He would hardly say he insisted... but she had not protested, verbally or otherwise, and that was plenty. It was her night, after all - or it would be, when the guests arrived later and the ballroom was full of people, and that meant there was no sense in threatening her good mood. No, he might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

And, dismissive as he often was of his wife’s attentions, the thought of her spending the evening surrounded by so many acquaintances and admirers - he would not particularly call them her friends; did Ambrosia even do friends? - did spark some strange little petulant feeling in him, some misplaced stroke of jealousy. It made no sense, of course; hadn’t he just been rolling his eyes at the mere thought of having to dance with her tonight? And yet for some reason he had no desire to see her dancing with anyone else.

Nor did Trystan have any particular care for the musicians’ plight as they made what they could of the music, picking up the waltz steps for a while; he had even less care for the musicians there, when, having led Ambrosia in a rotation, he made no move to change direction as the dance dictated and instead, halting there, leant in to kiss her. Just briefly; perhaps because holding her in such close proximity was too much temptation - or was just halfway there already.

The music had carried on without them. “I seem to have forgotten what comes next,” he supplied, innocently.

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