The Huntress ✓

02. Duty

Bermuda 1672

Lucien tugged at his emerald colored doublet and straightened his silk cravat. He tried to stretch his shoulders but the deep green waistcoat kept him from moving them freely; He thought fleetingly of shedding it. It was too warm an ensemble on this muggy Bermudan evening. However, an Englishman never made concessions to fashion in the company of his peers. Or so his father felt. He already risked his father's disapproval by not wearing one of the wigs now in vogue. His own thick head of blond hair, tied in the back suited him better. Nevertheless, the coat would stay—for now. He adjusted the hair near is temple, trying to mask the thin, vertical scar; a constant, painful reminder of happier times, long past. Times not filled with meaningless obligations.

Music floated from the ballroom into the foyer where it mingled delicately with the fragrance of fresh blossoms, trying to entice him onward.

Lucien glanced toward the exit. Escape was near. He closed his eyes, took a slow, deliberate breath and turned, then strode resolutely toward the beautifully carved mahogany doors that led into the ballroom. As he reached the threshold, a wave of chatter burst through the doors, followed by a group of young ladies leaving the ballroom. Lucien halted abruptly but quickly remembered himself and bowed, flashing a polite smile at the assemblage. The women returned his greeting, demurely fanning around him, effectively trapping their prey.

"Why, it's Dr. Bellemare!" exclaimed one of the bookends, a fine boned brunette wearing a flowing dress of blue silk. "How do you do?" She curtsied.

"Very well, thank you Miss...?"

"Evans. Miss Arabella Evans." She offered her ivory hand which he took and kissed lightly.

The other bookend, a liberally curved young lady with pale, golden hair glinting in the candlelight, eyed him coyly. Generous amounts of intricately embroidered satin made up her ivory gown, although Lucien noted the material was a mite skimpy around the upper portion. He noted it a far bit longer than he intended, and when he finally did lift his eyes, he felt his cheeks burn at the sanguine expression she wore.

She dipped in a curtsy. "Miss Wainscot."

He coughed in attempt to divert attention from his gaffe. "I beg your pardon?"

She closed the distance between them ever so slightly and offered her hand, "Miss Ysabeau Wainscot." Her voice was like a silken whisper.

Lucien kissed her hand more deliberately than he had Miss Evans. Milky white and soft as satin, it reminded him of a china doll. He held her delicate fingers for a little longer than he should have and she blushed prettily.

"Are you coming to dance, Doctor?" Miss Evans asked as she took his arm.

"O, you must," insisted Miss Wainscot as she clasped the other arm and dragged him through the door. "The music is ... irresistible."

Like a torrent of bitter wind awakened the senses after having been tucked in a warm parlor, the animation of the room assaulted him. Ladies swirled around the floor, dressed in such an array of colors they reminded him of an English garden in full bloom; music wound through the crowd, tickling his ears with its sweet melody; jewels sparkled and crystal dazzled, the individual beauty of each lost in the multitude, just as he himself felt swallowed by the masses.

Miss Evans and the other ladies were quickly snatched by young men as the young doctor led Miss Wainscot onto the floor. The steps to the dance were so thoroughly engrained, he found his mind free to wander. His thoughts took him far from the ballroom and Bermuda altogether. As the music ended, another gentleman claimed Miss Wainscot. Lucien watched her glide away; she was easily the loveliest woman here. He berated himself for being distracted while she'd been in his arms. Still, was beauty the only charm she held?