumps and fast steps.


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[MARIE EVANGELINE ROQUEFEUIL]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]848 WORDS FOR CHAUV notes: Enjoy! MASQUERADE [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #6d6d6d;] [style=padding: 10px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; height: 475px; overflow: auto; color: #1e1e1e;]"Drat!" Marie Evangeline Roquefeuil muttered as she heard the sound no lady ever wants to hear as she's in a hurry to get out of the house - that of ripping fabric. Now she would have to stop to repair the hem of the dress which had been caught under the edge of her heel as she rushed to prepare for the evening's festivities. For a rare occasion she was in Paris. Whenever she went there, she always felt as if she was in the very center of the world. If the world had a capital of everything, it would, Marie was certain, be Paris. And here she was for the first time in quite some time - the first time since Jean-Claude had died. She'd spent some time immediately following his death in mourning. After some years she'd come to accept that she was not madly in love with Jean-Claude and, more often than not, she resented how he tried to hide things from her, protect her, and, in the process, treated her like a child. However, they had been friends and confidantes. She felt a keen sense of loss now that he was gone. His warmth was no longer next to in bed to cuddle up with, his voice no longer resonant in the house, his firm hand writing in the ledger books was now replaced with her own finer script - because God knew Henri wasn't running the place and had little interest in doing so other than to siphon some of the funds to support that stupid little rebel movement. The point was, she was more alone now than she had ever been in her life and it made her uncomfortable - she was mourning the lost of that companionship deeply even if she hadn't been in love - per say - with Jean-Claude. So, therefore, she'd spent some time in private mourning and well away from city life. Now, however, three years later, she was returned to the city for her first official function at court out of mourning. And that felt amazing. She was ready for life to begin to resume some semblence of normal. And so she'd come to Paris for the Maying. This evening was the culmination of all the events - the May Day masquerade - and she had received an invitation. She'd purchased a beautiful dress from her usual dressmaker to wear for the occasion. It had a wide neckline with sleeves which left the shoulder bare with a sloping wide v-neck. The material was a soft white, shiny satin which sparkled in the light because it had a gossamer overlay of some sort. A wide red sash banded the tiny waist to meet the requisite color requirements - despite the fact that she didn't think red with her hair was particularly becoming - but she'd done the best she could. White slippers with red embroidery and a demi-heel graced her feet, and a simple strand of pearls clasped her neck and pearl drops in her ears. Her hair was pulled back into a mass of curls and twisted and held in back by a pearl pin. And now her dress was ripped. She stood irritatedly, twirling her mask in her hand as she waited for her seamstress to mend it. The mask was a brilliant red and white bird which covered her eyes and top of her nose. At the front of plume of red and white feathers sprouted from the back of the mask leaning backward over her hair. Finally ready, she descended to the carriage to go to the Masquerade. Before she knew it she was surrounded by friends she'd not seen for years and was busy joining the minuet and the pavane. She had missed dancing, she realized, more than she'd known. She had missed her friends and the life in Paris even more. She loved the estate more than anywhere else on earth - but it was very easy for one to become isolated there. She needed to get out more often. And she was enjoying it.. She had only been there for a little while when the king called for a waltz. She managed to avoid this one by not having a swetheart to dance it with. It wasn't that she had any moral objection to the dance... no.. just.. she didn't have someone she would even think of allowing to hold her that close.. not right now.. And as if that wasn't enough.. La Volte! her mind whirled as the next dance was called... impossible.. no.. just not possible.. She looked blindly around the room for some escape, trying not to think of the memories that flooded through her mind. The room was practically spinning before her eyes. Memories flooded. She hated when this dance happened because the memories threatened to consume her. Perhaps she could just sneak out and into another room to wait for this unfortunate dance to pass.. and then she could rejoin the group, she thought. Little did she know, it wasn't to turn out like that.. [/style]

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[Deleted]

[atrb=border,0,true] [/style][style=width: 450px; background-color: ffffff; text-align:center; padding: 8px; line-height: 10px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 9px; color: 000000;][style=background-image:url(http://oi45.tinypic.com/2m2xbnr.jpg); width: 150px; height: 151px; float: left;] HOW COULD YOU LET ME LOVE LIKE THIS? NO ONE DIES UPON A KISS ONLY FOOLS BELIEVE IN BLISS Though it was Margo's turn to flinch at Paul's retort, at his implication that Rienne was more loyal than she had been, she did not do so. She had far worse things to worry about than the fact that she had abandoned his lover when his ambitions had departed from hers; she had wanted equality, but he had seemed to want blood. And now, it was Margo's blood that was in danger of being spilled. That was what made her cringe, which she had endeavored to hide unsuccessfully. Once, she had not been that afraid to die. Now, however, she had something to lose. Even if she had left Paul, or had left their cause the way he saw it, it seemed that he still had some loyalty to he, some motivation to protect her, for whatever reason that might be. Her eyes met his during the dance as he mentioned his regret that she was married, and her expression softened for a moment before the dance brought there eyes apart once more. As the set concluded and they returned to their original position, she paused for a moment, uncertain. Percy had gone – perhaps to play, perhaps to plot, she could not be certain. But she was unprotected without him if she were to leave Chauvelin now. Not that she was entirely certain she could trust Chauvelin, but after what he had just told her... could she afford not to? She heard the sound of an approaching boy, and saw with mixed delight that it was His Majesty himself! At his courtesy, she smiled, though perhaps a bit weakly. “Your Majesty,” she greeted, dipping a curtsey. “Of course. The pleasure is mine.” She leaned over, her lips lingering by his ear to whisper, “Thank you, Paul,” before she brushed her lips across his cheek and turned away. She had no doubt that they would meet again. Then it was time to dance with the young king. He was all politeness. She had no fear of endangering him; Sylvie hated her, but she did not hate the king, Margo believed. She would keep an eye out. She risked a glance over her shoulder as they moved away from the St-Cyr woman, and soon was swept up in the dance, literally! “I have, yes,” she answered, feeling slightly giddy by the rush of being lifted. Her other hobbies? “Dancing!” she laughed. “Especially with a partner as skilled as yourself!” Set down again, they continued, and she inquired, “And I trust Your Majesty is also well? Such a soiree seems to reflect it!”

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[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 500px; background: url(http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a223/Achillea/whitesilk_zps07d335a9.jpg); border-radius: 30px 30px 30px 30px; padding: 10px;] Let my heart grow colder and as bitter as A Falcon in the Dive When Chauvelin heard la Volta called, his first reaction was surprise and dismay. He'd asked Henri to call the waltz and, though he hadn't told the boy why he was making the request, the King had obliged. The old spymaster was grateful for that, but he realized now he should have remembered that Henri could be extremely unpredictable. Even Paul, whose expertise at reading and manipulating people had meant his survival for forty years in a dangerous business, couldn't always anticipate or control what the boy would do. Nevertheless, he reminded himself, none of that mattered now. The situation was what it was, he couldn't change it, so he simply had to deal with it. On the plus side, Margot was safer with the King than with anyone else in this room. St-Cyr was bold and determined, but not to the point of reckless stupidity. She wouldn't care much for waiting, but she could afford to. In the meantime, Chauvelin had to stay alert and counter any moves she might make, without appearing to be aware of anything unusual going on. How hard could it be? The old spymaster was starting to miss only having to deal with the Pimpernel. First, he needed to keep close to Margot, and for that he needed a partner. A quick glance around showed few options, in fact only one. Rienne was near Percy -- too far away. Of the handful of women close enough to Chauvelin, two were too old and heavy for la Volta, and another was a girl barely out of her teens who already had a partner her own age. That left only one, a slender redhead dressed in shimmering white. With her face concealed behind a red-and-white bird mask, he couldn't gauge her age beyond older than the girl and younger -- and more importantly fitter -- than the older pair. Chauvelin had considerable strength and endurance for a man his age, but this was a vigorous dance that required a great deal of both partners. The redhead was hesitating, clearly taken off guard by the announcement of the dance, but the old spymaster could see her intention to retreat in every line of her body. If he was going to act, he had to do it now. Moving with all the speed and grace his stocky body allowed, Chauvelin stepped in front of the woman. "May I have the honor of this dance, milady?" he asked with a bow. [/style] [style=width: 205px; height: 400px; background-color: 101010; float: right; margin-top: 10px; border-left: 3px solid #353535; border-right: 3px solid #353535; padding: 5px; border-bottom-right-radius: 20px; overflow: auto] [style=border-bottom: 1px dotted #cacaca; width: 30px]TAG: Claudette NOTES: Wonder who that redhead might be ... LYRICS: "Falcon in the Dive" by Terrance Mann CREDITS: table made by MADAME MARIANNA of CAUTION 2.0 [/style]

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[COSETTE FAUCHELEVENT]

Claudette could sense that the king was not sure how to react to her words. She could not see his cheeks flush beneath his mask but she was very perceptive and excellent at reading body language. He was perhaps a bit too young to understand frivolous courtly flirtations, and yet he handled himself quite admirably. He would learn eventually, she knew, and would flatter the young ladies endlessly and to their sheer delight. She would not be among them, though, as she was far too old for him and her tastes did not run toward younger men. Claudette preferred men who were at least a few years older than she. Men matured later than women, and life was too short to waste it on silly boys.

King Henri was far from silly, though. He was quite charming, actually, and she could feel many gazes upon them as he led her to the dance floor. What did he think of all of the attention lavished upon him, she wondered? If she were as young as he, she would probably be a bit embarrassed, but she had grown up among praise and admiration for her musical skills, and therefore adored being the center of attention.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said graciously when he complemented her appearance. Claudette was tempted to use the same line on him as she had used on Lucien earlier, but she rather doubted he was old enough understand what she meant. She chuckled lightly when he professed his supposed inability to sit still for being adorned in the trappings of a lady. “If you were a girl, you would know nothing else,” she replied. “And you would not find it so vexing.”

He was an excellent dancer and they moved quite well together. For once, she was pleased that she was petite, for if she were taller than he, it would have been quite awkward to twirl under his arm. As it was, she performed the step with her usual innate grace, and then was pulled back into his arms once more. “Yes, I am enjoying myself very much.” Her smile broadened when he complemented her singing. She had not yet sung tonight, but she hoped the opportunity arose before the night was over. “I am pleased you enjoy my voice, and I hope when your guests need a rest from dancing, you will allow me to entertain them with a song or two.” Her laughter was lyrical as he spoke of dancing all night. “I think I could dance all night as well,” she agreed, “and the waltz seems to be catching on considering the number of couples dancing. It has always been one of my favorites.” Claudette enjoyed being held close to a hard male body. The king did not qualify on that account but he was still a pleasure to dance with.

The dance ended far too soon, and her disappointment echoed his own. “It was my pleasure, Your Majesty,” she said and offered him another respectful curtsy as he bowed and went on his way. She was quite surprised when he called for the next dance to be la volta, but pleasantly so. Claudette knew she did not want to sit this one out, and as she looked around the room, she saw several young men … and a couple of older ones … making a beeline in her direction. She wondered which one would get to her first.

[SYLVIE ST-CYR]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 500px; background: url(http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a223/Achillea/redsilk1_zpsee2e3270.jpeg); border-radius: 30px 30px 30px 30px; padding: 10px;] I am the nightmare of your own desire I am the Song that the Devil Sings While no acrobat with some traveling troupe or peasant girl with muscles hardened by hauling water and milking cows, Sylvie St-Cyr was a veritable athlete compared with most women of her age and station. They led lives of idleness and plenty, and it showed -- and it would have even more had it not been for the existence of the corset. Even the ones who weren't fat were soft. And they prided themselves on it, as a declaration of the success of the men who provided for them. They had no need to exert themselves to put food on the table, they only danced. Sylvie danced, as well. She knew the steps turned in ballrooms for scores of years in a dozen countries -- the galliarde, the minuet, the mazurka, and many others. And she knew others as well, things she'd learned from the Arab bondservant her Borgia hosts had brought her from across the Mediterranean. Slavery had long been outlawed in Tuscany, but where was a girl to go with scant clothing, no money, and few words of the local language, even if she had still possessed a tongue with which to speak them. Still, the Marquise had treated the girl kindly by her standards, and she had profited from it. Sinuous and frankly sensual, the dances she'd learned from Adiyah would never been seen outright in such a formal and constrained place, where the waltz and la volte were considered the height of outrageousness. But she could give her partner a glimpse of them, just a tiny taste to whet the appetite of his hands and eyes. Smiling up into those eyes with her own of dark amber, she did just that. It was as simple as a stroke here, a light pressure there, of letting him feel her body flow in response to his touch. The secret subtlety of it made it all the more thrilling, and she indulged with delight. And, when it was coming to an end all too soon, she caressed Lucien's broad shoulder with her long, graceful fingers and leaned close to murmur in his ear. "You must partner me again, my lord." Then added in husky promise. "After." [/style] [style=width: 205px; height: 310px; background-color: 101010; float: right; margin-top: 10px; border-left: 3px solid #353535; border-right: 3px solid #353535; padding: 5px; overflow: auto] [style=border-bottom: 1px dotted #cacaca; width: 30px]TAG: Adrienne NOTES: Please just imagine her outfit in the pic as diamonds & red. LYRICS: "Black Unicorn" by Heather Alexander CREDITS: table made by MADAME MARIANNA of CAUTION 2.0 [/style]

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Marguerite enjoyed the dance thoroughly; the spins allowed her to focus only on her partner, but when the Volta ended and she was not so disoriented, she could look about the room once more, and spotted one guest in particular that pleased her: Marie!

“Oh! Your Majesty, please do forgive me my rudeness, but I have just sighted an old friend!” In past times, she had gotten men to excuse her by feigning illness – in one instance, she had pretended to be faint just so that she could snatch a secret letter to Andrew Ffoulkes that had been sent by the Scarlet Pimpernel himself – but she knew that the king was far more forgiving than most noblemen with whom she might have danced, and she was not so desperate to see Marie that she knew she must lie. The woman certainly stood out in a crowd with her bright red hair and her beautiful figure, not to mention the regal face that seemed positively ageless.

However, another reason Marguerite's attention was attracted, for much different reasons, was that she saw Marie was dancing with none other than Chauvelin. She had not intended to be pulled so soon from Chauvelin, but she could not have refused the young king's offer to dance. Once the set was over, though, her obligation would be fulfilled, and she was certain that the young king would not mind returning Marguerite to Chauvelin; perhaps he would like to join the conversation. Marguerite and Chauvelin had certainly known each other long enough that they could manage to speak in code, if necessary, and with Percy gone, or at least out of sight, Chauvelin was her best protection at the moment.

“Would you be so kind as to escort me there and join us? I would very much enjoy your company, if you are not already engaged,” she smiled sweetly. “No doubt many a young lady is vying for your attention!”

[SIR PERCIVAL BLAKENEY]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]322 WORDS FOR EVERYONE hope this is ok, just throwing this out there! I know its not plotted so if peeps have an issue with anything let me know its no problem! I also hope Lucien is wearing a cravat! o.O BALL! [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #6d6d6d;] [style=padding: 10px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; height: 475px; overflow: auto; color: #1e1e1e;] Percy was lucky, he knew that. He was lucky at cards and demmed lucky when it came to his Pimpernel work. The Lady he had been inconveniently lumbered with had been offered a dance by another gentleman, and she was obliged to take the dance. Percy’s sharp eyes scanned the crowd for Andrew; the demmed man was nowhere to be seen. This really aint good enough Andrew! Percy thought irritably as he smoothly moved through the crowd closer to the St-Cyr woman. He was intrigued and when he was intrigued he could not help but play. Placing himself conveniently near woman he watched her closely, his eyes only leaving her, when his wife took up the next dance with the king. Margot looked truly spectacular, and a smug smiled crossed his lips as he took in Chauvelin’s fierce face. He did hope an opportunity would occur were he would be able to cause Chauvelin to grind his teeth. That was jolly good fun. The next dance ended and Percy placed himself directly next to the St-Cyr woman he laughed loudly in his ‘Sir Percy fashion’ knocking directly and purposefully into the woman’s partner. He found the best way to determine someone’s personality, was to throw his alter ego directly at them. His glass of wine tipped directly at the couple, red wine splashing everywhere. ‘Odds Fish! I am so sorry Sir…Me Lady!’ he said pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and offering it to the two, ‘this is a fine kettle of fish! Have I drowned your cravat sir?’ he exclaimed loudly, looking from the Sylvie to the gentleman, his face aghast with concern. [/style]

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