Free Bal Masque by Fleeta Cunningham

room. A dozen couples, masked but wearing evening dress, paused as the last note faded into the rising chatter.
    “It’s a lovely party, isn’t it, m’sieu?” Lucienne lowered her beaded mask and flipped her fan open. “And just warm enough to open the house, so we have enough room for dancing.”
    “Most perfect, mam’selle.” Armand put his own mask aside. “We can hope for such excellent weather about three weeks hence.”
    His reminder of the rapidly approaching date stopped her breath for a moment. “I don’t suppose it would dare rain on such an occasion.”
    “Rain would never be so bold as to mar the event.” He gestured to a quiet corner. “Would you like to sit out the next set? Two cotillions should come before the next waltz, which you kindly promised to me.”
    Armand was an excellent partner on the dance floor. He’d led her through the set with flawless grace. A betrothal did have a use, she told herself. It made it possible to dance with one very good partner somewhat longer, instead of a number of bad ones, without incurring the wrath of the matrons along the wall. As if summoned by her thought of bad partners, Lucienne saw her Uncle Gaston coming their way. He loved the cotillion, though he could never keep the dance figures straight. Sitting out a dance to wait for another waltz with Armand was preferable to keeping her toes out of Gaston’s way. “I would be most happy for a breath of air.”
    A pair of slender chairs at the end of the veranda sat away from the direct line of dancers but would not be so isolated as to make Lucienne the object of gossip. Armand drew one toward her and held it as she managed her tulle skirts.
    “Having your cousin and grandmère here must have been a help to you and Madame Toussaint with the wedding plans,” Armand commented as the silence between them grew.
    “Oh, Mama has everything well in hand, but it’s been fun to have Pierrette here. It’s good experience for her. She’ll be going through much this same bustle soon, I’m sure.”
    Armand raised a querying brow. “Her father has accepted a suitor for her hand? I hadn’t heard.”
    Lucienne shook her fan at him. “Now, now, I can’t be telling family secrets to you just yet, but I vow Pierrette will be wed in less time than anyone thinks. She’s a very pretty girl, and you know she’s the gleam in her papa’s eye. A man who wins her will be fortunate indeed.”
    “Then there will be two fortunate men in this family.”
    Considering the plans she had along that line, Lucienne had no intention of following that course of thought. She searched for some diverting topic to introduce and said the first thing that came into her head. “Grandmère told Pierrette and me there had been another dreadful duel at the Oaks just a few days before she came to visit. Why do men do such awful things?” As the last word left her lips she knew she’d brought up gossip no gentleman would discuss with a lady.
    Armand gave her a look of some astonishment, but rather than drawing away at her breach of propriety, he bent closer. “It’s often arrogance, sometimes encouraged by too many cups emptied in the course of an evening. I’ve seen men challenged over the most trifling matters—a fancied slight to a popular ballerina’s performance, the best purveyor of sweets, and other equally foolish things.” His gaze seemed to see beyond the veranda and its passing dancers. “Swords and pistols at dawn aren’t trappings of sport. A man’s life should be worth more than a dancer’s lackluster performance or a preference in bonbons.”
    Lucienne forgot any conventional rule that might have stopped her words. She’d brooded over Philippe’s plight far too much to practice restraint. “How can a man of good sense be drawn into such a stupid affair? It’s not logical.”
    Armand’s mouth thinned. “Your grandmère was speaking of the Blanchard and Bowie matter, I suppose.” He glanced up as she nodded