The hat – certainly his hat – might have drawn his gaze for a moment, but now that he was facing her close up, there was a great deal more by which to be captivated. The folds of her dress flowed like water, and the stones embedded in it brought out the colour of her eyes, the brilliant cool blue of aquamarine, which were equally framed by the lace mask and the contrast of her fiery hair. His eyes lingered on her hair, and not merely for its rich colour, but because she had it tumbling down around her shoulders – and a costume party was a rare occasion upon which a lady’s hair might be acceptably, modestly down, but even here it made her stand out wildly from the other guests.
She might have stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting. Waterhouse, or Millais, or... no, one of Rossetti’s, maybe: the La ghirlandata, or Sibylla Palmifera, or The Blessed Damozel; or a rather more demure Venus Verticordia, with the icy eyes of his Proserpine. Endymion’s imagination was swimming already. Yes, a model of Rossetti’s, some tragic medieval heroine, a free, unconventional spirit.
He had decided rather a lot about her before he remembered he didn’t, in fact, know anything about her at all. He forced himself to focus, whatever romantic fantasies the warm air of the party was stirring up tonight. Firstly: did he know her? Was she someone he ought to recognise, someone he had possibly spoken to before? Dymion wracked his brain. Redheads, redheads – his first thought was the Prewetts, but he didn’t know there were any ladies as young as her. Hadn’t one of the Malfoy girls suddenly had inexplicably red hair? Perhaps this was her. Oh, or Miss Blackwood! She was usually a vivacious figure at parties...
Or was that a Scottish lilt to her voice? Endymion wasn’t sure; but, whoever she was, she lifted his hat and settled it upon her own head, rendering him speechless for a moment. (What he had noticed as he followed the movement, however, was that she wore no ring. Certainly a debutante, then. That was an overwhelming relief, because otherwise he fancied he might have been regarding her a little too attentively.)
He probably ought to do more than just look at her and wax poetic and muse about whether the rapture he was feeling was because of her or just the effects of whatever he’d been drinking all night. “Ah, but you see, I’m a thief and a rogue,” Endymion said, in the same mischievous tone, once he had gotten his breath back enough to speak. “Ownership is hardly my priority.” No, all he need concentrate on tonight was whatever it was he desired. Surely that was a rogue’s way.
That said, he refused to be anything other than a perfectly gallant thief, so he made no move to steal his hat back yet, either.
She might have stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting. Waterhouse, or Millais, or... no, one of Rossetti’s, maybe: the La ghirlandata, or Sibylla Palmifera, or The Blessed Damozel; or a rather more demure Venus Verticordia, with the icy eyes of his Proserpine. Endymion’s imagination was swimming already. Yes, a model of Rossetti’s, some tragic medieval heroine, a free, unconventional spirit.
He had decided rather a lot about her before he remembered he didn’t, in fact, know anything about her at all. He forced himself to focus, whatever romantic fantasies the warm air of the party was stirring up tonight. Firstly: did he know her? Was she someone he ought to recognise, someone he had possibly spoken to before? Dymion wracked his brain. Redheads, redheads – his first thought was the Prewetts, but he didn’t know there were any ladies as young as her. Hadn’t one of the Malfoy girls suddenly had inexplicably red hair? Perhaps this was her. Oh, or Miss Blackwood! She was usually a vivacious figure at parties...
Or was that a Scottish lilt to her voice? Endymion wasn’t sure; but, whoever she was, she lifted his hat and settled it upon her own head, rendering him speechless for a moment. (What he had noticed as he followed the movement, however, was that she wore no ring. Certainly a debutante, then. That was an overwhelming relief, because otherwise he fancied he might have been regarding her a little too attentively.)
He probably ought to do more than just look at her and wax poetic and muse about whether the rapture he was feeling was because of her or just the effects of whatever he’d been drinking all night. “Ah, but you see, I’m a thief and a rogue,” Endymion said, in the same mischievous tone, once he had gotten his breath back enough to speak. “Ownership is hardly my priority.” No, all he need concentrate on tonight was whatever it was he desired. Surely that was a rogue’s way.
That said, he refused to be anything other than a perfectly gallant thief, so he made no move to steal his hat back yet, either.
