“Good question,” Endymion answered, with a coy raise of his eyebrows at her, as if she ought to guess that for herself. (Two could play at keeping secrets.) And although he hadn’t meant to assess her apparent wifely qualities, particularly, he could feel his cheeks a little newly flushed at the question, which was – unhelpful, for selling his innocence.
He had already dismissed her as wife material years ago, after all – although he wanted to protest that she had more, and better, qualities of character than any article could suggest. But he couldn’t say that to her face, pair easy quips with too much sincerity. “Wit,” he said instead, trying to keep it light. “You have wit.” In spades. Was that on the list? He wasn’t sure.
He had already dismissed her as wife material years ago, after all – although he wanted to protest that she had more, and better, qualities of character than any article could suggest. But he couldn’t say that to her face, pair easy quips with too much sincerity. “Wit,” he said instead, trying to keep it light. “You have wit.” In spades. Was that on the list? He wasn’t sure.
