Many people would've died to have been in Prince Alessandro's position in that moment -- many people would've fought to be in his spot, and you'd think he'd be grateful to be attending a grand, dazzling French Ball, but he truly was not. In fact, all Alessandro could focus on was the words his mother had left him to dwell on before he left his home palace. She had scolded him for his frisky behavior, and now, her words of warning echoed through his mind. If he did not behave at the French Ball, she planned on finding him an eligible wife-to-be to betroth him to. That in itself was punishment enough, as Alesso was not the type of man that desired marriage at a young age, let alone with a woman he did not know, but on top of that, his mother also warned him that there'd be even more serious consequences.
Alessandro knew from past experience that could only mean one thing. His father would be involved, and he'd be publically humiliated in front of their palace's workers -- because, even in their own home, they were in public, with so many people working under the royal's hand. He had been invited to the ball numerous times now, and all previous times he had attended, he had wreaked havoc in some way or another. His personal favorite was when he had spiked a "non-alcoholic" drink with some heavy vodka, and the other light-weight, goody-two-shoes royals that had been invited had all gotten completely sloshed. That had been years ago, when Alessandro was only in his mid-teen years, yet he still clung onto that memory due to the sheer comedy of the situation. Yet it seemed he would not be allowed to cause such humorous havoc unless he wanted to be marrying some random lady he knew nothing of.
The prince of Greece sat up in the carriage, his back resting against the velvet seat as the carriage bounced lightly. He was dressed in a tight-as-ever suit, a solid ebony color as though the whole piece had been dipped in ink. The undershirt and jacket, with satin facings, were both of ordinary material, but the tight-fitting trousers he wore were a deep, elegant midnight blue, woven out of velvet and smooth to the touch.
Had it been on anyone else, it would've looked horrendously tacky. But on Alessandro, who sat tall and with a perfect, royal posture, it looked as royal as he.
As the carriage slowed, he petted down his shoulders to ensure there was no fluff from the velvet seat, and he then placed his small, golden pocket-watch in the right pocket of his trousers, where it's chain hung from loosely. The horses had since slowed completely, and Alessandro took his time in standing up. The coach had opened the door for him, and he exited elegantly, his long legs falling onto the ground with well-practiced movements. He took even strides towards the entrance of the French palace, and as he neared it, he saw the sight of an elegant, crisp-white-marble staircase. Two men were in the near distance, chatting, though Alessandro decided he'd introduce himself later. For now, he was taking his time strolling through the garden that led up to the entrance, his hand in his right pocket as he thumbed the pocket-watch.
Even with his laid-back demeanor, he still wore class like a second-skin. The way he carried himself, with his shoulder's back and legs straight and taking measured steps, everything about him screamed royal -- for he walked in a way that could only be taught by a professional. He casually studied his surroundings, the heavenly colors of the staircase contrasting nicely with his own outfit, which was nearly pure black.
Perhaps he shouldn't have wasted so much time dwelling on the appearance of the castle when he really should've been socializing with those who had already properly entered the great hall. But, then again, Alessandro always had a certain knack for being fashionably late.
