Santanas.

It was a well-known nickname. Almost a joke within the circles of the rich and wealthy. It was more a memory then anything, of a young man, on the verge of ruin, with nothing but a fierce temper and a low voice to carry him through. Though perhaps it was also a reminder, of what that man, now nearly forty, could do when his will was crossed. Of course, he no longer dueled every sunrise or drove off with another man's fiancée, but no one wished to cross him enough to see if he would return to it. ~

The salon glittered. The sun was long since down, and the candlelight made everything seem bright and painted. Women skirted along the edges of the card tables, unless they wished to try their hands. Seated to the right of you was the Duke, retired now from the cards, much to everyone's relief - as he never lost. You did not think he'd noticed you. You were young, and new to the country. You sat with your elder cousin, leaning across her to watch her play, your chair added as an addition so you could see but a man eager for your attention. Now he sat across the table, deep in his cups, losing. You had not given him a second glance after your polite 'thanks'.

You had been covertly observing the Duke whenever you turned to take a sip of your lemonade, the crystal glass a hiding place as you studied the white, aristocratic face, the dark hair, somewhat powdered, and the half-lidded hazel eyes. They looked bored, and he only sometimes responded when he was spoken to, as if an afterthought. You did not think highly of it. You had come up with many fancies when your cousin had told you of him. Perhaps a burly man, or a man with a sword constantly in his hand. Not...this! Why, he seemed almost indolent. He had not danced, he had not conversed greatly. You turned away again, disappointed to find a man you thought would only make a good model for a sketch.

He was a handsome man and arresting in the way some handsome men could not be. Your eyes could never skate past him, they had to stop, as if paying him their own respects. There did seem to be something dangerous about him, perhaps in the way he stood, or in the way a gloved hand fluttered when someone accused him of indecency. There was no shame to him, no flush to the high cheeks, just a slight arch of a black brow, maybe a curl of the lip.

When your cousin left the table, leaving a small amount of IOU cards, you stood too, fan dangling carelessly from your wrist. You did not observe the hazel eyes flicking to you briefly, or the half-lidded gaze following you. The Duc. took a pinch of snuff and inhaled delicately before standing and moving to his friend.

"And who, dear Hugh," Said he without preamble. "Is that?" He nodded vaguely to you.

Hugh Davenant, one of the Duke's only good friends, looked up, studying the room to ascertain who Avon spoke of. "Ah, the young lady? An English heiress, I believe. Not much is known, I had assumed you would know more." He shrugged.

"You have a great deal of faith in my ability."

"It seems to be proven often. Do you know anything of her?"

The Duke smiled. "No. She seems to be a mystery. I assumed you would know, having been accosted by several gossips tonight." Hugh shook with silent laughter.