She shook her head, then she left the ballroom.

Noémie looks around the garden, now alone. The night air was a balm to her skin, which warmed from the alcohol in her belly.

The fanfare reminded Noémie more and more that she should not be here. 

She should be with her mother in the village she grew up in. Speaking her mother tongue and dancing under the stars with her grandparents. In her mother’s arms.

The absence wounded her heart.

Instead, she was forced to live in a land foreign to her, speaking a foreign tongue. Being paraded around like some freak.

Noémie’s gloved hand pinches the bridge of her nose before catching a waiter with champagne. She strides through the crowd of people, looking sullen and fatigued from being out on a societal battlefield. She begins to cry, although she’s not sure when her tears started. A moment of weakness that spirals out of control as she shakes and trembles alone on the balcony.

“What would make a Mademoiselle such as yourself cry?”

The deep timbre tickled her ear and seemed to add warmth to her cheeks in the chill spring air. She pauses from wallowing in self-pity, tears still wet on her cheek. She doesn’t turn, perhaps in embarrassment, only continuing to sip her drink, staring at the night sky. Moments later, she simply lets out a raspy chuckle before looking back at the man in the moonlight. 

“Mademoiselle--I would think you were talking to someone else. Madame, fine. It’s nothing...my good Monsieur.” Noémie replies, almost surprised at the meekness of her voice, strAiméed and raw from emotion. The man’s hand, much larger than hers, seized her chin. 

“Perhaps,” He begins before his calloused thumb caresses her full, bottom lip.

“It’s quite rude not to look at someone when spoken to.”

Rendered speechless, she looks at him with wide eyes. 

He’s a man, much taller than her—or anyone, for that matter. Towering over her, dressed in fine silks, she can only guess he’s an aristocrat. He was much different from the men who polluted high society. No, not the men who participated in sports for the appearance or competition, but instead, a rugged man.

He is stocky and strong, his presence demands attention--and at the present, it’s hers. And it is, she stares agape at him as if he were some sort of force and not a human. 

If he were a soldier, he’d be the best one she’d ever seen.

“I had been off to war for many, many years—and still in my absence, these nobles are still quite daft, are they not?”

She bites her lower lip, staring at him, bewildered.

Noémie wondered why she had not seen this man before; his life seemed to have been forced into an interlude following the decade-long war. While the aristocrats chatted and showed off their imported jewels, exotic animals, and their knowledge that had not extended beyond their shallow country.

“They are, unfortunately.” She muses, with her full lips setting in a firm frown, her brow creased in disapproval. 

“You must be glad the war is over.” In response to her words, he looks steely, his hooded, chartreuse eyes and wavy raven locks being what shine underneath the moonlight. 

Striking, like a wolf’s.

“Perhaps. It’s been nearly a decade. I’m no longer the young man I was before--yet it’s made me the man I am today.”

His voice, oh his voice. She listened to it, and it sounded like wool from the Eastern countries. Warm and rustic. Soft, tickling her ears as she clutched her glass.

“You know, you never did answer my question.”

“Hmmm?”

“Why were you crying?” Noémie lowers, wondering how she should go about answering him. Swirling the drink in her hand, she mutters in the darkness.

“My good, curious Monsieur. Do you know how it feels to watch your home burn? Then, see the barbarians who light the fire, force you and your mother to live in a foreign country? Every day is frustrating and terrifying. I’m the laughingstock of society, the black sheep. You know my first ball as an adult, I spilled wine all over my dress—it is hard to remove stains, by the way—to be honest, that’s where my fascination with them ended, after I made a fool of myself. I’m not even the age to marry anymore. At this rate, I’ll become a governess when my younger sister weds the war hero.”

Perhaps it was the alcohol in her system, but she found herself rambling, unraveling in front of a total stranger. Drinking was not the a habit for her,  the Marquis did not trust her around it for this reason. She was bound to become a mess while intoxicated; any practiced restraint she acquired was rendered useless.

This was her undoing. 

News of her sister’s possible engagement, on the eve of the day she arrived in this country on a ship. 

It had all become too much.

“A war hero?”

She nodded without a thought.

“Monsieur Bellefleur—or Duc, I should say. I don’t know much about him, but he seems to be who she wants, and Maximilienne gets what she wants--” The loud, abrupt sound of a violin, followed by a much softer piano and flute. The few from the ballroom are, as expected, full of people paired up to dance--Maximilienne, who unwittingly began to waltz with some noble twice her years, earning a chuckle from Noémie.

“They are getting ahead of themselves, aren’t we, Mademoiselle du Cœur?” 

Noémie frowns. 

Things just became more serious and confusing. 

“I would ask how you know my name, but it seems my reputation precedes me.”

He laughs.

“It would’ve been a bit late to inquire about that otherwise. The Noémie du Cœur, the shut-in of the du Cœur family, graced the masses with an appearance. Word gets around like that since these people have nothing before time on their hands.” 

Noemie giggles before rolling her eyes. 

“I am beginning to find you suspicious. Who are you, secretive Monsieur?”

“My mother called me Sachin, Mademoiselle du Cœur.”

He steps closer, and she can see a face under the lamplights that’s both beautiful and haunting. Following his voice slowly, his figure emerges from the shadows. His words come out as a tease, as if every word contAiméed a bit of laughter. But Noémie was not laughing, nay, she sat rooted in her place, still wary.

It’s a man, as Noémie suspected. He’s tall, almost towering, and walks towards her with an amused expression on his face. His skin is a deep olive tone, not dark but pale either. His hair was nearly parted but framed with wild, dark curls. Noémie could tell that as the night wore on, he left it to cascade. 

Her heart pounded. 

This man was like a fallen angel who fell from the heavens and decided to entertain her tipsy ramblings.

She begins to bow, but he stops her mid-curtsy. On the balcony, it was only the two of them. The man named Sachi has a fierceness of his features—his thick brows were curved slightly, his eyes which were those of chartreuse fabric, held a gentle gaze. Sachin

“You’re quite different from other nobles, aren’t you?” He inquires.

The man, whom she had not known for long, suddenly curtseys before saying, “You look like you’d benefit from a dance.”

“Maybe. Although I believe I’ve had too much wine. Strangely, I don’t mind it too much. My mind is oddly clear.” The wide, broad body of the former soldier, feeling his hand hold hers. The alcohol in her system made her brazen; perhaps that was a better thing than her mousey self, not wanting to involve herself with others and their court affairs.

“Mademoiselle du Cœur, have you lost your footing? You should be attended to.”

 Noémie giggles nervously, clutching her clammy forehead. There was a burning from the inside--not an unpleasantness, but an insatiable warmth inside of her for the man in front of her.

Noémie gets up to leave, perhaps to find Aimée waiting for her in the carriage. Instead, she stumbles, seeing nothing but the man’s cold blue eyes under the moonlight. In those cold eyes, she felt a yearning, something she’d never felt before. 

She trembled, her voice becoming strAiméed, forlorn.

“You’re right, I must have lost my mind to these urges inside of me.”

The man, whose name Noémie had not yet known, became the object of her affections--she took hold of his soft lips and relishing in the brittle texture of his beard, his taunt tongue sucked hers. His scent—his scent, mingled with the scent of the flowers among them, she wasn’t sure if it was due to her vulnerable state, but it seemed to simply overpower her. It was utterly intoxicating, even more than the wine warming her belly. Such a strong smell, the lingering fragrance of citrus and spices, and something else much thicker. 

Arousal.

Something possesses her to graze her nose upon his neck before he lets her go.

Simply intoxicating.

His voice croons, almost as if he were amused at her plight.

“Would you allow me to ease those urges?”