Jean-Claude lets out a laugh that might almost be construed as bitter in some regards, despite the constantly coy smile on his face. "No," he says, without looking in the direction of the dancer on the stage. "No, she is not." Not that he has anything against the dancer herself -- one of his regulars on his ladies' night, and one of the more popular ones at that, but still.

His reaction, as Lancelot may be able to guess what with how little control Jean-Claude is keeping over his emotions just now, has almost everything to do with Millicent herself instead. She reminds him too much of Belle Morte, of her iron control over the fear of her people, of her cruelty. But Belle is everything and more -- much more than Millicent could ever be. And Jean-Claude is glad that she is far away and in France, where her touch will not be able to reach him.

He reigns himself in, smoothing out expression slipping the constantly coy mask more firmly into place. "No, my tastes have been known to run more firmly in. Other directions, shall we say." He gives the other man a knowing look. Come now, Lancelot. After all the flirting he has done with you, it should be rather obvious what he's implying. He turns his gaze again towards the dancers, lingering on perhaps one or two. "I may have my eye on some others, however."