You Cannot Dance in Threes

The letter paper bore the footprints of Gelph the parrot, stamped there like a wax seal. But the small burst of laughter that escaped her upon seeing it died away almost as quickly as it had come.

Enya's golden-brown eyes held a worry she could not hide. Even the joy she'd felt at receiving her cousin's tender letter could not outweigh the heaviness settling over her.

"That featherlight letter of yours is bound to look like an opportunity to someone. If an innocent misunderstanding could stir up gossip, why do anything that might invite it in the first place?"

The man's voice, thick with sarcasm, had not left her head even after all these days.

"Tell me who these fine opportunities of Lady Campbell's are. It's better not to indulge in reckless acquaintances when you're holding out for something better, isn't it?"

And that from the man who'd said it all under the pretense of looking out for her…

'It was a warning, I suppose. How dare I keep company with anyone worthy of him.'

More precisely, he'd meant that she ought to seek out opportunities befitting the caliber of House Campbell.

She could no longer pretend not to know where Raphael placed her. It brought to mind, unbidden, the Duchess Pembroke—who had never once acknowledged her new mother, a woman of Cortijan birth, as Countess.

Raphael was likely thinking much the same thing about her. His startled reaction upon hearing that she had attended the Duchess's tea party made that plain enough.

The closeness they'd built over the Eberdeen lessons had apparently been a matter of physical distance and nothing more. The man had made a point of illuminating the unbridgeable gulf between Campbell and Pembroke.

And in quite a cruel way, at that.

The bitterest truth of all was that he had only done it for the sake of his own friend.

'It's not as though I've already decided to go to Eberdeen.'

She couldn't understand why it stung so badly.

Killing the feeling that reached toward him was the hardest thing of all.

Enya lay face down on her bed, cheek pressed to the pillow, staring blankly at the moonlight seeping through the window.

'…Just hold on until graduation.'

Murmuring it like a prayer, over and over.

"They say the equipment's only just been installed in northern Campbell… Judging by how busy Marquis Whitmore has become, expectations for that oil field must run quite high."

"The initial costs are enormous, certainly, but if it strikes properly, it'll be worth more than a vein of gold. The man has an exceptional instinct for investment—why else would he have sacrificed even his second son to secure the deal?"

Raphael's brow creased faintly at the chatter drifting from every corner, talk that braided together Campbell and Whitmore as if they were already one enterprise.

Spring and summer in aristocratic society were an insufferable season, a relentless round of parties thrown almost daily.

And as the Young Duke of Pembroke, he was obliged to grace each carefully curated gathering with his presence.

Which meant that no matter how black his mood, he had to wear a gentleman's smile for the crowd.

"What is your view on the Young Lord Whitmore's marriage, my lord Duke?"

When such pointless remarks reached his ears now and then, they churned his stomach for no good reason.

Whatever he felt inside, though, Raphael kept up the image of an unbothered gentleman as he spoke.

"I have an official answer and a private one, and I'm afraid I don't know which you'd like."

"Are the two answers so very different?"

"Well—the difference is more a matter of which one is presentable."

His companion burst out laughing at the reply, delivered along with a smooth smile, and shot him a knowing look.

"You have remarkable patience, Young Duke. I'd have let the unseemly answer slip long ago. Naturally, I'd prefer a close friend of mine walk a well-paved road rather than a muddy field."

At the comparison of Campbell to a muddy field, the corner of Raphael's mouth twisted.

His mind agreed that Count Campbell's habit of scattering promissory notes every which way was pathetic—that the Marquis Whitmore had, regrettably, chosen himself a rather foolish business partner.

"The Young Lord Whitmore has always been rather fond of rolling about in the mud, as it happens."

What left his mouth was a pointed joke at his friend's expense.

Translated, it meant that for that gossip-column regular of a wretch, a clean road had never existed to begin with.

If anything, Raphael thought it was Enya who had ended up wading through the mire.

Never mind that he had just appraised the relationship between the two houses with such cold clarity.

"I've tried to talk him out of it, but he doesn't listen."

His easy smile, of course, elevated everything he'd said into the realm of acceptable humor.

"I had no idea you were such an amusing man, Young Duke."

Lifting his glass as his companion laughed outright, Raphael soon turned his gaze toward the commotion he could feel building across the hall.

The moment he caught sight of the pair of figures approaching, the temperature of his blue eyes plummeted.

The blonde woman who had just passed through the entrance wore a pale sky-blue dress that flattered her fair skin, in place of the dull gowns she usually favored.

Her hair, braided with delicate care, and the rather lavish ornaments threaded through it, etched themselves one by one into Raphael's vision.

And then—his eyes, which had been moving slowly across the pair, stopped dead on one thing.

"……"

A hand in a satin glove that reached past the elbow was gripping the arm of the man walking in beside her.

At that familiar touch, the corner of Raphael's eye twitched almost imperceptibly.

"Well, well—Lady Campbell attends even gatherings like this…. It seems Marquis Whitmore truly has resolved to acquire himself a most unusual daughter-in-law."

"…Perhaps. They seem a rather ill-suited pairing to me."

In the end, the truth slipped out before he could stop it.

"After making such a show of not attending parties—apparently my pretending otherwise didn't matter, and it bothered you that I came anyway?"

Lucas, leaning slightly toward her, murmured the words close to Enya's ear.

He didn't need to check to know how intimate the picture they made looked. Enya drew her hand from the man's arm and answered, suppressing the urge to flee the ballroom that very instant.

"I hardly think I need to trouble myself over you, Young Lord Lucas."

Even now, more than a few of the ladies watching the two of them were sending glances thick with jealousy their way.

Hearing the barb, the man let out a light laugh.

"Jealousy, is it? How flattering."

Enya gave a small snort at the nonsense that followed.

"Since I'm apparently laboring under such an absurd misunderstanding, I suppose I'd better start scouting for a gentleman worth kissing at tonight's party."

"With a partner like me standing right here?"

"Yes—with a partner like you."

At her indifferent tone, the corner of Lucas's mouth lifted a little further. It was at that point that he turned his head toward the source of the piercing stare that had been drilling into his skin since the moment he'd stepped through the entrance.

He caught the eye of the black-haired man and gave him a casual nod of acknowledgment. On his friend's handsome face—composed, to all appearances—he could see a single elegant brow rising almost imperceptibly.

Lucas then drained his glass in one clean motion and handed it off to a servant. Watching the man stride straight toward them, he barely managed to swallow the laugh that threatened to burst out of him.

"Young Lord Whitmore."

A man blinded by jealousy was less stylish than expected—and, at the same time, more entertaining than expected.

"Good evening, Young Duke. Seeing you outside the Academy makes it all the more pleasant."

Raphael gave a dry laugh at the oily greeting. Even so, his blue eyes stayed fixed on the woman's face the entire time.

Receiving that unrestrained, burning stare, she offered him a flawless, bare-bones curtsy in return.

Her face, brighter than usual beneath a light dusting of powder, regarded Raphael with perfect composure.

Lucas's cool hazelnut eyes moved between hers and the trembling blue ones, and only then did he add, with impeccable timing:

"Ah, but I came with a partner this evening—so if you'll forgive me, I really ought to be going."

"…What?"

Raphael's face fractured.

Lucas studied that crack as he continued, perfectly unbothered.

"One can't very well dance in threes."

"……"

"Then I'll see you at the Academy, Young Duke Pembroke."

At that playfully distant form of address, Raphael's mouth pressed shut into a hard line.