She might have had a point, if Lach had not been so convinced that she'd still been melodramatic. He had been scared, and he was sure he'd even been as white as ghost. "But I had a reason to look so pale," he argued, obliging her request to keep his back turned. "It's not every day you stumble across a lady alone in a garden with a hole in her chest. Did you ever stop and think—"

(Since she seemed to be so good at that.)

"—about what might have caused such a grave injury?" Unless she had been doing less savory things with less savory people than himself moments before he'd arrived, he could think of none. It wasn't as if falling in a thorn bush would rip one's insides out, and that was the most dangerous thing he could imagine in a garden.

He turned around once she'd given him the go-ahead and took in the sight of her. The dress did not fit as properly as he thought a dress ought to, but in truth he couldn't remember what it had looked like before he'd gone and torn it up. He stepped closer, feeling awkward as his eyes drifted down her neck to her chest to examine the fabric, but he wasn't about to hide his looking. That would only make him look guilty.

In fact, his eyes did catch on her bosom, and suddenly he had a better picture of what lie underneath her bodice. (Too good a picture, and though the part of him that was fully man caused a surge of heat through him, the part of him that had been arguing with her moments before felt annoyed that he'd even noticed it.) He shook his head and moved behind her, hesitantly reaching up to grab the laces.

"I'd hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I don't think you'll be able to salvage the dress once we're through," he explained as he tied them. That was something ladies cared about, right? Their dresses?

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"I did stop to think, just a moment ago when I suggested it might have been a boggart," she pointed out, crossing her arms over her chest both because she was genuinely annoyed and because it might do a little to distract from her chest. It was obvious he'd been looking, and she'd noticed, of course, and wished he wouldn't. Much as it annoyed her, however, she wasn't sure she could fault him when he'd just mended the hole in the front of it and had a perfectly valid reason to be looking, so she declined to say anything about it.

"Before that, I was a little preoccupied with my impending death," she continued. "And of course the dress is ruined. I wouldn't dream of trying to salvage it after this. Straight away when I get home, it's going into the bin. Or maybe the fireplace — and hopefully before my mother sees it."

Explaining that she'd been caught alone with a man, but nothing had happened, was one thing. Trying to convince her mother that nothing had happened when she clearly had a hole ripped in the front of her bodice and her corset was missing was another matter entirely.

  

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

"Well you thought about twenty minutes too late," he fired back just as fast. He might have been kinder, and probably should have considering she'd fainted and nearly had her reputation completely ruined less than an hour ago, but it seemed she was intent on having the last word.

As he tied the laces up, he realized that he hadn't even stopped to consider that she was worried about her mother in that sense. The authority sense. Lachlan respected his mother, and he certainly didn't want her thinking ill of him, but he wasn't in a position in life where she could exert that much influence over his daily life. He lived apart from his family, and he could escape her fussing with a convincing excuse and apparition license. Up until this moment he'd assumed—foolishly, now that he considered it further—that she had independence of her own. She had been in the garden without a chaperon, and he was certain she wasn't a young debutante  on her first, second, or even third season. She wasn't married, and she wasn't old, but he would have guessed she was closer to his age than she was to any of the debutantes at the party.

"And you live with your mother," he said, a comment rather than a question. Oh to be a woman—it sounded like a horrible life. "When did you graduate Hogwarts, anyways?" He assumed she had attended; she was obviously a witch, British, and seemed bright enough.

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Juliana scowled and pulled her arms even tighter across her chest (though only for a moment; the fabric tugged in such a way that she stopped immediately for fear of ripping it further). "I didn't," she said archly. Her tone was almost a challenge: and so what about it?

She had mostly gotten over the two years of education she had lost by leaving school. She would likely never get over how everyone tended to think less of her for it, particularly if they knew the circumstances. In that light, his otherwise innocent comment about living with her mother took on the sting of an insult as well.

"And yes, I live with my mother. I always have and I always will, until one of us dies," she said, her tone again a challenge. Go ahead, ask why I'm not married, she thought (though given her tone he probably already had his suspicions on that front).

  

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

With the new revelations, it seemed a little underwhelming to call her an "odd" sort of woman. He'd rarely heard of girls not graduating Hogwarts; if they were pulled out for finishing or to debut, they usually specified as much, but this was a woman who, by her own account, seemed resigned to spinsterhood, so that seemed unlikely. His brows shot up, but he made no comment. Not immediately.

"I'm surprised you feel that way," he said, surprising even himself as the words left his mouth. "I mean, there are far worse traits in a woman than being disagreeable." It was admittedly a jab, but also the truth. Besides, it was difficult to treat her like a fresh debutante from the dance floor when he'd seen her breasts and was currently staring at the skin of her upper back. He finished lacing her gown and turned to face her, shooting her a look.

"But if we're on the topic of your mother, have you put any thought into how you intend to get home?" he asked, sparing another glance towards the buildings in the distance that hadn't changed since a few minutes ago.

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Juliana hadn't given the matter a great deal of thought, but what was there to think about? She couldn't apparate, nor did she fly, and they were in a Muggle town. Presumably there was a floo somewhere nearby, but she would have no idea how to go about finding it, or asking whoever owned it to let her use it without asking any questions about how she'd come to be in Scotland.

"I'll take the Knight Bus," she announced. She reached down to retrieve his coat and thrust it towards him, as an indication that she neither needed nor wanted his continued company. Particularly not if he was inclined to talk about her marriage prospects, after having called her disagreeable within the same breath.

The following 1 user Likes Juliana Ainsworth's post:1 user Likes Juliana Ainsworth's post
   Lachlan MacFusty

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

Lachlan stared at her with pursed lips as she held his coat out to him, and in the next moment put his hand on hers and pushed it back towards her person. "You ought to keep it, then," he said, not sure if he was amused or serious—both, perhaps. "I have heard that the type that frequent the Knight Bus might not have such good intentions with a woman in a dress so poorly patched together."

He stepped closer and tilted his head to the side. It didn't take a genius to see that he'd caused offense, but surely she would not go alone simply because she was offended. She seemed more sensible than that. "Really, you should,' he said, lowering his voice.

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Jules might have simply shrugged off his offer, if not for the ominous way he lowered his voice at the end as if he knew something bad might happen. She hesitated, then took the coat back, though she held it loosely in front of her rather than putting it back on her shoulders.

"I've taken the Knight Bus loads of times, and nothing bad has ever happened," she protested. There was a slight edge to her words — another declaration that she didn't need anyone fretting over her marriage prospects, really, since she was comfortable with things like riding the Knight Bus and was uninterested in giving up the few freedoms that she had. Whatever edge she had was muffled by a layer of hesitation brought on by his tone, however. She'd had quite a day already, and she didn't like the suggestion that anything else might befall her between here and home... but it was a long way from Scotland to London. Even at the Knight Bus' speed, it would be hours before she was back.

"Are you going to apparate straight home, then?" she asked, glancing at his torn shirt. He could hardly have done anything else, given the state of his clothing. He wasn't fit for the public, that was certain.

  

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

Lachlan had, admittedly, never been on the Knight Bus. Still, he had his reasons for not wanting to send her all alone—be it that she was an unmarried woman who was notably disheveled, or because the moment she left his his was the moment he lost any semblance of control of the situation, but he had his reasons. She did not budge, but he didn't think low enough of her to believe she couldn't hear reason.

"You look a mess," he reminded her, "even if I've stitched up your dress." But she probably already knew that, so he continued with further explanation, "A less gentlemanly man might take one look at you and assume..." Well, what Mrs. Finch had assumed when she'd caught them in a compromising position.

"I am going straight home," he replied, and with another glance up and down her body, he added: "And you're welcome to come. You could use my floo rather than the bus. Nobody will know." He really did not like the idea of another unmarried woman being in his home, but it was better than being responsible for her untimely death by sending her on her way. He supposed.

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The hair on the back of her neck bristled at his first comment, unfinished though it was. She bit the inside of her lower lip to prevent herself from speaking, because the comments that rose immediately were argumentative and unhelpful, and she recognized that. Still: a less gentlemanly man might make assumptions? Was it only because he was a perfect gentleman, then, that he had limited his assumptions about her to supposing that she had any desire at all to be married or that she was too disagreeable to manage it? Here he was speaking of assumptions, yet she was sure he was picturing her sitting alone at home with her mother, sad and lonely and probably unintelligent, since she'd left school without completing. Poor, tragic spinster Juliana. She would almost rather strangers assumed she was a whore.

That was just being difficult, though, because of course she didn't really want anyone to think that. She knew from experience that men could grow bolder when they had those sorts of assumptions in mind, and while she had a wand and could defend herself she certainly didn't relish the thought. She didn't want her supposed bad behavior to reflect back on her parents, either. The floo would solve two problems: it would prevent her from having to interact with strange men until she'd had a chance to change clothes, and it might allow her to arrive back home before her mother, saving a lengthy and difficult conversation when she saw Juliana's dress.

"Fine. Alright," she agreed eventually, though she still didn't sound happy about it. She moved to his side and grabbed on to his arm, too tight. Presumably wherever they were going was closer than the entire length of the British Isles, but she still had no desire to be splinched.

The following 2 users Like Juliana Ainsworth's post:2 users Like Juliana Ainsworth's post
   Lachlan MacFusty, Melody Crouch

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

He released a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding once she took his arm, and he looked down at her, wondering if he should warn her about the rush of apparating over a body of water... and then promptly decided the answer was no.

He pulled his wand out and, without another word, they disappeared with a crack—

—and were in his living room a moment later. Lach had made the journey several times, sometimes between Inverness and the Hebrides and sometimes farther, and apparating over water always left him with the same tingles in his stomach that he felt after skipping a meal.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice now void of condescension or plain stubbornness. (It was easier to be nice when he no longer felt as if he was about to freeze to death. Or maybe he was just happy she'd taken his advice.)

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Juliana felt queasy as she reappeared in the unfamiliar living room. It wasn't as though she was going to be sick, since there was nothing in her stomach to vacate, but she did momentarily worry she might faint again. She let go of his arm and put a hand on the nearest piece of furniture to stabilize herself, pinching her eyes shut momentarily.

She didn't know what he was referring to with his question, but the answer was the same regardless. "I'll be fine," she insisted. She took a deep breath and tried to settle her head and her stomach at the same time. "Where's your floo?"

  

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

Lach shook his head and glanced around the room, deciding to give her a moment of privacy to recover from the trip. She could say she was fine, but most people were at least a little uncomfortable apparating such distances.

"In the fireplace over there," he said, nodding in that general direction. He stepped away from her and out of the room without a word, only to return a few moments later wearing a fresh shirt and a towel in his hand. He didn't meet her eyes as he held the towel (which he'd heated with magic) out to her. "If you need anything in the coming days, don't hesitate to write. I'll do what I can," he said, and meant it. There was a chance they could escape this whole situation without ruin, but there was an equal chance that they wouldn't.

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If she needed anything? Juliana didn't know what he expected she might need from him.

"You sound as though we'd actually had an affair," she pointed out. If he'd taken her virtue perhaps there would be some obligation in the coming days — to marry her, to save her honor somehow, or even to help her obtain certain not- quite-legal services — but it wasn't as though there was any danger of her being in need of that sort of assistance.

Of course, it didn't really matter what she needed or even wanted. What mattered was what others thought she needed — in that respect, they might as well have had one.

"My family isn't the type to make demands," she added, awkwardly. "If that's what you were thinking."

The following 1 user Likes Juliana Ainsworth's post:1 user Likes Juliana Ainsworth's post
   Fallon Gillespie

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

He did sound as if they'd had an affair, he realized, but common sense dictated that he should treat this situation no differently than if they had. Mrs. Finch hadn't believed their story after seeing them herself, so he doubted anyone else outside their family members would. Even if her family wasn't the type of to make demands, society could be ruthless (he knew as much after months of calls for him to be arrested for an accident) and there was no telling what could happen to her or her family if Mrs. Finch was anything less than discreet.

"I'm sure you're glad for it," he said self-deprecatingly. This—his home—was not built with a wife in mind, nor was he in a state of mind where taking a wife suddenly would have done either of them well. (And, besides, she didn't seem to like him much, did she?)

"I can't say I've been in any situation like this." Translation: he did not make a habit of getting in trouble with unwed ladies. "But if you need anything... Don't hesitate to write." It was the good, gentlemanly thing to offer, even if he doubted she'd take him up on it.

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Juliana wasn't really sure how to respond, and for a moment she just stood there awkwardly in his living room. Her eyes fell to the towel, which must have been for her. The snow hadn't gotten her so wet, but she took it all the same. She wrapped it around her shoulders, and was glad for the warmth.

"I hope I don't," she said after a moment. "Need to write." This was not intended as a referendum on him, or even on the desirability of marrying him, so hopefully he wouldn't take it as such. It was just — no one would particularly relish the idea of being forced to marry a stranger to stave off rumors that weren't even true. And Juliana wasn't keen on the idea of marrying even under normal circumstances.

"But thank you," she said belatedly.

  

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules