Don Juan didn't recognize the address, so he expected the chances of anyone else in his household recognizing it were low. It couldn't have been her house, because he would have known if she'd lived near Dublin, surely. He'd flooed straight there, with his hands tucked into his magically-expanded pockets and wrapped around the necks of two bottles of wine. He didn't know how much time they were likely to have, and he certainly couldn't send her back to her husband in any kind of a state, but if the opportunity allowed he didn't want to be in the position of running out of wine.

"Certain people would tell you I'm not serious about anything," he returned with a grin as he took stock of the situation: the cabin, her expression, the dress. He was liking the look of this. He also found it entirely adorable that she had been thinking of him when she'd chosen her outfit for the day. Of course she would have been, to some extent — they'd planned this, after all. But there was a distinction between wearing undergarments without stains because they were likely to be on display and having chosen the dress while thinking about his heritage and the holiday. "If we have time I can teach you some gaelige," he volunteered. The if was heavy with connotation; they might have plenty of other things to keep them busy. "You're a vision in green."

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