Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Gorgeous Carat. "White Suit" is the title of a song by Simon Wilcox, which inspired this story.
White Suit
I spot him almost immediately.
Gatherings such as this are veritable sensory assaults: the din of the music, the splashes of colourful garments, the flash of light against jewellery. Many people are so overwhelmed that they are forced to set up a sphere of awareness around themselves, perhaps of no more than four or five feet in diameter, and trade knowledge of what goes on outside it for the ability to focus on that which transpires within. I pick out one or two of these as likely targets, and note with particular interest the ruby necklace around one of their throats. My fingers twitch at my side, and I exhale in a barely-audible hiss. No. Not yet.
There is a treasure here far beyond that trinket.
As I approach, I recognize him as the lord of the manor, Florian du Rochefort. There are rumours about him, of course; he is a member of the aristocracy. One of these, which deals with his apparent lack of interest in the opposite sex, plays through my mind, and when his gaze is averted, I allow myself a brief smirk.
Perhaps this conquest will be even more fun than I had anticipated.
He does not engage me in conversation, even once I have crossed the invisible line at which propriety obliges him to address me. His haughty disdain is evident, and I wonder whether he is simply offended by my choice of dress (which was, indeed, the very end I hoped to achieve by it) or whether his snobbery is hiding something else, considerably less tolerable and infinitely less appropriate.
The robes and dagger, after all, must only enhance my exotic appeal.
He is distracted, presumably by the fervency of his own wish to be left alone, and so I am able to close to within arm's reach, and run my fingertips down his cheek. "Such beautiful eyes," I whisper as I seize them with my own. They are even more enchanting up close, and I know that I will have their possessor, or die trying.
His shock fades with the speed of a trained soldier who has allowed himself to become complacent, and he slaps my wrist aside. "The nerve!" he all but gasps. "Who do you think you are?"
I grin. "My, my… rehearsing for the role of the blushing maiden already, are we?" For the benefit of those few dowagers who are undoubtedly watching us with rapt attention, I back away, but remain close enough to him that he can hear every whispered word that passes my lips. "I would suggest that you do not make a scene. I am sure you do not need to be reminded of the insidious sharpness of certain ladies' tongues, and your… preferences are already in question."
To his credit, his demeanour immediately becomes firm, and I begin to wonder whether there is more to him than the jewels in his face. "Would it not seem more questionable, in the light of such facts, to humour the advances of a strange man?"
"Am I really all that strange?" I lean against the mantelpiece beside him, and chuckle as he moves away, almost reflexively. "Come, now. Would you like me to apologize?"
A wrinkle, barely visible, crosses the bridge of his nose. "I do not believe you capable of sincere contrition, Sir."
"And you would be correct." I grin. "Shall I apologize nonetheless?"
He nearly grimaces, but is able to blunt the expression into a frown by the time it crosses his face. "I see no point in continuing this conversation, Sir. I will thank you to leave me in peace."
"Your mother invited me personally, you know," I say casually as he turns to leave, and smile beneath my cowl as he begins to turn back to me.
"I have difficulty believing that," is his reply.
"Regardless, it's true." I extend my hand to him. "Count Ray Balzac Courland, at your service. Ask her yourself if you don't believe me."
He hesitates, but eventually shakes my hand. The gesture, I note, is performed with a surgeon's detachment. "I believe I've heard of you."
"Only good things, I'm sure."
"I imagine that you might be proud of them." His ripostes are so well-aimed, and well-crafted; I can imagine duelling with him in this way forever, and enjoying every moment.
Despite this enjoyment, however, I hear myself saying, "You're being quite hostile toward me. Have I done anything to earn your enmity?"
The words were meant as a goad, I realize once I've said them, and I am surprised to see that they seem to have hurt him; a flash of uncertainty, or perhaps regret, passes through his eyes, clouding them briefly, and I keep myself from attempting to amend my words with some effort. He was, after all, being openly hostile; why should he regret it?
"I should be spending time with the other guests as well," he finally says. "Please excuse me."
I catch his wrist before he can turn to go, heedless of the other guests, of the society matrons and their devilish pastimes. "I have offended you, haven't I? Please forgive me." I soften my gaze. "I sometimes forget myself, and that others are not always accustomed to my ways."
His eyes narrow into a glare, but he does not attempt to free his arm from my grasp. "Why do you care so much?"
I am surprised at the pragmatism of the question, and so I answer far more honestly that I believe I would have had I been in possession of all my wits. "It's your eyes."
"My eyes?" he repeats with endearing confusion.
"Of course." I fix my gaze on them again, and see him flinch in my peripheral vision. "I told you before: they're beautiful, in an entirely different class than the rest of the rocks in this room." On impulse, I lean forward, making a show of adjusting my dagger, and breathe, "I would do anything to possess them."
He does pull away from me then, and his eyes slide shut, breaking contact with mine. "I cannot continue this conversation. I apologize." His half-cape flares out in the breeze of his passage, and then, in a swirl of white, he is beyond my reach.
I stare after him until he becomes engaged in polite chatter with another guest, and then I lean back against the mantelpiece, in almost exactly the same place which Monsieur du Rochefort occupied upon my arrival. A servant passes by with a tray of drinks, and I select a glass, over the rim of which I steal a final glance at Florian. Beautiful, innocent, fiery Florian… I smile, and raise my glass, as though I am participating in a toast.
Florian du Rochefort, you will be the centerpiece of my collection.