Though the room gleamed with chandeliers and carried the weight of people with higher status, Ruelle felt like a lizard on the wall. People talked and laughed while her gaze moved over dark hair and straight shoulders. But never the one she was searching for.
Across the floor, Dane stood at the centre like a burning lantern inviting moths. He moved with easy grace through greetings and stories, a laugh given here, a lowered voice there, letting each woman feel chosen without promising himself to anyone.
"Why is a young and beautiful lady standing alone?"
Ruelle turned and found a man in his mid-fifties standing next to her. He wore a dark maroon coat with badges on his shoulders. When he raised his hand, she caught an old signet ring on his finger.
"I don't believe we have met," the man observed, his voice warm but his eyes assessing her. "Minister Maverick Griswold."
