“Very daring indeed,” he professed in jest, since if he were a highwayman, it would have taken a certain amount of recklessness to abandon the gig of stopping coaches on the road and come into the party to brandish a pistol in people’s general directions. “I hope you will come to forgive my effrontery.” She didn’t seem to much mind the silliness anyway: he could only appreciate that she was playing along. Indeed, if he were pretending to be a nefarious stranger, he was not doing very well, because when she’d laughed he hadn’t been able to hide his smile. Really, if anyone was the rogue here, it wasn’t him at all.
His grin edged a little wider. Although she had called him Mister Turpin, the most only thing he felt he really had in common with those errant knights of the road was that he was, like many of them, a second son with a lesser inheritance. And if he had been one, he should have liked to eschew ruthlessness and model himself more after the fashionably-dressed Claude Du Vall. Thinking about Du Vall, for that matter, gave him an idea.
“You see, at this stage in the encounter, I really ought to say your money or your life,” Endymion said, conspiratorially, “but since it’s the hat I’m after, perhaps we might come to a fairer exchange this time.” He touched the brim of her – his – hat in light suggestion, as if he were possibly considering plucking it right off her head; but pulled that hand back and offered his other to her instead, palm up. “How about,” he continued cheerfully, “my hat or your next dance?” There, the choice was hers – though, admittedly, if she took the former as the lesser sentence, he might be truly disappointed to have his hat back after all. He would really rather keep her company.
His grin edged a little wider. Although she had called him Mister Turpin, the most only thing he felt he really had in common with those errant knights of the road was that he was, like many of them, a second son with a lesser inheritance. And if he had been one, he should have liked to eschew ruthlessness and model himself more after the fashionably-dressed Claude Du Vall. Thinking about Du Vall, for that matter, gave him an idea.
“You see, at this stage in the encounter, I really ought to say your money or your life,” Endymion said, conspiratorially, “but since it’s the hat I’m after, perhaps we might come to a fairer exchange this time.” He touched the brim of her – his – hat in light suggestion, as if he were possibly considering plucking it right off her head; but pulled that hand back and offered his other to her instead, palm up. “How about,” he continued cheerfully, “my hat or your next dance?” There, the choice was hers – though, admittedly, if she took the former as the lesser sentence, he might be truly disappointed to have his hat back after all. He would really rather keep her company.
