"And who is he?" 

"Who is who, milady?" Owen asked.

"That boy over there, standing by the drinks, the one with the brown hair."

"Ah," he said, "that is Victor Grant, son and heir of Viscount Grant."

"Viscount Grant?" Arianna wrinkled her nose. "Oh, that is disappointing."

"Milady..." Owen started in a chiding voice, before he was interrupted by Arianna's father loudly calling her over to show her off to his friends. 

She plastered a smile onto her face and went over to them. 

"Arianna," he said, setting a well-manicured hand on her shoulder and pushing her in front of him. He sounded merry and good-natured. He was drunk. "These are my good friends, Lords Alastair Shawcross and Eliott Godfrey. We were thick as thieves back in college!" 

"Ah, but alas." Eliott shook his head mournfully. "Marquess Frederick Ashbridge has outgrown us lowly earls."

"Indeed, indeed." Alastair combed his graying mustache with his fingers. "He has all but forgotten us."

"Perish the thought!" cried Frederick, seeming overcome with emotion, though his hand was still and cold on Arianna's shoulder. "Never did a day pass by in those savage frontiers—where I was fighting most desperately for my life and the lives of my countrymen against the barbarous lesser races—in which I did not reflect upon the halcyon days of our youths. They were, to me, a source of much comfort and strength. Why, upon my return to our manor, I even told Arianna as such. Right, Arianna?"

He squeezed his fingers against her shoulder. 

"Yes, of course," she said. 

"Good fellow!" exclaimed Alastair. "What a jolly good fellow you are!" 

Eliott looked no less moved, going so far as to take a handkerchief and use it to wipe the corners of his eyes. "I was grievously mistaken, then," he said. "Our friendships are just as strong as the day they were forged. Will you accept my apology for doubting you so, Frederick?" 

"Mine as well," chorused Alastair. "Mine as well."

Frederick laughed gregariously. "Please, gentlemen. Friends need not stand on ceremony. But if it will ease your consciences, then I shall forgive both of you."

"Excellent." Eliott smiled, his gaze drifting to her and turning thoughtful. Arianna's stomach sunk. "You know, Frederick," said the earl, "I have always thought of you as a brother."

"And I you," Frederick said. 

"Well, it relieves me to hear that." Eliott licked his lips nervously. "It occured to me just now that there is a course of action we can take to further cement our brotherhood, to bind it in the strongest of bondage: blood."

Suddenly, the cold hand on her shoulder blazed with fire, warmth, and Frederick's voice turned flat and sober. "Oh? I really do not know what you mean."

Alastair took a step back, sensing the tension that had now overtaken the previously easy-going conversation. 

"T-That is," said Eliott, "your darling Arianna is not yet engaged, and you will recall that I have a son, a strapping young lad of fifteen years who—" 

Frederick silenced him with a look and raised his wine glass. "Really, my friend, you are stammering most incomprehensibly. Perhaps a sip of wine will steady your nerves. Let us toast: to the prince's health!" 

And then he raised his glass and repeated the toast, and it was echoed throughout the ball room until eventually Eliott raised his own glass in defeat and added his voice to the toast before drinking deeply and bitterly of the wine.