It took all he had to suppress his amusement at her state of total unimpressedness, but he thought he had just about managed to keep a straight face. Instead, Trystan merely raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Oh, you mean to say flattery would work on you?”
Not that his teasing her was likely do much good, either, but... The truth was Ambrosia had known him too long now; she would not believe his compliments if he were honest. In fact, he suspected she would see straight through him, whatever he said or did or didn’t say. (He eyed her musingly for a moment, deciding there were a good few things for which he could flatter her, if he had been in the habit.) But flattery itself - flattery was so often in its nature just a little too insincere, even when he was consciously inclined to be charming. A means to an end, but an instrument better used in the early days of a relationship, when the other party would not trust it too far, attach to it too much weight.
It did speak to his wife’s good mood this afternoon though, that one careless comment had not flared her temper or seen her swan away, back to her current occupation with the band; he shook his head with a huff of laughter at her counter. (Fondly, almost.)
And then stepped up to her, almost too close for waltzing. “Come on, then,” Trystan declared, taking no notice of the musicians’ murmuring, or odd stops of an instrument for a little extra tuning. They could make the most of the music all the same. He plucked up her hand and pulled her into position, tucking his other firmly around her waist. Before she could protest, he might have said - but in spite of all he had joked, he did not think she would. He smiled, almost without guile, almost in defeat. No harm in a private trial run, to iron out all the kinks between them. “Put me through my paces.”
Not that his teasing her was likely do much good, either, but... The truth was Ambrosia had known him too long now; she would not believe his compliments if he were honest. In fact, he suspected she would see straight through him, whatever he said or did or didn’t say. (He eyed her musingly for a moment, deciding there were a good few things for which he could flatter her, if he had been in the habit.) But flattery itself - flattery was so often in its nature just a little too insincere, even when he was consciously inclined to be charming. A means to an end, but an instrument better used in the early days of a relationship, when the other party would not trust it too far, attach to it too much weight.
It did speak to his wife’s good mood this afternoon though, that one careless comment had not flared her temper or seen her swan away, back to her current occupation with the band; he shook his head with a huff of laughter at her counter. (Fondly, almost.)
And then stepped up to her, almost too close for waltzing. “Come on, then,” Trystan declared, taking no notice of the musicians’ murmuring, or odd stops of an instrument for a little extra tuning. They could make the most of the music all the same. He plucked up her hand and pulled her into position, tucking his other firmly around her waist. Before she could protest, he might have said - but in spite of all he had joked, he did not think she would. He smiled, almost without guile, almost in defeat. No harm in a private trial run, to iron out all the kinks between them. “Put me through my paces.”
