<div class="floatright"><div style="text-align: right;">(http://i.imgur.com/HGfGq8X.jpg)</div><br/>(http://i.imgur.com/Qn3T2kK.jpg)</div><br/>Florence was impressed as she watched the strong man push open the iron gate.  She realized that it was probably quite heavy, and also that it was designed that way.  A show of Su strength and exhibitionism before any guests even entered.  On a scholarly level she had to give a point to the prince for the display, it certainly did set a tone.  Of course, on a completely primal level, Fleur wondered what else a man with that strength might be able to do in a more private setting, and wondered if his bulk might slow him down or hamper him as a lover.<br/><br/>She gave him a curt and polite bow of her head as she stepped down from her carriage and walked onto the mansion’s grounds.  Her eyes treated to the spectacle inside.  The graceful movement of the dancers had Florence awed, and truthfully she did find herself blushing slightly at the brazen costumes, or lack there of, that the dancers wore.  Indeed they were scantily enough to make an Olanian prostitue blush, because after all, hadn’t Florence been an Olanian prostitute?  Indeed as she looked at them was she not blushing now, raising one hand to cover her lips as her wide eyes took in the display?<br/><br/>Of course, her blush was not embarrassment.  She didn’t know if she would ever be brazen enough to wear such revealing outfits in the midst of a garden party, surrounded by so many people, that much was true.  But the color on her cheeks and the heat she felt in her breast was also due to how purely arousing it was.  Here was a culture that embraced the form, glorified it, displayed it’s beauty.  Indeed, not just the beauty of the form, but even the imperfections.  Why the large guard at the gate was a perfect example of that.  Olanian men would be ashamed to display such prodigious stomachs.  She knew of noblemen not even a third the guards size that wore girdles to hide the growing paunch of age and wealth.  No the Su culture made no excuses, and displayed what the form showed.  No small part of Florence wished, in some small way, that she could strip down and join those dancers, revel in the freedom and dance.<br/><br/>She was no trained dancer, but she was nimble and light on her feet.  Of course she knew all of the classical dance moves a noblewoman was expected to know.  But those were more formal ball room dances, nothing like the wild unfettered, yet choreographed, leaping delight of these men and women.  She sighed as she felt the flush running down her spine and down the pit of her stomach to settle into her core, the first tingles of arousal taunting her womanhood.  She smiled slyly behind her gloved hand as she began to walk slowly along, enjoying the way that the rare breath of fresh air would sweep under her ankle length skirt and rise up between her thighs to brush at her underwear free body.<br/><br/>She saw some nobles that she recognized, but none that she felt a burning need to approach.  Florence Genova was shy after all, at least that was the outward appearance she always gave.  Florence, the shy noble housewife, that was the mask that kept Fleur d’Soie safe.  So she walked on, taking in the delights of the garden party as she grew a little more comfortable with the opulence on display.<br/><br/>She saw him first and felt her breath catch in her throat.  By the foreign gods but he was beautiful.  Handsome of course in a masculine way, and exotic, but also beautiful in a way that transcended what she thought of as normal masculine looks and almost bordered on feminine beauty.  Not that he was feminine, no.  The lean muscular body that was on display was anything but feminine.  But Florence felt a deep ache in her core as she looked at him.<br/><br/>She swallowed once and gave herself ten heartbeats to simply drink in his beauty before she forced down her primal urges and thought about him more analytically.  He was sitting in a small clearing surrounded by pillows, sitting alone and yet, somehow he was the center of attention.  Certainly this was the prince, young Prince Iskander.  She knew him to be the youngest of several siblings, and therefore not the crown prince, but still one influential enough to be sent on a diplomatic mission of this type.<br/><br/>Her fingers curled around the small book she carried as she clutched it to her breast, almost defensively as she gazed at him.  Then he finally spotted her and their eyes met for a moment.  There were a few moments of intensity in that gaze before he patted the pillow next to him, and the intention was clear.  Florence approached at first, remembering to maintain her mask of shy hesitance, even though all she wanted to do was rush him and throw herself on his body.<br/><br/>Once she was but a few paces away he spoke in a thick accent and invited her to sit.<br/><br/>She bowed her head politely and said,<strong>“Well fie on them if they don’t take advantage of that opportunity.  Learning from books is one thing,” </strong>she said holding her book out to slightly,<strong>“But why would you not want to speak with the prince of an exotic land if you had the chance?”</strong><br/><br/>She hesitated slightly and then as delicately as she could, lowered herself to the pillow, but kept her body position as tight and controlled as possible.  Making sure that her skirts were smoothed as far down as possible, she sat and folded her legs beneath her, knees tightly squeezed together.  Of course while this was for propriety, and maintaining her image, it had the added benefit of allowing to flex her thighs and put a delicious pressure on her womanhood whenever she wanted.<br/><br/><strong>“Maybe,” </strong>she said with a wry smile towards the prince,<strong>“They are frightened off by by your scars?  A man of my land, the bard Spence, once said that ‘scars are evidence of a life well lived.’  So they do not frighten me.”</strong><br/><br/>She let a playful yet somewhat shy smile cross her face as she held up one gloved hand,<strong>“Though I admit that the scars I would have to show would be those of a hundred or more paper cuts, evidence of my love of books and knowledge.  Maybe too boring a life for a prince to hear about.”</strong><br/><br/>She smiled and gestured to the garden party, deciding to let him steer the conversation incase the subject of his scars was unpleasant to him.<strong>“Are all Su parties this… decadent good prince?”</strong>