Markos tugged at another one of his suit buttons as Josphina fussed over him. Eventually he gave up trying to button it and let her do it.
They had stepped aside out of the ballroom into the open air, partially because she had caught him being unmannerly.
Admittedly, Josphina had a much better sense of decorum than he did, and he usually deferred to his partner when it came to dealing with the other nobility, who largely viewed him poorly. This time, his suit had been mis-tailored, and he had found that after returning from his work elsewhere on the church's behalf it didn't quite fit correctly around the shoulders or the chest. A chamberlain had found a tailor last minute, but the button was still uncomfortable to clasp, and he had been perfectly fine with that, up until Josphina had noticed him with his collar undone and taken offense.
It had, along with the general wining and dining and matchmaking that usually accompanied this festival, been mildly making him angry. Josphina had embraced the upwards mobility granted by entry into the service of the Holy Sword.
Despite his own low birth, he now possessed a title, wealth if he wished it and a chance to settle. He'd gain substantial political power if he only played the game. It was her intention for dragging him to this ball, she needed to be seen as desirable and she sought something more, security in her position through an advantageous marriage.
If there could be a balm for his offended pride at having been dressed up poorly, that medicine could only be Josphina. With her travel-dusked skin, blazing red hair that shown strangely in the moonlight, and wearing a dress that he assumed could only have been made for flattery with the way that the pale sea green silk and white border ruff expressed certain assets while narrowing others, she looked nothing less than stunning. The young d'Tilmar was a woman of court and it showed. When she smiled at him, he couldn't quite decide whether it was a cat's smile, pleased that she had been better than him even at dressing himself, or one of those smiles that woman wore who were pleased to have helped someone they loved.
Considering that Josphina had a cat's disposition, and enjoyed teasing him, Markos thought the former. Still, he gave her a peck on the cheek when she finished, and she giggled prettily at him.
The gardens outside of the manse were intricately lit with a mixture of heartstone globes and candles set into stained glass lanterns, casting softer hues of crimson and gold against Josphina's bare neck and the full, soft swells of her breasts.
"Try not to cross your arms like that again," the woman cautioned, "It's impolite. Try folding them behind yourself. It will make you look a little less sullen and a bit more dashing." She picked a loose strand of hair from his jacket and continued. "You shouldn't slouch, it makes you look like an old man, you have such," she paused as she smoothed a wrinkle down the front of his lapel, "strong build, you should stand with more pride." She let her hand linger chastely at his navel, satisfied at how the fabric was finally sitting on his torso. "Like Sir Arand does."
He tried to improve his posture at her suggestion but it felt unnatural. He was annoyed at Josphina for comparing him to his friend in such a manner to shame him or make him jealous like they were children again. on him. "Sir Arand thinks too much of these festivals."
"I rather enjoy them myself," Josphina quipped back, still fussing over his clothes for appearance's sake. Markos found that he didn't mind the attention. "Perhaps he and I should dance and talk on it?"
Markos's mood soured, knowing he was being baited. He didn't know why she was treating him this way. Jo's fascination with taunting him with his childhood friend and their former lord's successes confused him. He didn't know what she had to gain by reminding him that he too was low born. He'd agreed to accompany Jo to the ball at her and the Ordinary's suggestion, but he didn't like it. The set up for matchmaking was stifling compared to what he shared with Caelyn and Iliana. Even now, he missed them dearly.
"Josphina," he intoned with contained frustration, but Josphina continued, her expression demure, but no hint of modesty in her voice.
"He is quite the dancer. I have been watching him. It's rather alright to look, isn't it? After all, you don't really seem quite so interested in me, of late."
"That's unfair," Markos protested. "You know where I've been."
"Chasing elves and sorceresses," Josphina agreed, settling against him. They fit together nicely. Markos found himself settling his arms around her without thinking about it, though she frustrated him. Ever since childhood, she had never quite stopped frustrating him - the girl took pleasure in it and smiled like a cheshire cat underneath her studied mask. Markos could spot it, despite how innocent she often managed to appear. "Though, I hear, so is Emilio. Madly in love with one of them, am I correct? What was her name? Cynthia?"
"Sintija." Some of Markos's normal amusement with this game faded as he corrected her. This wasn't funny, and somehow it had twisted to become less funny still. Even now, Markos could recall how vivid Sintja's memories had been, and how honest her concern. He could, if he tried, recall a few other things as well, like scents or feelings, and it took him a moment to realize that it was Josphina's fingers, and not Sintija's lips, that touched his cheek. He opened his eyes not knowing he had closed them.
"Well, well," she purred, "Have I struck iron?"
He could tell by the darker caste of her otherwise soft green eyes that she had tired of the game too, despite her tone.
"If you find Emilio a more appropriate partner, go dance with him." Markos commented irritably. "If you want to hold my company, then treat me like it or leave me be."
Jo's eyes were wide as Markos pulled away and stepped into the comforting darkness of the garden.
"You know that I only jest. There's a reason I asked you and not him to the festival." Jo called after him, placing her hand on his arm.
"To goad me into a fight or make me resent my closest friend?" Markos growled at her. "Go to him or stop bringing it up. If you want Emilio, I don't care to stop you."
Jo blushed, flustered and pursed her lips together. Her game soured by his refusal to play along further. They were accompanying one another but they were nothing more than friends. Younger nobles were paired at this festival for courtship, perhaps she hoped they would be a match after all this time.