WebNovels

Chapter 7 - 7. The Art of Poisoned Politeness

The chandeliers of Warwick Manor gleamed like constellations trapped in glass. Hundreds of flickering candles reflected off crystal and gold, casting a warm, deceptive glow over the grand ballroom. Elenora Warwick stood at the top of the staircase, her gaze sweeping over the sea of guests below. Nobles mingled, toasting with flutes of wine, exchanging shallow pleasantries. But their eyes—oh, their eyes—darted toward her with veiled curiosity, anticipation, and barely concealed suspicion.

She descended with the composure of a queen, her lavender-blonde hair coiled into an intricate twist, adorned with a violet gemstone comb. Her gown, a deep amethyst velvet embroidered with silver thread, shimmered with each step. She was silent, regal, untouchable.

The scent of wax, roses, and spiced wine filled the air. Musicians played a delicate waltz in the background, their bows gliding over strings with meticulous precision. Every movement in the room was choreographed like a performance, and Elenora, she was the star.

"Duchess Elenora," came the low murmur of Lord Ashford as she reached the floor. "Radiant, as always."

She offered a delicate nod, her eyes already scanning the room. And then—

Like a discordant note in a symphony, he appeared.

Darius Cain.

He did not belong among the velvet and gold, yet he wore it as if mocking it. His coat, midnight blue with steel-gray trim, was cut in military fashion, a direct contrast to the powdered wigs and frilled cuffs of the noblemen. His storm-gray eyes locked with hers across the room.

Her pulse tightened. Not from fear.

From fury.

He strode forward with that damnable confidence, like a wolf walking into a ballroom of peacocks.

"Duchess Warwick," he greeted with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "A stunning evening. You do have a talent for appearances."

"Minister Cain," she replied smoothly, voice cool as the ice in her veins. "I was under the impression this was a gathering for the aristocracy."

A pause. The air trembled.

He chuckled, the sound rich and low. "And yet, here I stand. Perhaps the lines between classes are blurring faster than you'd prefer."

She offered him a smile honed like a blade. "Or perhaps they simply let in foxes to entertain the poultry."

A ripple of amused gasps fluttered through the surrounding guests. The duel had begun.

They stood at the center of a growing circle, nobles watching like hounds scenting blood. Nearby, Lady Marleigh whispered behind her fan, and a young baron clumsily tried to hide his interest.

"Tell me," she continued, lifting her wine glass, "what business brings a war minister to a duchess's banquet? Or were you simply starved for proper company?"

"I go where the Crown sends me," he replied, sipping his wine. "And the Crown seems very interested in the affairs of House Warwick lately."

She stilled. Just enough for him to notice.

"Careful, Minister," she said softly. "The Crown's interest can be as deadly as its disfavor."

He leaned in, close enough that only she could hear: "Then perhaps you should stop making it so curious."

She stepped back, every inch of her posture a rebuke.

A servant approached with a tray of hors d'oeuvres. Darius took one, inspecting it thoughtfully.

"Do you suppose this is poisoned?" he asked lightly.

"Not yet," she murmured, brushing past him.

Laughter, low, disbelieving, followed her.

* * *

The banquet dragged on. Music played. Dancers spun. But the true performance was between Elenora and Darius.

Where she went, he followed. Where he stood, she ignored, pointedly. Their every interaction was threaded with tension, a blade hidden beneath silk.

At dinner, he was seated three places down from her. Close enough to speak, far enough to pretend not to.

Lord Merrick commented on the recent military exercises near the eastern border.

"A necessary show of strength," Darius said, his voice measured.

"To whom?" Elenora asked, sipping her wine.

"To anyone who assumes silence is weakness."

She met his gaze, eyes glinting. "A lesson some of us have known far longer than others."

Another silence. Another round to the duchess.

Yet the fire in his eyes did not dim.

She looked away, focusing on the grand tapestry hanging on the wall, a scene of a lion and a serpent locked in eternal battle. Fitting, she thought. A silent metaphor unraveling across silk and thread.

* * *

Later, as the final waltz began, Elenora stepped into the garden for air. The winter roses were in bloom, pale and defiant in the cold night. Their scent mingled with the frost, sharp and clean.

Of course, he followed.

"Do you enjoy stalking women, Minister, or is it just me?"

"Only the ones who threaten the natural order," he replied, hands behind his back.

She turned. "And what order is that? The one that kept you beneath the nobility?"

"The one that's about to change," he said simply.

The moonlight caught on his profile. For a moment, she saw not the minister, not the nuisance, but the man. Ambitious. Angry. Alive.

"You seek to unravel everything my family built."

"Your family built walls. I'm here to open gates."

"You think the world owes you entry?"

He took a step closer.

"No," he said. "I intend to take it."

They stood there, two forces, equal and opposite.

Then, slowly, he reached out and plucked a rose from the bush.

He offered it.

She did not take it.

"You'll bleed," she said.

"Already have," he murmured.

And with that, he tucked the rose into her empty wine glass and turned away.

She watched him go, her grip tightening around the stem, thorns pressing into her palm.

Blood welled at the base of her thumb. She didn't flinch.

Inside, the music had faded into silence. The stars above glittered with quiet indifference. Somewhere in the distance, the manor's bell tower began to chime midnight.

Elenora looked down at the rose in her hand.

War had been declared, not with armies, but with glances, words, and thorns.

And she had no intention of losing.

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