I have no friends to talk to with Jonathan gone, so I return to the beverage table. I am beginning to understand my father's passion for liquor – even when you seem to have no allies in the world, alcohol is still your friend. I throw my head back and down another shot, blinking as the room spins a little bit.

Three shots later I determine that I am sufficiently drunk and attempt to turn around to go to my room, but trip on my hem and stumble. A strong arm pulls me to my feet. I squint and lean towards the person to identify my hero.

The Duke smirks at me, and I appreciate how handsome he is, especially in multiple images. I cannot remember what I found so revolting about him earlier today.

"I think you need an escort, my lady," he says charmingly. "You seem a bit unsteady on your feet."

"Not t'all, Roger," I inform him, shuffling forward until my slipper catches on my hem again and I pitch forward. It is only the Duke's fast reflexes that let him catch me before I hit the ground face-first.

"All the same, I insist," he says smoothly, offering me an arm that I cling to with both hands as we leave the ballroom. When we are out of sight of the hundreds of curious eyes in the ballroom, he swings me up into his arms, so that one arm is under my knees and the other supports my back.

We reach my room in a few minutes' time, and Roger shakes the door handle. "It's locked, my lady," he informs me. "Can you give me the key?"

The key…the key…the words echo in my mind until a groggy memory of handing the key to Squire Alan surfaces in my mind.

"Alan has got it," I mumble.

"Alan! How many men-" the Duke stops. "Nevermind. You stay here while I find him, Delia." He tips me from his arms so that I am standing on the ground again, barely balancing on my feet.

"No," I protest, catching his shirtsleeve as he turns to leave. "I don' wanna be…all alone."

"You need to get to bed, Delia," the Duke says reluctantly. "Stay here, I'll only be gone for a minute."

"Roger," I implore. "You've got a bed. Couldn't I use your bed?"

He hesitates, and some kind of restraint seems to crumble in him. "Come here," he growls, pulling me back into his arms. He carries me to his set of rooms and he mutters a few hasty words that open the door, revealing a lavish apartment. Roger heads to a room in the back and deposits me on the bed there. He leans down over me and presses an expert kiss on my lips; a sharp contrast from the sloppy, eager kisses from Jonathan. I moan softly into his mouth, happy to be with Roger who can protect me.

Roger takes his mouth from mine. "Delia," he says, his voice husky. "I'm not just taking advantage of you. I care about you. That's why I'm doing this."

Talking doesn't seem logical to me. I tangle my hand in his hair and pull his mouth back towards mine, reaching for the buckle of his belt with my other hand.

The hangover I had two days ago was a slight twinge compared to what I have this morning. I groan piteously and open one eye to judge what time it is by the wretched light that burns through my eyelids.

The sight that greets my eye is that of Roger wearing only his pants, searching the room for his shirt. I scream and instantly regret it as my head pounds angrily.

"Don't be that way," Roger protests, ever cheerfully. "I was thinking if you were good, I could cure the hangover you must have. But not if you yell and throw things."

"Just…just fix it."

Obligingly, Roger rests his palm on my forehead, and cooling orange light pours from his fingertips to my head. I pull away when my head feels better, not wanting to let Roger touch me any more than necessary.

As I slip out of bed, we both notice that I am wearing only Roger's missing shirt unbuttoned, which nearly comes down to my knees. He looks at me pointedly. "I'll be needing that, my lady."

I scoop up my own discarded clothes and disappear into Roger's bathroom. No matter how much he has seen already, I am not the whore he must think I am.

Frustratingly, it is impossible for me to lace my own bodice because it ties in the back. I return from the bathroom with Roger's shirt, and wordlessly turn around so that he can tie my dress. Predictably, Roger takes his time. When he has finished his hands move up to my shoulders, massaging muscles that are stiff with tension. I feel his cool orange light melt into my muscles and I forget myself, leaning back into his still bare chest.

Roger wraps his arms around me protectively, kissing the side of my forehead. I feel so safe…

"No Roger. We can't do this. I'm sorry. I made a mistake." I scramble away from him before I can find myself somehow in his arms again, running through the halls until I reach my own room. I shake the handle. It is locked.

Goddamn Alan! I saw him last night at the ball, why couldn't he have given me the key then?

"Delia!" Jon runs up to me. He looks tired and disheveled. "I tried to see you last night! Why did you lock the door to me?"

"I couldn't get in!" I protest. "I gave Alan the key to wake you yesterday, and he never gave it back."

The answer satisfies him for a few seconds. Then his face clouds. "Then where did you sleep?"

With your cousin. I don't seem to be able to sleep in the same bed twice. "My seamstress Abigail let me sleep with her."

Jonathan looks at me as though I have just admitted to sleeping with the castle pigs. "My bed is always open for you, Delia." He seems to be sulking.

"I- I did not want to wake you."

Jonathan softens, pulling me towards him. For the second time this morning I am engulfed in the hug of a Conte. But Jon's arms do not feel as right as Roger's do.

Roger of Conte has made a mess of my life. This much I am sure of, but what I cannot fathom is why then I am attracted to him. Two days ago I was so certain that I loved Jonathan that I invited him to my bed. Now, when he hugs me I can only imagine Roger's arms. Last night Roger lured me to his bed when I was drunk and helpless, and this morning I feel grateful for it?

Why can't I think Roger the obnoxious man I saw him as yesterday? I pace the hall as I wait for Jonathan to fetch my room key from Alan. All I know is that my infatuation with Jonathan has gone as quickly as it has come, and that Roger has become some kind of forbidden fruit that fills my thoughts.

Jonathan strides down the hall and hands me my key. Why should I continue to lead him on? It would be cruel to act on feelings I do not have. "Thank you," I say coolly.

Jonathan leans down to peck me on the mouth, but I turn my face so that his lips brush my cheek instead. I unlock my door and shut it behind me quickly before he can ask questions.

My eyes fall on the stack of letters that have accumulated on my desk in the past days. The distraction is a welcome one, and I seat myself at the desk.

I open the first one, a letter from Cytherra.

Dearest Delia,

I so wish to be at court with you right now, winning the hearts of the handsomest gentlemen by day and laughing at them together by night. That dream is the only thing that keeps me sane as mother plans father's funeral. I swear, the funeral seems to be the as exciting to her as arranging a wedding. I spend my days in my room reading horribly written dramas and imagining you enchanting the richest, most handsome and powerful men in court. Even the prince himself!

Mama is taking me into town to buy the most expensive black Scanran lace for a veil at the funeral. She expects me to look for a husband even at the funeral, I think. I'll send this letter in town, or else it won't get sent for weeks.

With love,

Cytherra.

I smile fondly at the letter before setting it down. I miss Cytherra. The next letter is from Mama. It is surprisingly short.

Abigail Whice is a traitor and a no friend to any Eldorne. You must stop associating with her at once!

In response to musicnerd: This story is set in In the Hands of the Goddess.

To Queen's Own: Of course I wasn't offended by your review. I really do appreciate criticism. I was just trying to explain why things are moving so quickly.