inbox.

[unshut]

(crystal | written | action)

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[bouchonne]

One of my many womanly skills.

[ He's a bit pleased, in spite of himself, at her response. It actually seems rather genuine. To be fair, he'd have been pleased if she'd rolled her eyes and mocked him, as well; any reaction from her is exciting and fun. But the smile is better. ]

I hope they will keep your precious fingertips warm.

[unshut]

[She holds her hand out before her, making a gentle fist to see how the leather gives around the embroidery.]

I've trouble finding pretty gloves that fit, you know. [Her hands are long - long fingers, long palm; a little mannish, maybe. She lowers her hand and begins to work the glove from it. With a small sideways smile:] You're a quick study, Messere.

[bouchonne]

As do I.

[ He holds out his own hands, a match for hers. Long-fingered and elegant, with tapered fingertips. Maybe a more appropriate set of hands for a man.

He holds out his hand for the glove as she takes it off. ]

But I study that which I admire. These hands are amongst your most striking features.

[unshut]

[The glove is deposited into his waiting hand. She grins.]

Would that I could have you in Antiva forty years ago to say as much to my mother. She used to tell me to keep them behind my back if I wanted to find a husband.

[bouchonne]

[ He accepts it with a bow, presses it to his heart. ]

And did you?

[unshut]

No. But I don't believe my husband found them objectionable either.

[bouchonne]

[ With approval: ]

A sensible man, then.

[unshut]

Not in the slightest.

[bouchonne]

No? Was he fanciful?

[unshut]

The very picture, I'm afraid.

[bouchonne]

That must have driven you mad, my practical-minded beauty.

[unshut]

Much to my own disappointment, I apparently have a fondness for the type.

[This, punctuated with the appropriate sidelong glance as she settles back against her pillows and the headboard.]

[bouchonne]

[ He flutters his eyelashes at her. ]

And I, a weakness for the squarely unromantic.

[unshut]

Oh? [A look of surprise punctuates the tip of her head.] Who is this mysterious unromantic individual who has you so charmed, Ambassador?

[bouchonne]

Someone who is also very beautiful. And clever.

[unshut]

Good for you. You should have some diversion from your work. [Lacing her long fingers together over her middle, she lowers her voice by a half degree.] It's giving you wrinkles, Messere.

[bouchonne]

It is not.

[unshut]

I'm afraid so. There's a little mark just there on your brow. You've been frowning.

[bouchonne]

I'm incapable of frowning. I'm a very mirthful man.

[unshut]

And yet, that mark. Not to worry, Ambassador; wear a few more lines like that one and you might eventually look quite respectable.

[Her smile curves.]

Which I only say because I know how much you enjoy to be told terrible things about yourself.

[bouchonne]

[ He's already pulling a face. ]

Ugh. Call me a cad. Call me a scoundrel. Don't call me respectable.

[unshut]

[She laughs. The sound is low, pleasant despite its rasping underbelly. Turning the knife, then:]

But you're doing such a fine job of pretending, Messere.

[bouchonne]

I am not. My reputation is just as rotten as it ever was.

[unshut]

Oh, certainly publically you are no gentleman. But privately? [A cluck of the tongue, an evaluating look; she unlaces one of her small fingers to tap on the glove remaining in her lap.] I've seen very little proof of it myself. And I'll have you know that I have made inquiries.

[bouchonne]

Oh, not with the right people, then. Don't you recall how I had my wedding at a house of very ill repute?