Lord Baron stood there, clutching his bruised wrist, his face a mask of drunken confusion and rage. He looked at the woman in front of him who held a black fan like a weapon of war. Behind her, a young dancer trembled, clutching her torn sleeve, her eyes wide with fear.
Marissa stood firm. She did not retreat. She snapped the fan shut with a sharp click against her palm.
"Keep your hands to yourself," Marissa spoke, her voice cutting through the humid air like a blade. "Dancers can't be touched. They are artists, not merchandise."
Lord Baron laughed. It was a wet, ugly sound. He looked at the trembling girl behind Marissa, then back at the Duchess with a sneer.
"Do you think I'm here for music?" Lord Baron asked, his voice dripping with scorn. "I have money. I am a noble. I came here for what I paid for."
He stepped forward, his bulk looming over Marissa. He reached out a hand, intending to shove the Duchess aside to get to the girl.
