The way she smiled... And now, quite merrily, she was making fun of him. A joke at his expense could often be more than enough to shut him down and close him off to a conversation; it might often have burrowed into the back of his mind and gnawed at him for weeks. But her light-humoured jest had done nothing of the kind: Evander could see perfectly well that she didn’t mean it... and that if she took the idea for ridiculousness then she really must quite like him.
In spite of himself, his smile spread a little wider, slipped into a laugh. He knew he was being a slow study here, but it did not hurt to have her spell it out in these assurances; each time she did he was sure he recognised the honesty in her tone, a clear spark of it underneath her pretty charisma and practised charm. She was far braver in speaking plainly than he was, Evander could see that, but now he felt he must owe her something in return, something to please her with more than the facts she already knew, that she was an exemplary example of a debutante, and made a fine prospect for any man.
“I hope you left a little room on your card for him, then,” Evander said, deceptively casual - in case anyone else out on the terrace was listening in, still doing his best to fight his own reticence - “for I have it on good authority that you are perhaps the only reason he comes to this sort of thing at all.” That was true. He scarcely liked dancing at all, to be perfectly honest, but if it were anything like letter-writing or dinner-conversation, firework-watching or indeed boggart-dispelling, it would probably be more pleasant with her.
With that admission, the last of the bashfulness dissipated as he held her gaze again, the smile lingering in his eyes. “I had meant to call on you tomorrow, really,” he admitted, gesturing at her father’s letter, “to do this quite properly. But I’m afraid I just couldn’t wait.”
In spite of himself, his smile spread a little wider, slipped into a laugh. He knew he was being a slow study here, but it did not hurt to have her spell it out in these assurances; each time she did he was sure he recognised the honesty in her tone, a clear spark of it underneath her pretty charisma and practised charm. She was far braver in speaking plainly than he was, Evander could see that, but now he felt he must owe her something in return, something to please her with more than the facts she already knew, that she was an exemplary example of a debutante, and made a fine prospect for any man.
“I hope you left a little room on your card for him, then,” Evander said, deceptively casual - in case anyone else out on the terrace was listening in, still doing his best to fight his own reticence - “for I have it on good authority that you are perhaps the only reason he comes to this sort of thing at all.” That was true. He scarcely liked dancing at all, to be perfectly honest, but if it were anything like letter-writing or dinner-conversation, firework-watching or indeed boggart-dispelling, it would probably be more pleasant with her.
With that admission, the last of the bashfulness dissipated as he held her gaze again, the smile lingering in his eyes. “I had meant to call on you tomorrow, really,” he admitted, gesturing at her father’s letter, “to do this quite properly. But I’m afraid I just couldn’t wait.”
