It was only as he heard his name on her lips that Evander realised how rare it was to be known as anything other than Mr. Darrow. Nowadays Alfred and Charity were all he had left to use Evander (...and somehow, funnily enough, Uncle Evander didn’t quite have the same ring as Caroline Delaney calling him Evander did right now). So it would take some getting used to.
Everything would. But he would be lying if he pretended he didn’t want to hear her say his name a few times more, if he didn’t want... Well, she had taken a step closer and he couldn’t miss the tilt of her chin. Aloof, maybe, but he wasn’t blind. Without being entirely aware of himself, Evander found his empty hand had lifted towards her face, as if to cup her cheek. But his thumb only traced the briefest, ghosting line there before dropping away, his gaze pulling from her mouth to glance back at where they’d come from, upon the very real chance that someone was looking, that they were no longer alone.
He felt himself swallow, was sure his cheeks were warm, didn’t know if that had been a poor excuse - but it wouldn’t do, not here, not now. He didn’t know when or where there would ever be more opportunity (even if they were ever to be in a private parlour, there would always be someone to chaperone her), but this was still a public ball and a public resort, and - especially before word had gotten out that they were courting now! - it was hardly an appropriate risk to take. (That was the thing about risks, really. They were so rarely appropriate.)
He didn’t want to ruin it. Evander hastily cleared his throat against the gnawing feeling that maybe he had ruined it nevertheless, and blurted out something, anything, just to fill the air. “I admit I was almost worried I was too late,” he said, feigning lightness and a joking air, as much he could whilst being by no means well-practised at it, “and that you might have found some other prospect tonight amongst your dance partners!”
Everything would. But he would be lying if he pretended he didn’t want to hear her say his name a few times more, if he didn’t want... Well, she had taken a step closer and he couldn’t miss the tilt of her chin. Aloof, maybe, but he wasn’t blind. Without being entirely aware of himself, Evander found his empty hand had lifted towards her face, as if to cup her cheek. But his thumb only traced the briefest, ghosting line there before dropping away, his gaze pulling from her mouth to glance back at where they’d come from, upon the very real chance that someone was looking, that they were no longer alone.
He felt himself swallow, was sure his cheeks were warm, didn’t know if that had been a poor excuse - but it wouldn’t do, not here, not now. He didn’t know when or where there would ever be more opportunity (even if they were ever to be in a private parlour, there would always be someone to chaperone her), but this was still a public ball and a public resort, and - especially before word had gotten out that they were courting now! - it was hardly an appropriate risk to take. (That was the thing about risks, really. They were so rarely appropriate.)
He didn’t want to ruin it. Evander hastily cleared his throat against the gnawing feeling that maybe he had ruined it nevertheless, and blurted out something, anything, just to fill the air. “I admit I was almost worried I was too late,” he said, feigning lightness and a joking air, as much he could whilst being by no means well-practised at it, “and that you might have found some other prospect tonight amongst your dance partners!”
