Hmm. Well, you do cut a dashing figure all the same.
[A thought that falls loose too easily, and reminds her of the intimacy of this act anew. Rosamund hushes up for a moment. She has to gather herself again, suddenly the swish of the cords is louder than her own voice. And there's a mad urge to reach back. Or turn unexpectedly, or shrug her sleeves down. Tell him to keep going.
All notions that trail back to that oft visited and oft squashed corner of her mind, where she flees any time he gives her that shit-eating grin, or the light catches his lashes just right, or she watches him in heated spars from high windows. For the thousandth time, she presses each and every thought down, until they're all small enough to tuck into dark crevices and leave for later.]
I'm not uncomfortable. [This isn't regency era yet. Rosamund smiles to herself, pulling at her thumb in a show of nerves hidden from his view.] I just don't like the idea of being helpless.
I mean, there's got to be things you'd rather be doing instead of watching over me all the time. I don't like the idea that I'm burdening you. Even with something as silly as this.
[The dress. The impending marriage. How will she look him in the eye once they reach their destination? He's supposed to stay with her until they're both called back, or retrieved by a victorious retinue after the conflict abates. Even thinking about holding some strange man's hand in Luke's line of sight makes her queasy.
It's not a betrayal, but it burns like one just the same.]
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[A thought that falls loose too easily, and reminds her of the intimacy of this act anew. Rosamund hushes up for a moment. She has to gather herself again, suddenly the swish of the cords is louder than her own voice. And there's a mad urge to reach back. Or turn unexpectedly, or shrug her sleeves down. Tell him to keep going.
All notions that trail back to that oft visited and oft squashed corner of her mind, where she flees any time he gives her that shit-eating grin, or the light catches his lashes just right, or she watches him in heated spars from high windows. For the thousandth time, she presses each and every thought down, until they're all small enough to tuck into dark crevices and leave for later.]
I'm not uncomfortable. [This isn't regency era yet. Rosamund smiles to herself, pulling at her thumb in a show of nerves hidden from his view.] I just don't like the idea of being helpless.
I mean, there's got to be things you'd rather be doing instead of watching over me all the time. I don't like the idea that I'm burdening you. Even with something as silly as this.
[The dress. The impending marriage. How will she look him in the eye once they reach their destination? He's supposed to stay with her until they're both called back, or retrieved by a victorious retinue after the conflict abates. Even thinking about holding some strange man's hand in Luke's line of sight makes her queasy.
It's not a betrayal, but it burns like one just the same.]