Fiona raised a brow, but smiled anyways. "Surely you've heard of me?" She said with playful arrogance. "I am the daughter of Captain Race Iomhar, now retired . . . assuming England and Scotland are truly at peace," she said. "I was raised in Yellow Rose Keep, near Ayr, which is on the shores of the North Channel," she said. "Many say the woods near the keep are home to fairy folk, called the Sidhe. Indeed, that's where I got my most famous nick name - Leannan," she said with a laughing smile. "Tell me, M' Lord, do you speak Gaelic? So few do these days - most certainly not those with ties to the English . . . but I do admire the language," she commented lightly.

"I hail from the South side of the River Liffy in Dublin, Ireland. My ancestral home up to my generation in the MacBrindle family." Indeed, he could keep pace, and he barely made a look as to gloat of it, he seemed totally at ease int he setting, and at times, it was as if he alone caused them both to glide, if but for fleeting seconds at a time. He enjoyed the music, and at times, if she listened enough, he was quietly humming on and off to his favorite parts of the song. "Where do you come from? My dear? Your beauty is unnatural for the urban settings of London to have lived in it all your life, you must have been raised far from this place, that is to say that London is not a horrible place, but most women here do not have... such... assets." He said in a suave manner, of course, this was risky to say in such open quarters.

Fiona blushed delicately at the compliment. From the sound of it, it seemed as if she was supposed to recognize the name - he must be a man of quite a reputation. Unfortunately, she'd been kept far away from the Season gossip - indeed she found herself occupied with . . . other duties. "I am well pleased yo meet you, Lord Eisenhower MacBrindle," she said with a charming laugh. She swirled about with inhuman grace, and was intruded to find he was able to keep up with her in ways that professional dancers even could not. "Where are you from?" she inquired politely.

The man smiled, and took her hand, pulled her close, and assumed the usual position, though, oddly, rather than wrapping his hand over hers, he coupled it instead. His other hand, traditionally on her side. He smiled, and began to lead the waltz. The others followed in tow soon after. "My dear, I am, as you may already know, Rhys Eisenhower McBrindle. I am pleased to have this dance with you and you're beauty." He said with a suave smile.

((It's good to be back, lol)) The Lady Fiona regarded him with open curiosity, and her hand alighted on his like a butterfly landing. "It would be a pleasure . . ." she hesitated, noting that they had not been formally introduced. The movement reminded everyone else that they had been unseemly staring and they all bustled about, and the orchestra prepared a waltz, knowing it was the Lady's favorite.

((Here, you witness th alternate Jester. The hero! XD) From the crowd, silently, like a ghost, stepped a man, tall, well built, and fair skinned. A head of black, but messy in a pleasing manner, big, brown eyes and a stare to die for. He wore a black dress, extravagant, fit for a ballroom, the inside was accenting the black with a soft, pleasing purple color. And over it all, was a light, black silken cloak. Silence fell over the current, as if to further muffle any sounds possible. Lord Rhys Eisenhower McBrindle. A man of Irish and English descent and royalty. Revered throughout the Celtic isles for his amazing political and economic mastery, and his considerable eligibility, for which woman, as it was rumored, have murdered one another for. He almost glided towards her, hand outstretched, and in a soft, cool, and smooth voice, he spoke. "May I have this dance?"

The dainty Lady Fiona NicIomhar sat in her study, humming softly as she tended to her stitch work. The sunlight danced across her perfect cream-colored skin, making the copper highlights in her cascade of auburn hair dance around her on every little breeze. Strangely, no matter how much she sat in the sun, her prefect complexion never changed. Her handmaidens had given up advising her otherwise. She wore a bright yellow dress, cut in a simple fashion that emphasized her natural beauty. Her dark brown eyes sparkled like rare jewels, framed by dark, long lashes. Her lips were the subject of many poems, full and dark and always set naturally in a slight smile. She was the kind that everyone found perfect in every way - which would make any other girl an enemy, if it weren't for the calm happy feeling one is usually overcome with when in the Lady Fiona's presence. Her father had not let her in the London seasons at the usual age of 18 or so, but at 20 he was out of excuses to hold his daughter back. He simply feared what a pack of men might do to each other to win the woman's affections. There was a summons from the door, and excitedly, the lady braced herself to be presented to the ballroom below. Her name was announced, and as she descended the stairway with unnatural grace, into a hushed crowd. Every woman held her breath - every man simply stared in awe, until finally she found herself in the midst of them, wondering what man would be the first to ask her to dance.