"I'm sorry," Ford replied emphatically and immediately. He wasn't sure what else to say or do. He knew he was acting weird, and Noble had every right to be concerned about it. He knew he looked a mess. He felt a mess, too, which was worse, but — he could still hear Mama and Verity talking upstairs so it wasn't like he could leave yet, and he couldn't explain, and he didn't know what else to say.
And there was a ghost in Macnair's house who had seen the two of them in a compromising position, and Ford would eventually have to figure out what to do about it. And Macnair had held his hand afterwards, and Ford should probably figure out what to do about that, because Macnair was getting married to a woman he didn't love and Ford really, really had more important things to worry about than being Macnair's damn mistress, and fuck, if he couldn't even avoid being caught out at this after only a month when the only one on Macnair's side of things to notice or care was a ghost... they were playing with fire, this was a terrible idea, he could never keep this up without it all crashing and burning, and what business did Macnair have choosing a moment like this to hold his hand?
Noble's looks were getting oppressive; Ford felt he might crumble under the weight of them. Without really thinking about it he'd tugged his sleeves down onto his hands, resting his glass on his lap. Then he used those sleeves to cover as much of his face as possible, as though he could physically fend off the look. He took a breath and it was ragged and shuttering, like he was in the throes of a panic attack, which — he didn't think he was. Yet, anyway.
"I'm going to die," he complained miserably, into his sleeves.
And there was a ghost in Macnair's house who had seen the two of them in a compromising position, and Ford would eventually have to figure out what to do about it. And Macnair had held his hand afterwards, and Ford should probably figure out what to do about that, because Macnair was getting married to a woman he didn't love and Ford really, really had more important things to worry about than being Macnair's damn mistress, and fuck, if he couldn't even avoid being caught out at this after only a month when the only one on Macnair's side of things to notice or care was a ghost... they were playing with fire, this was a terrible idea, he could never keep this up without it all crashing and burning, and what business did Macnair have choosing a moment like this to hold his hand?
Noble's looks were getting oppressive; Ford felt he might crumble under the weight of them. Without really thinking about it he'd tugged his sleeves down onto his hands, resting his glass on his lap. Then he used those sleeves to cover as much of his face as possible, as though he could physically fend off the look. He took a breath and it was ragged and shuttering, like he was in the throes of a panic attack, which — he didn't think he was. Yet, anyway.
"I'm going to die," he complained miserably, into his sleeves.
Set by Lady!