Owen walked farther into the hall with the sisters beside him.
Now that he was actually inside it, the ballroom seemed even larger. The chandeliers threw light across a floor polished like glass. Musicians played from a raised stage at one end, and attendants moved between groups of elegantly dressed nobles with trays of drinks and small refreshments. Around them, the conversations that had paused at the announcement slowly picked up again.
Not everyone went back to their own business, though. Owen could feel a good number of eyes still on him. Some people were looking at the Ferrers crest on his coat. Others leaned toward their companions and murmured, and he didn’t need to hear them to guess what they were saying.
As they passed two young women near the entrance, he caught a little of it.
"He’s very handsome, isn’t he?"
"Has he been to one of these before? I don’t remember him at all."
"He’s Edmund Ferrers’ youngest," a young nobleman beside them said. "I heard it’s his first time."
Owen kept walking. He knew people found him attractive. Still, hearing strangers discuss it so openly was more amusing than anything else, and he didn’t turn around to acknowledge it.
Clara leaned toward him. "Don’t look now, my lord, but there are at least three girls by that pillar who haven’t taken their eyes off you since we came in."
"I think it’s four," Elise said. "And we haven’t even reached the refreshments yet."
Owen laughed. "Maybe arriving with two beautiful ladies has drawn more attention than I deserve."
Clara looked delighted.
"Don’t try to blame it on us," Elise said. "They weren’t whispering about our gowns."
The exchange eased something in him. Owen let his shoulders relax and took in the room properly.
They hadn’t gone much farther when a young woman in a gown of deep rose came toward them through the crowd.
"Clara! Elise!" she said, and caught both sisters by the hands. "I wondered whether you’d come this year."
"Eveline!" Clara’s face lit up. "We nearly didn’t."
"That sounds like a story." The young woman turned to Owen and dropped into a graceful curtsy. "Forgive me, my lord. Eveline Harcourt. My father is Marquess Roland Harcourt."
"Owen Ferrers," Owen said, bowing. "It’s a pleasure, Lady Eveline."
"Oh, I know who you are. Half the room has been saying your name since the herald finished." Eveline smiled. She had the easy confidence of someone who had been to a great many of these gatherings and enjoyed every one of them. "Clara and Elise and I met at this ball two years ago. Clara spilled punch on my shoes."
"That was an accident," Clara said.
"It was a very enthusiastic accident." Eveline looked back at Owen. "So how did you end up arriving with my two favorite Ashcombes?"
"We were travelling the same road," Owen said.
Elise glanced at him, and he saw she was grateful he had left it there.
"Is this really your first time in the capital?" Eveline asked.
"It is. I spent yesterday walking around the market by the old bridge."
"Then you’ve seen the best part already. The palace is just more expensive." She laughed at her own joke and drew the sisters a little to one side, already asking about their gowns.
A young man came over while they talked. He was about Owen’s age, broad-shouldered and fair-haired, with an open, cheerful face.
"Lord Owen. Tristan Beaumont," he said, offering his hand. "My father is Count Gerard Beaumont. I hope you don’t mind me introducing myself. I’ve been wanting to meet someone from House Ferrers for years."
Owen shook it. "Why is that?"
"Because I want to join the military when I’m done with the Academy," Tristan said, "and everyone says Ferrers soldiers are the best-drilled in the Empire." He grinned. "Is it true? Do they really have you training from dawn?"
"Earlier, some days," Owen said.
"And they train the family as hard as the soldiers?"
"Harder, sometimes. One of our generals has been teaching me, and she doesn’t believe in rest days."
Tristan looked genuinely envious. "That’s exactly what I want. My father keeps saying I should think about administration instead. Administration." He said the word as though it tasted bad. "What do you drill on? Footwork? Formations?"
"Footwork, mostly. And a great deal of conditioning." Owen thought about it. "And being thrown on the ground until you stop making the same mistake."
Tristan laughed. "Is your brother here? I met Gareth two years ago. He talked about nothing but the Academy all evening."
"Not this year. He’s busy with an assignment."
"Pity. I wanted to ask him about the entrance examinations." Tristan shrugged. "I’ll just have to ask you instead, later. When you’ve been there."
"I haven’t been accepted anywhere yet."
"You will be," Tristan said cheerfully, as though it were obvious.
Before Owen could answer, Eveline turned back toward them, and two more young women came up behind her. One of them, dark-haired and bright-eyed, looked Owen over with frank interest.
"Eveline, you’ve been keeping him to yourself," she said.
"I’ve been talking to Clara and Elise," Eveline said. "He just happened to be standing here."
"Very convenient." The dark-haired girl curtsied. "Marianne Loxley, my lord. Daughter of Viscount Henry Loxley." She straightened and smiled. "I have to say, nobody warned us the Ferrers were this handsome. Gareth was charming, but you’ll make half the room jealous of Clara and Elise."
The girl beside her laughed into her glass.
"Lady Marianne," Owen said, bowing. "I’m not sure whether that was a compliment to me or to my brother."
"To both. I’m generous." Marianne tilted her head. "Do you dance, Lord Owen?"
"When someone insists."
"I may insist later." Her eyes were sparkling. "But first, a more important question. Do you already have someone special?"
That caught Owen slightly off guard. Then he laughed.
"I’ve barely made it through the doors," he said. "Is this part of the official welcome? Does the herald hand out a list of questions at the entrance?"
The girls laughed, and so did Tristan.
"That isn’t an answer, my lord," Marianne said.
"He’s very good at not answering," Clara put in. "He did it the whole way here."
"Clara," Owen said.
"What? You did."
"Go on, then," Elise said, with a perfectly straight face. "We’d all like to know."
Owen looked at the circle of expectant faces and gave up. "No. I’m not courting anyone. Is that better?"
"Much better," Marianne said, very satisfied.
"I don’t think the poor man expected to be cross-examined," Eveline said.
"Neither of you tried to rescue me," Owen told the sisters.
"You didn’t look like you needed rescuing, my lord," Clara said.
They went on talking for a while, about the music, the dancing, and which cakes on the long tables were actually worth eating. Marianne had an opinion about every one of them. Tristan managed to steer the conversation back to swords twice before Eveline told him firmly that no one wanted to hear about footwork at a ball.
"I do," Owen said.
"You don’t count," Eveline said. "You’re just as bad."
Eventually, Marianne and her friend drifted away to greet someone else, Eveline was pulled off by an acquaintance across the room, and Tristan promised to find Owen again later.
Owen watched them go, still amused. He had expected polite conversation and formal introductions. He hadn’t expected to be questioned about his love life within minutes of walking in.
He was enjoying himself anyway.
As the evening went on, Owen grew more comfortable moving among the guests.
He took a drink from a passing attendant and stood for a moment watching the room. Couples had started to gather near the dancing floor, while others stayed in their groups, talking about their families, recent news and whoever had just arrived. Every so often, the heralds at the entrance announced more guests. Some names drew a ripple of attention across the room. Others barely interrupted anyone.
It was during one of those quieter moments that he noticed a young man standing a little apart from the crowd near the refreshment tables.
He looked about Owen’s age and was strikingly handsome, with fine, even features, dark hair and a stillness about him that drew the eye even though he was doing nothing at all to invite it. His formal clothing bore the insignia of House Staufen.
"Your Highness," Owen heard a court attendant say as he offered him a glass. "Prince Julian."
Owen knew the name. Julian Staufen, the Emperor’s fourth child. They were the same age.
Several nobles nearby were clearly hoping to speak with him. Julian answered each of them briefly and courteously, but he didn’t encourage anyone to stay. He didn’t seem shy, and he didn’t seem unfriendly. He simply seemed perfectly content where he was, away from the busiest part of the room, watching it.
Meeting the Imperial Family was part of why Owen had come, and a prince his own age seemed far more likely to have something in common with him than some elderly court official. He decided not to wait for an introduction.