The air twisted around yet another waltz and Philip could have wept with boredom. He had been speaking for some time with a rather charming viscount, but the man had swirled off against a background of blonde hair and pink satin a song or two ago. Philip skirted the edges of the party, trying his best to avoid any of the lonesome young women making hungry eyes at any man without a partner.
He'd come because he'd been under the impression that girl whose honour the party had been thrown for, Francesca Lonsworth, had a wild streak of charm borne of an Italian mother. Philip had spoken with her for some minutes and was soon under the impression such a patently false rumour could only have been originated through the brashness of the girl's mother. Francesca was pretty, in a swarthy sort of a way, but she was precisely as glass-eyed as the worst sorts of dullards. By virtue of situation, he had to make concessions, but he was not willing to be caught up with any of the bisque dolls he saw all too often at court, begat by Croesus or no.
Instead, he amused himself by playing a rather ill-planned game: Every time one of the dolls looked as though she were coming over to him, he would lose himself in the press. If he escaped the doll's clutches without having to speak a word of denial to her, he rewarded himself with a glass of champagne. He was at least two sheets to the wind when Mary Crawley sidled up to him, looking slightly giddy.
"If you waltzed me about for a song, do you suppose you'd enjoy yourself more than you are now?"
"I very well may," he said with a smile. He liked Mary - if away from the diligent ears of her parents she was not a little unkind and quite amusing, traits which he found exceedingly rare in her sort.
They took up at the start of the next song and what began as rather quite fun middled into something nearly harrowing, he regretting his latest glass. Mary quirked her eyebrows at him curiously but fell back into her contentment once he smiled. She was such a fool for him and he liked that about her best of all.
The dancing faded to a brief stop and Mary looked at him coyly. "I do hope I've helped, Duke."
"Most certainly you have. That dance is sure to be the highlight of my evening."
The flattery heightened her features, but she responded by merely not-quite succeeding in stifling a grin at him as she charmed her way into another's arms.
Philip turned heel and was very nearly run into by Mary's sister, who looked as startled to be at the proceeding as she was at nearly having knocked into a duke. "Oh, I-"
"Quite all right," he interrupted and brushed past her. He wondered if that counted towards his game; he had been rather positive, he thought. In fact, he hadn't refused her a thing. It almost certainly did win him another.
He found the nearest tray and plucked a glass from it, smiling perfunctorily at the footman without looking at him. He brought the rim to his mouth and scanned the room; he didn't even see that viscount. He wondered if the bastard had managed to duck out. Thef rest of the crowd were familiar, but most all so hideously boring that he'd rather continue to drink to scandal rather than speak with them.
Glass exchanged for a full one, he began to drink unearned champagne. His eyes wandered to the footman behind the tray and, as though being spited for cheating, nearly choked. The man looked at him briefly and then turned back to stare into the distance.
Some bloody Jokanaan was serving drinks and that moment gave birth to Philip's first true thought of the world's injustices. He hastily emptied his glass and returned it to the tray.
Philip could feel himself toeing the precipice of idiocy, could taste poor choices on the tip of his tongue. Though which choice the poorer? Damned by himself if he didn't, by god and everyone else if he did - still, Philip decided with a sudden bout of firmness buoyed on bubbles of champagne, that he didn't need to live with god or anyone else. He was quite stuck with himself and he'd be damned if he were to let anything as flimsy as social niceties or Hell-fire spoil his chance at taking a boy like that to bed.
"I say," he began, rather too loudly, "do you - do you work for this house?"
The footman turned to him, curiosity only faintly registering at his brow. "No, Your Grace."
"Being borrowed, are you?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
Silence fell for a moment as a small party gathered about them to refresh themselves at the man's and - then lingered a little longer than Philip would have liked. He turned back.
"And where do you work?"
"I work at Grantham House for the season, Your Grace."
"Oh, for the Crawleys? Yes. That's good. They're fine people. Don't you find?"
"Of course, Your Grace." The man's expression remained stolid as ever, but amusement had found its way into his eyes.
"Do you stay at the house you're being leant to or must you hasten away?"
"We're staying here, as there's a dinner to help with tomorrow, Your Grace."
"Are you familiar with the layout of this house?"
"Somewhat, Your Grace."
"I have an absolutely absurd question. Only, you see, I've forgotten where exactly the bachelor's corridor is. I'd hate to ask of my host later and look a fool - once you're up the stairs, in which direction is it?"
"It's to the left, Your Grace."
"Ah, yes, of course. As I said, absolutely absurd, but all I could remember was that my room was the third on the right and I'd have hated to stumble into some lady's chamber by mistake."
Philip bestowed upon the footman a genuine smile, one creeping with excitement, which the other struggled to not return in some measure. He managed instead to duck his head once, in a tight nod, holding Philip's gaze until he'd brought his head up once more, whereupon his eyes slid back to the nothing which so enraptured all servants.
Philip turned to the crowd and had the awful thought that someone who knew his mother might be among it. She did tend towards accumulating friends on the basis of their ability to act as her spies and they were all so loyal that he had wondered more than once if she wasn't actually paying them (which, given her incredible scope, would go a long way towards explaining the dwindled fortune).
He grimaced in unease until he watched Mary Crawley dance by with an unknown partner. He caught her eye and gave her a wink. At that, she looked decidedly flustered and he could see her explaining the strange emotion away, without turning her eyes from him. Her partner turned around to catch Philip still watching her and frowned at him.
Still, when the song was over Mary broke apart from her partner without much ado, leaving him looking entirely put out, to venture over to Philip. She stared at him expectantly, eyes all alight with nearly the same fire as he was sure his held.
"You cheered me so," he began, softening his expression. "No one else could compare. I'll have you know I've not danced a step without you."
"I do hope it was me rather than the dancing, then," she said, feigning abashedness. He did enjoy watching the art with which women lied. She laughed lightly, "Or the champagne."
"Am I so obvious?"
"It's rather fun. Everyone else is being so dull."
"I'm thrilled to hear you don't think me dull."
"Oh, I could never think you dull."
The perk, he supposed, of having but a passing acquaintance, being seen like a character in a novel not read the way through. He found it rather amusing that she was so smitten in so obvious a way with someone like him; not least since he'd heard tell of her future swirling down the plughole with the shockingly dull Patrick Crawley. If Philip were a character in a novel, Patrick was straight from a Victorian moral lesson heard once too often. Philip would have extended sympathy if he hadn't found his own situation to be so much worse.
"Would you care to dance again?"
He slid in and placed his arm about her, took her hand before she had the chance to answer. He knew she wouldn't decline and she only nodded as she positioned herself. Suddenly, she laughed.
"I hope I won't have to lead. You seem a bit unsteady."
"I daresay you'd be quite capable of leading, wouldn't you? But I think I can manage. You make me feel so much steadier."
Mary looked surprised, then wouldn't quite catch his gaze for the rest of the dance. He was being too forward, and he knew it even before he'd spoken his last sentiment, but he felt enormously magnanimous about bestowing kindnesses just then. He figured it would give her a bit of something to swoon to her bed over in the night, before she was expected to spend her eternity in cobwebs.