Impressive. Estelle almost liked the word – that it was Torie saying it made her a little suspicious of it, because she tended not to trust a word out of her sister’s mouth. But she could live with impressive.
“Perhaps you’re right, that is my difficulty,” she mused aloud, mostly to herself and entirely without meaning to. But perhaps that was it; that she was too pretty or too proud to seem approachable, and that all manner of men would certainly fall for her charms if only they screwed up the courage to woo her. Torie was – well, more approachable, somehow. She was not quite sure how her sister was such a natural at it.
And she most certainly was not going to ask for her advice. “No,” Estelle insisted instead, plucking up one of the gardenias from the bouquet and tearing the petals apart agitatedly.
She ought to think of someone, to keep Torie assuming there was actually some possibility of this being real and not just a foolish ploy, but she hadn’t planned this far ahead and under pressure there were simply no names coming to her. Mr. Rosier – no, he was engaged to Brynn now, she couldn’t use him – her next thought was too young; the following too old; another a halfblood – and most of the men’s names creeping onto her tongue for someone she liked were not even eligible, because they were married, and no married men were going to be sending her flowers to the drawing room! “Well, maybe I... No, it is better I don’t say.” Let her think he was a secret she was keeping, out of privacy or self-preservation and not just because her mind was desperately blank. The truth was she was floundering, and Estelle couldn’t look at Victoire with the bouquet still sitting between them, because if she did she felt sure Victoire would sense the lie.
“Perhaps you’re right, that is my difficulty,” she mused aloud, mostly to herself and entirely without meaning to. But perhaps that was it; that she was too pretty or too proud to seem approachable, and that all manner of men would certainly fall for her charms if only they screwed up the courage to woo her. Torie was – well, more approachable, somehow. She was not quite sure how her sister was such a natural at it.
And she most certainly was not going to ask for her advice. “No,” Estelle insisted instead, plucking up one of the gardenias from the bouquet and tearing the petals apart agitatedly.
She ought to think of someone, to keep Torie assuming there was actually some possibility of this being real and not just a foolish ploy, but she hadn’t planned this far ahead and under pressure there were simply no names coming to her. Mr. Rosier – no, he was engaged to Brynn now, she couldn’t use him – her next thought was too young; the following too old; another a halfblood – and most of the men’s names creeping onto her tongue for someone she liked were not even eligible, because they were married, and no married men were going to be sending her flowers to the drawing room! “Well, maybe I... No, it is better I don’t say.” Let her think he was a secret she was keeping, out of privacy or self-preservation and not just because her mind was desperately blank. The truth was she was floundering, and Estelle couldn’t look at Victoire with the bouquet still sitting between them, because if she did she felt sure Victoire would sense the lie.
