(1866-08-24) Gifted for Two
Gifted for Two
Summary: … is what Marguerite Lavecq claims to be, during a tête-a-tête with Guillaume Tyres at an inn by the harbour of Four Corners.
Date: 11-22/09/2015 (date of RP)
Related: This exchange of letters.
NPCs: {$npc}
Players:
Guillaume  Marguerite  

Tidewater Terrace Inn - Four Corners
In the scene set.
Aout 24th, 1866

The act of snatching a space in the busy schedule of the Gilded Lily seems to be quite a task. On the day following the written rejection, a man was sent from the Manse of Guillaume Tyres to inquire with the Steward of Marguerite Lavecq, about the details of an arrangement between his master and the lovely younger courtesan living in this house. The man, in question being no ordinary servant, but Guillaume’s trusted man and bodyguard, going by the name of Master Bertrand Bonneville - a commoner, born in Four Corners, with keen dark eyes, of more sinewy than excessively muscular build, medium height, lacking any pretense or ambition to be more than he is - a common thug - which may explain why he gets along so well with his master. Surprisingly enough, a date could be quite readily fixed, in three days’ time, an evening — not a night! — the required charge of which the henchman delivered with a slightly diabolical smirk to his master, who could not help but shake his head in speechless astonishment. It did not keep him from sending the required amount to the Lavecq Manse after an hour’s delay, with that slightly grumpy regret that could be expected of a merchant when forced to part with a considerable sum of his wealth, which he entrusted to that same bringer of costly news he had sent earlier. Along with a written invitation, to meet the Tyres at the Tidewater Terrace Inn at the time declared in the letter.

And so, on this wonderful eve of Aout 24th, a table has been prepared for the Tyres heir and his charming guest - less ostentatious than last time, as it is not placed within everyone’s view on the terrace, but instead inside, in a cosy side lounge of moderate size - to be reached via a hallway that leads away from the common room - containing the table and two or three comfortable chairs of dark cherry wood, the back rests carved with the likenesses of dolphins, and yet another pair of even more comfortable seating accommodations in front of a hearth of white marble, where a fire is already burning. Three smaller paintings of rectangular size adorn the walls, showing depictions of ships on endless oceans, in varying weather conditions.

The door to this room is ajar, as Guillaume awaits the Lily, seated in one of the two armchairs laid out with cushions in blue, the room lighted additionally by two torches at the walls, and some candles on the table. The Tyres looks up when the courtesan enters, setting his glass of some stronger beverage down onto the side table as he rises, a smile that is bordering on a smirk adorning his negligently shaven features, the look he gives her, holding a retained glow, of someone whose recent rejection and high expenses do not seem to have dimmed his interest in this red-haired beauty.

A step is taken towards her, his hand extended to take her hand, if allowed, for a gallant kiss to be pressed against her fingers. “How fortunate you could come,” Guillaume intones, straightening, the way he stresses the word ‘fortunate’ hinting it to be used in more than one meaning. He wears fine clothes, a doublet and breeches of blue samite, adorned with some skillfully executed embroidery on his torso, in a golden thread; at the top allowing glimpses of a fine white shirt worn below. Breeches in the same blue to go with the doublet, obviously from the same tailor who made the others that had attracted attention at the soiree at the Academy, tucked into fine and recently polished leather boots.

Only one minute past the appointed hour for her appearance in his company (other women have kept him waiting longer; perhaps that steward of hers is good for something after all), the double doors to this secluded chamber are pushed all the way open by unseen hands and the Gilded Lily appears framed within them.

She is clad in a sleeveless gown of thin white silk, bound about her torso by a rope of thread-of-gold wrapped here and there to highlight her luscious figure. The style echoes that of the Vir Sidus Empire, yet somehow it is of this time rather than the past: its folds are gathered upon each of her shoulders, held away from a broad V-shaped expanse of décolletage which stops short of revealing the generous bosom hidden beneath; then are caught up here and there by that golden rope; and then billow out into a full, floor-sweeping skirt. Her throat is left bare, rather than spoiling the line which extends from her face down into her cleavage — but the flawless ivory skin of her arms is wrapped with ropes of large white-golden pearls, as obviously expensive as they are obviously genuine, from her shoulders down to her wrists; pearls dangle from her perfect silken earlobes; pearls adorn three fingers of her ten; pearls somehow dot the extraordinarily thick waves of red hair spilling down her back, held in only by another golden band caught round perhaps half the sum of her luxuriant tresses. A woman with such jewellery to her name has, it must be apparent, no need of a silver bracelet studded with gems which don't even match her eyes. She can do better. And, if Guillaume expects to get anywhere… he must do better.

She comes forward.

The servant who accompanies her always upon these expeditions leans into the room to set down upon some chair or table placed within its doorway for the convenience of the waiting staff, a small white silken purse.

Marguerite Lavecq's soft, subtly fragrant white hand lifts to meet Guillaume's, and to endure his kiss: "Most fortunate, my dear Master Tyres," she murmurs, "for I had begun to fear you and I should not meet… that your interests lay, inevitably, elsewhere." Yes, she's heard about Arieta. She is amused.

To say such alluring display would fail to secure the attention of one Guillaume Tyres would be a lie, indeed, he seems to have difficulty to draw his dark eyes away from the enticing display of the white silk of Marguerite's dress that charms her form, and the golden rope wrapped about her midst, and diagonally as well as to accentuate the natural beauty of her curvy assets, more or less giving a rather airy and comfortable look to the garment. Her arms, accentuated with more finery, pearls even, make his eyes widen ever so slightly, taking in the statement of what might be expected at some point. That bared throat, pale skin that reaches all the way to where the white fabric hides her remarkable curves draws the Tyres' attention, in fact, she will catch him staring for a moment - but even so, she must be used to reactions as these.

Guillaume clears his throat, his gaze rising from the hand he has kissed and finally finding those of the Lavecq woman, and it takes a slight rolling of a shoulder for him to resume a somewhat confident Tyres stance; his brown eyes narrowing at her murmured remark, lips curling into a smirk as he slowly but decidedly shakes his head. "My interests," he admits with a soft chuckle, carrying a layer of a lower rumble beneath, "have never laid elsewhere, since our brief exchange at the soiree at the Academy, Marguerite." His hand, still holding on to hers, is used to draw her nearer, and past him in fact towards the table in the middle of the room, giving him the opportunity to let his gaze wander about her backwards view in an appreciative manner. "It was my mistake of picking the wrong token of appreciation that forced me to follow your advice the other eve.", he admits with a slightly amused sigh.

The Chancellor's son moves past her to draw the chair out for her so Marguerite can settle herself onto it, if she feels so inclined, enjoying this new angle of contemplation as well, as she will notice, if she would glance his way. "I felt I had insulted you. And this gift needed to be be gifted to someone.", he continues, pouring her some of the wine, a fine vintage of Romante Red, before he fills his own glass, whilst still standing by her side. "Sapphires called for blue eyes. I found myself in the dilemma of picking company befitting the gift, when it should be the other way around." Leaving it at that, the Tyres circles over to his side of the table and sits down on his chair, opposite to Marguerite. Her servant he ignores for now, even if that purse has caught his eye for a brief moment. The door has been closed by his own man, from outside.

It cannot be denied that there is much to appreciate in a view of Marguerite Lavecq from behind: her wealth of shining red hair, accented by the golden cord woven through to hold it away from her face and those pearls set here and there with casual artistry, hanging down almost low enough for her to sit upon but, crucially, not so low as to obscure the shapely curve of that part of her which sits. And those pearls about her arms, their radiance complimenting that of her own skin; and the white silk gown floating about her with one step and moulded against her with the next.

Her smooth warm hand rests lightly in his, and she moves with him with a grace which suggests she might simply float away if not tethered by his grasp. She is slow to sit, one hand caressing the full skirt of her gown into perfect folds about her legs and her feet; then, of course, the view of greatest interest to a red-blooded Tyres is down the front of her frock. Standing over her he can see just the least little bit more of her pale flesh than when they were face to face, an ample (ahem) reward for his attentive hovering as he pours wine for her. Naturally she doesn't glance upward to see whether he's looking. She knows it. She dressed in the full expectation of it.

At his standard opening compliment — oh, since that night he has thought of nothing but her! He and hundreds like him — she inclines her head and favours him with a small smile, which ripens all too soon into rich laughter. "Oh, but I saw no insult, Master Tyres," she promises him sincerely, "only the honest error of a man writing to, and trying his best to please, some woman other than I myself… and who, I am sure, gave much pleasure to dear Arieta by fastening such a pretty piece about her wrist." No admirer will ever catch the Gilded Lily in envy: it isn't becoming and, in the case of most girls, it isn't necessary either… "I do hope you had a lovely evening, following my advice," she teases, "and that honouring this inn with such frequent custom won't have dulled your appetite for our dinner."

And then a thought flits across her mind. Depending upon the present level of his gaze, he may even see it pass through her grey-blue eyes. "But," she says thoughtfully, "I don't recall, either upon that evening or this one, our agreeing to use one another's given names… How you seem to hurry your pleasures," she sighs, bestowing upon him a look of fond amusement over the rim of the glass in her hand. Wine the very shade of her lips, the perfect finishing touch to her composition of white and gold and red. Looking deeply into his eyes, she tastes it.

The compliment has left Guillaume's lips with gallant ease, but whether it is the truth? After all he was seen at this very inn on an eve four days ago, in the company of the charming new debutant of the Academy of Four Corners. Marguerite's reply elicits a chuckle, and a slight lift of a brow. "Please, my dear Lily, let us stop this charade and just admit that your charming letter was naught but another rejection; we both know whom my letter was addressed to, that part not being the mistake." Dark eyes lock with hers, as Guillaume takes a sip from his glass, tasting the wine and finding it to meet his approval - no big surprise really, because in that area of choosing wines he had made sure not to disappoint.

There is a flicker in his gaze when he admits: "She did appreciate the bracelet, yes. In fact, very much so." His gaze drifts off momentarily, becoming distant as his lips curl into a smirk, the expression brief but no less telling. "I assure you though, that my appetite for exquisite food and company has not dulled. I was not acquainted with the customs of making an appointment with you." Leaning back in his chair he allows his gaze to wander over the courtesan's appearance, even with less visible from this angle, than from the ones he has enjoyed previously, his eyes are glinting appreciatively. "In fact, asking your steward for an appointment was not the first option that came to my mind when I felt the wish to see you. Because of these necessary steps… My main course has been delayed, but no less eagerly expected. Mistress Marguerite."

Her gaze is returned with his own, the contemplation of her beautiful features, the wine already staining her lips captivating to him, but even so, Guillaume looks back at her with the most charming smile he can muster, not a wide grin but more the hint of it, that hot-blooded glow in his dark eyes evident but contained still.

The Gilded Lily reflects his attention with an easy radiance of her own, fueled by the sure knowledge that she is appreciated, hinting at much and yet conceding nothing. "Ah, but a metaphor is no charade," she insists, with another sip of her wine. "Such a rhetorical device seeks to illuminate rather than to conceal the truth. Your hand penned my initial, and your messenger came to my house — but between each line of your letter you confessed that the woman you had in mind, the woman you seemed so certain you desired, was not the real Marguerite Lavecq. Isn't that why we sit here now, across a bottle of this rather fine Romante red—? So that you might know me a little, and address any letters you might write to a true image, a true remembrance… And you'll know," she murmurs, "when you may call me by my name, Master Tyres. You won't mistake the moment." Her soft, cloudy gaze lingers upon his face as she lowers her chin, her smile acquiring an undeniable tinge of sensuality with its deepening.

A soft chuckle escapes the Tyres, and his dark eyes shift momentarily to the glass of wine in his right hand as he shakes his head clearly amused. "It is not," he concedes then, "and still it is." His gaze is soon drawn once again to the marvelous beauty of Marguerite Lavecq. "I admit my mistake of not remembering properly the color of your eyes. The gift… I judged to be a nice token expressing my interest. I may have been a little blunt with my expectations," Guillaume admits with a smirk, that somehow manages to look slightly apologetic. "And I may not be used to needing flowery words to draw a woman into my bed. Still… what I said was not a lie, that my thoughts have lingered on you since our last encounter. The expressed wish genuine to see you again. Mistress Marguerite."

His attention is distracted, when there is a knock to the door and it opens, admitting the healthy-coloured visage of an attendant working at the inn, the murmured question being met with a slightly impatient but no less nonchalant gesture of the Tyres. A soft sigh escapes his lips when the man vanishes and the door is closed again, allowing his attention to return to his charming company.

"I hope you have brought your appetite along, I believe there will soon be a bit of food to go with that Romante vintage.", he states with a smile of lazy confidence.

The glass in Marguerite's hand catches the candlelight as she tilts it, absently, listening — her full red lips part as though to speak, but whatever she might have said is arrested by the sound of the knock without. She draws in a breath instead and casts a glance to the door, and remains demurely silent till the servant has concluded his whispered discourse with her host and withdrawn again.

"A little blunt? Oh, yes. A little too forward, always. You like saying it, don't you…?" she remarks, amused. "I don't need flowery words, Master Tyres, only the sincere and respectful variety any woman would hope to hear from a man who sought her favours. And on that note, Master Tyres," she, for her part, seems to like saying that, her lips pausing to smirk each time the phrase passes them, "what I'd like to know, if you'll let me be so bold, is why you persist in thinking I've rejected you…? I've really done no such thing, you know," she chides. "The first two times you sought, or seemed to seek, my company — once on an immediate whim, and once at only a few hours' notice — I had no choice but to deny your invitations," she sighs, with what might even be read as a tinge of lazily curious regret, "and all I could do was to let you know, as you'll remember I did, that I would welcome such an approach at another time." Her shoulders lift in an elegant shrug, white silk and golden cord shifting discreetly with her movement. Those enormous pearls gleam against her skin. "You know that in any profession there are grades, there are degrees — I have had some success in mine," she confesses; "I am engaged as often as I wish it, and when I have an engagement I must keep it." As she comes to the point her voice and her eyes are alike in their soft, silky, yet absolutely unrelenting sincerity. "I'm certain if you considered the matter you wouldn't wish me to do otherwise — or else, what security would you yourself have, that I would keep my engagements with you, rather than letting myself be drawn away by whatever possibility might arise to tempt me in the moment—? Master Tyres," she repeats, her gaze unwavering upon his, "I know well that most don't consider my profession an honourable one — but I keep my promises."

"So I have offended you indeed, by expressing my hope to be rewarded with a kiss?", asks Guillaume Tyres, reclining in his seat, his elbow on an armrest, fingers leaned against his chin except the digit that scratches in a mock pensive manner over some of the stubble that covers his lower cheek. "I should have put it more nicely, perhaps, or made no mention of it at all. But then again, you must be aware of what it is I desire from you, when you go to so much trouble to present it in such alluring display?" The Tyres attempt at a compliment is offered with a smile of fake innocence, that will soon find a more genuine addition.

"Your byname suits you well. Even so, I am used to women being a little more forthcoming. I am Guillaume Tyres. My father's son. Others vy for my attention, in the hope it will be of benefit to them." He pauses, pondering her words about rejection before he shakes his head once again. "It wasn't a true rejection, of that I'm certain," Guillaume states after a moment with the confidence of those blessed with wealth and connections, his dark eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly as they glance toward the perfect beauty of the red-haired courtesan. "A game rather, the rules of which I was not aware at first, in all their entirety. A game that aims to ensnare my attention, but is bound to be graced with a most rewarding prize." Raising his glass as if in toast to that, the Tyres will have another sip of his wine.

"I am aware of your success, that you play in another league than the charming Arieta, Mistress Marguerite. While she is charming in her eagerness to please, she does not have to be wooed and won over, like a woman of your renown." Putting his glass down onto the table, the negligently shaved son of a powerful father smirks to the Gilded Lily's latter remark, and actually gives her a charming smile. "Your profession is an art, as I have heard. It is honourable enough for me."

Ah, yes. Despite his importunate requests, his scrawled suggestions, the Tyres scion does understand that some courtesans are more difficult to win over and acquire than others. Marguerite Lavecq rewards him with just the least broadening of her smile, the faintest lift of her shoulders, before she sighs: "Dear Master Tyres… what you know, and I know, and we both know we know, need hardly be stated when it is understood so well; it is an undercurrent vibrating beneath every word we speak to one another…" She inclines her head toward him and confides, "I'm afraid that with me, you may not rely upon what you are— used to. I judge my lovers only by their character, and their charm, and the pleasure we have from one another. I'm sure some would surprise you — you, who are so certain that you are the epitome of all that is alluring to a woman. But we'll see, won't we, tonight…? Which of us appeals to the other." And the Gilded Lily's shoulder lifts again and she lets out a soft peal of laughter, and she touches her glass first to his glass and then to her lips.

"You've agreed to meet me here, haven't you?", Guillaume counters, raising a brow, one corner of his mouth lifting into a wry grin. "You wouldn't have, if there weren't that you wished to see me, to find out, if I am really as disagreeable as everyone says…" A jest, and one that aims to draw a contradiction, perhaps. Even so, the Tyres' dark eyes shift towards the door as it is opened, admitting serving personnel consisting of a young lad and a girl, carrying platters of an assortment of various smaller hors d'oeuvres, finger food of a variety of seafood, and some fruit.

"I hope you forgive me for changing plans from an extensive menu, to a meal rather consisting of refreshments to go with the wine.", the Tyres says in an aside to Marguerite. "I know your kind hates to feel stuffed, and… this would keep our evening from unnecessary interruptions. I hope you have no objections to this arrangement…?" And even if she had, the Tyres heir's decision would remain the same, as the determined tone of his voice might indicate. His gaze drifts over the arrangement of bacon wrapped scallops, a pot with mussels cooked in white wine with a touch of garlic added, some white bread to go with it, fresh from the oven, cut in slices; a bowl of grapes and sliced apples, a plate with small cubes of a spicy cheese, along with thin slices of smoked ham, rolled about tiny bits of melon, and some plums wrapped in bacon, baked and still warm. Two plates have been placed before them, along with the required (and perhaps not so much needed) cutlery. A fresh flagon of wine is set down beside the other one.

"Character, charm and skills in the bedroom, in that order?", Guillaume picks up the conversation, once the two have left them with a respectful bow that had been accepted with the nonchalant incline of his head. "I would think the latter two would be more swiftly figured out than the first." He chuckles, dark eyes focusing on Marguerite, as he leans forward, one elbow resting on the table now, beside his plate. "I would very much like to prove my qualities in each of those disciplines, on this eve. But I hear your time is limited till midnight." There is a glint to his eyes as he catches himself staring at the courtesan, when she lifts a shoulder and does a simple thing like drinking from a glass. He almost forgets to drink from his own, watching her though when he remembers to do so.

"Oh," the Lily answers with a lazy smile, giving her host not quite the bolstering he sought but at least a reassurance that she didn't arrive with her mind made up; "I put so little stock in what 'everyone says'…"

And she is swift to acquiesce in his scheme for their supper, to agree that the fruits of the orchard and of the sea set out for them thus make a most tempting display, though it seems they are to suffer one more interruption. Glancing from the knife beside her plate to how many bacon-wrapped morsels are arrayed beyond, she inquires demurely of the departing servants: "Might I please have a sharper knife? … And perhaps a glass of water; with so many flavours to choose from," and as the door shuts her gaze returns to Guillaume, who has after the usual manner of aspirants to her bed provided her only with wine and plenty of it, "I should like to be certain I taste them all." For once there isn't a tease in her voice, only a sanguine confidence that she'll enjoy her evening. However brief it may, in his opinion, be.

"You like to put words in my mouth, don't you, Master Tyres?" There's the teasing again, her lips twitching into a ladylike little smirk. "I didn't speak of prowess in the bedchamber, only of pleasure shared — the pleasure of an evening such as this one, of fine wine and conversation, or a walk beneath the apple blossom in the spring or an afternoon's skating on a frozen river in the depths of winter. A song, a scent, a taste. The pleasures in a thousand, thousand things. The bargain implicit in a man or a woman's dealings with a courtesan is—"

Alas, Guillaume must wait a moment longer to hear the Gilded Lily's views upon this subject so relevant to his interests. She has heard a step in the passageway: she turns to greet with a sweet, mild smile the boy servant bearing a tray with her desired knife and two glasses of water. (He fought the girl servant for the right to pop in again for another ogle.) These necessities being arranged, water at each place and a truly sharp blade for Marguerite's use, she thanks him charmingly and passes those few seconds before the privacy of her conversation with her host is once again assured in unfolding her napkin in her lap and taking up knife and fork to transport a bacon-wrapped plum to her plate. "You don't mind if I…?" she inquires of Guillaume, a little too late for him really to have done anything to stop her. "They're so delicious when they're warm…" Her fork cautiously spears this prize; her specially sharp knife essays a cut. Her eyes remain upon her host, only occasionally flicking down.

"The bargain, Master Tyres, is that what is lacking in a patron's life shall be provided. Beauty, of course. Sometimes youth, or romance. Elegance, and music, and a companion in his or her fondest pursuits. And, of course, those particular skills you're eager to display yourself. So you see I don't mind in the least whether an admirer of mine who is gifted with character, and charm, and a disposition I enjoy, is gifted also as a lover," she explains gently. "I'm gifted for two."

As Marguerite speaks, a generous and perfect slice of juicy baked plum, encircled by a band of crisp bacon, separates from the rest. She turns it onto its side, slices it neatly in half, and eats the first part herself whilst extending the second to Guillaume on the end of her fork. So much for messy finger food.

"Then I got you wrong," Guillaume replies to the courtesan's clarification, "and you me as well, as to assume I may be content to be just an object upon which you may bestow your exquisite training? Gifted for two? Please…" He chuckles, a rumble of lower register in his chest that is not unpleasant to the ears. "You make it sound like you would content yourself with a man who just receives instead of providing pleasure as well. In my case, you would certainly miss out on a delightful experience, of that I assure you." The assurance receiving more emphasis through the glow flashing in his eyes, and the way his lips curl into a confident smirk.

The Gilded Lily's task for the servant does not meet Guillaume Tyres' objection, in fact he already has accepted more or less to treat her as an equal, odd as that may sound for a man of common birth - but then again, he has grown up with a powerful father, who will hold his prestigious office for as long as he lives. Power and wealth are assets that are far more valued by the inhabitants of Four Corners than the concept of superiority of birth. Dark eyes study her with curious fascination when Marguerite chooses to eat a wrapped plum not with her fingers but with fork and knife - this need for retaining tidy fingers noted as intriguing detail.

"How could I mind, when there is such a view to be enjoyed?", the Tyres counters then , contenting himself to watch as she goes about the task of dissecting the treat, whilst helping himself to another sip of his wine, his gaze wandering rather shamelessly from Marguerite's face over the remarkable throat towards the decollete of her dress, perhaps already picturing himself enjoying a delightful dessert, a bit later, following that rather tempting trail. His attention drawn then to the care she takes to cut a slice of baked plum in its tasty coat of bacon in half, observing how she eats her half before she offers him the other. Guillaume's lips curl before they part to accept the generous gesture, as he leans a touch forward, making sure his gaze stays locked with hers as his teeth catch the delicacy from her fork. A gaze that shows a fascination that also borders on more, a shadow of a desire flashing in his eyes, as he reclines in his seat.

The Gilded Lily applies herself to the further dissection of her baked plum, the tip of her tongue showing pink for an instant between smiling red lips as she licks away a droplet of its juice. If he blinked, he'd have missed it…

"Well, if you're so concerned with reckoning up wrongs, Master Tyres," she teases, "let me add to your list, the supposition that a man who came to me knowing better how to receive than to give, would not soon find himself in receipt indeed — of a very improving education; and the assumption that if a woman appears pleased, she is so indeed; and the deduction that if you can please some women, you can necessarily please all such different and difficult creatures alike; and the hope that you can, by means of such bold statements when we have barely begun to know one another, arouse my curiosity to such an extent that… Won't you have another bite?" she implores him, inclining her head as she lifts her fork to present him with a second morsel of bacon and plum. "I really think the kitchens here have done well for you tonight."

And what of it, if he's eating out of her hand…? In Four Corners wealth and power are all — and a courtesan in her prime has a power all her own, which Marguerite Lavecq, with her flawless complexion and her ready wit and that luxurious body outlined by a rope of gold, seems hardly shy of wielding.

It seems hardly a thing can escape the Tyres' intent stare, and so the sneaky removal of that droplet of wine will find Guillaume to be a most appreciative audience. Eyebrows twitch upwards when the Gilded Lily chooses to name a number of misconceptions on his part, a long list that would have made any other fellow with a touch more modesty avert his gaze in mortification. Not so Guillaume Tyres, whose curled lips indicate he enjoys her charming attempt at pointing him to grave mistakes committed in his way of wooing a woman.

"So it is my education you wish to improve, my dear Mistress Lavecq?", he echoes, his dark eyes narrowing briefly, even so his lips remain curled in amusement. "By pointing myself to a lack thereof? You express doubt in my abilities to please a woman, without even having the slightest hint as to if such is the case? That I lack the subtlety to understand each woman has her own way of getting pleased?" He snorts. "You accuse me of bold words, but they have managed to catch your interest already. I didn't see you leave, mortified by my supposed insults; no, you are still here, sipping this wonderful Romante Red, even going to the trouble of feeding me…" As if on cue, Marguerite's offer draws his attention to her fork which she holds out to him once more, Guillaume maybe caught in a brief moment of indecision, before he leans forward, his elbows resting on the table beside his as of now empty plate. "It tastes much more divine when offered from such competent hand," he remarks, the flattery too obvious to be genuine. His gaze lingering on the blue-grey eyes of Marguerite Lavecq, his lips curled and slightly parted, ready to accept the treat if she should indeed choose to feed it to him.

One more precise cut suffices to separate the last slice of baked plum in twain; and then Marguerite Lavecq lays down her knife and fork upon the edges of her plate. "And still, you're not listening to a word I say," she sighs wistfully. "I do understand now, Master Tyres, why you weren't quite certain of the colour of my eyes… If ever I set my heart upon improving your mind in earnest, I'll be certain to wear," and her long-fingered, pearl-bedecked hand describes an elegant gesture in the air, indicating her torso, "a more modest gown." Her eyes, whatever hue she considers them to be, grey-blue or blue-grey or something indefinite in between, gleam with good humour.

She patiently feeds him her thoughts and the rest of her plum, all in perfect bite-sized portions. "You're quite right, I've no notion of how pleasing you might be in bed — but nor can you possibly know for certain whether you'd please me. Lovemaking is not unlike the science of alchemy, I've often felt. And in any such combination of rare ingredients, a woman is always the one most difficult to handle and to prepare… Until we admit what we don't know, how can we ever hope to discover the facts of the matter, mmm? But whatever you would like to think — I don't consider you've offered me insults, or mortifying words, only that you've indulged in more braggadocio than I usually hear from a man who has the truest cause for confidence…" On which note she lowers long dark eyelashes in a wink. "Dear Master Tyres, you've paid in advance for my time, and you'd have to put me to more trouble than that before I'd leave my dinner scarcely tasted and return your coin. You know that's so," she points out reasonably, "and I know you know. So unless you would like me to go, unless you're bent upon testing me to see what would drive me away, why speak so much of leaving…? Why not see if we can't enjoy staying, mmm? Shall we try the scallops, do you think? Or the mussels? … No, the mussels will keep warm enough in their pot," she decides, "the scallops surely deserve our attention first."

The guest having appointed herself hostess, she commences to apportion the bacon-wrapped scallops, so many for Guillaume's plate, so many for her own.

“My mind perhaps,” Guillaume Tyres quips right back, lifting a brow, while his dark eyes follow all too eagerly the gesture of the Gilded Lily towards her ‘less modest gown’, which is indeed a good excuse for contemplating the alluring presentation of the courtesan’s perfect physique for another moment. That continues while he chews on the offered treat, and the reply given. “There is little point in detailing out the number of possibilities that run through my mind whilst admiring your dress,” he admits then, a smug little grin curving his lips. “Regarding the handling and preparation you are speaking of. If the opportunity occurs and such would be agreeable to you.” Her wink is returned with one of his own, and the glance Guillaume gives her then, over the rim of his glass, assures her of the truth of her assumption. He knows he has paid for her time, that it obliges her to a point. “I am not aiming to drive you off, on the contrary. I just wondered if my compliments have been taken the wrong way.”, he says with lazy confidence, leaning back in his chair, glass in hand. He will not object when Marguerite takes the initiative to serve him some of the scallops, instead observing her with the delight of someone examining a most exquisite painting, taking in the grace of her movements, the pale colour of her skin, the pearls adorning her arms and the wealth of her red hair.

The Tyres knows how to use knife and fork, which he demonstrates next when he attacks the first of those bacon-wrapped scallops on his plate. He also knows how to move the conversation from potentially offensive ground into another direction – although if it will prove to be less offensive remains to be seen. “You must have wondered why I have not sought your company sooner,” Guillaume remarks, allowing his gaze to momentarily leave the enticing view of the golden-rope-wrapped delicacy sitting opposite of him at the table, focusing his eyes on the scallop he so mercilessly cuts in half, the act decidedly less elegant than what Marguerite had demonstrated earlier. “Your mother has been a favorite of my father’s, and I admit my own feelings towards her are not that fond.” A line appears between his brows briefly, his tone losing some of its smoothness. The corners of his mouth twitch upwards into a faint smile when he lifts his gaze to meet that of the courtesan. “And then… I am aware that you’ve been with him as well. It’s not like I would usually chase the leftovers of my father… But you caught my eye, on that eve at the Academy. Not for the first time.“ The line between his brows is smoothened as swiftly as it came, when a smile that does indeed look charming returns, his dark eyes glinting as they focus on her. “But what I saw of you then convinced me to approach you. The Gilded Lily. I’d be a fool not to try and win her favor.” The soft rumble of a chuckle somewhat dims the dramatic admission, even so there seems to be some honesty to his words.

The lady addressed by that flattering byname has, we must admit, half a scallop and a significant morsel of bacon betwixt her lips when Guillaume Tyres catches her unawares with such honesty. But, oh, how she appreciates knowing where she is, with a man she can't help but consider as a prospect for more than one night… Her eyes widen; she chews; she swallows; she sighs as she reaches not for her glass of wine, but for the water she so charmingly insisted should be provided for her use. And then:

"… That rumour," she sighs; "I have never been able to decide whether or not it resounded to my credit. Of course, you know that when my mother began to retire officially from our profession," there's no use in suggesting that Léonie Lavecq sleeps alone any night in the week, "some of her clients came to me — but, Master Tyres," her gaze doesn't waver in its meeting with his, "I give you my word that your esteemed father was not one of them. It was suggested to me, that I don't deny… but he was— not to my taste," she murmurs diplomatically. "And, young though I was, I was already in a position to make such decisions for myself. I had admirers enough; I had income enough. I am no man's," and she tastes the word, and an expression of fastidious disdain crosses her lovely features for the veriest instant, "leftovers."

It is Guillaume’s turn to listen and chew on a piece of bacon-wrapped scallop, putting his hand holding the fork onto the table beside his plate as he takes in the explanation of Marguerite Lavecq, his expression brightening considerably upon receiving the news. “I was wrong, then? It seems I have avoided you for no other reason than my own false assumptions. One above…” Shaking his head at himself, the Tyres acknowledges this to be a fact he will need to digest. A chuff of laughter leaves his lips, likewise relieved and perhaps a touch bewildered as to how he came to such assumption. Dark eyes lift to meet Marguerite’s gaze, and his mirth dims somewhat. “And here I have insulted you again, Mistress Lavecq. I trust the privilege to address you with your first name will be delayed even further now, to punish me adequately? Forgive me for calling you a leftover. You do certainly not look like one. And I will not take offense in your remark of not finding my father to be ‘to your taste’.” A hint of mischief enters his expression, hinting at the irony in his latter remark. “Enough courtesans do; such is the attraction of power.” An attraction he himself may benefit from as well, occasionally.

The radiant creature opposite him is, fortunately, in a forgiving mood. She spears another scallop and brings it to her lips and devours it whole, with infinite delicacy, looking into his eyes all the while with an attitude which reassures him that he is regarded kindly. He's calling her 'Mistress Lavecq' now, every time — how beautifully he's responding to his training… "Taste is such an individual matter, don't you find?" she suggests at last, when she has swallowed her host's fine scallop and wetted her throat with his excellent wine. "His, and mine, and yours… It's too much to suppose it might all coincide. There are attractions, and then there are attractions. Don't you find —? It's all so — personal," she says, with a gently forgiving smile, "and so alchemical." Yes. She'll forgive him for not fancying her any sooner, if he'll forgive her for not fancying his father — and what man wouldn't be delighted to attract such a woman when his own father couldn't…?

For a moment Guillaume Tyres cannot help but be captivated by the display presented to him, his hand - holding a fork carrying the next half of a scallop with bacon, that had already been on its way to be raised to his mouth - is lowered slowly until it comes to rest upon the table; his dark eyes blinking as they watch a whole scallop vanish in the Gilded Lily’s mouth; eyes that hold her gaze for long enough to hint at the implications considered. His lips must feel very dry, judging from the way the Tyres moistens them with a quick flick of his tongue, as he meets the kindness of Marguerite’s gaze with an intrigued smile. “I trust then, that your taste in men has persuaded you to accept my invitation? And that you would have declined such to my father the Chancellor of Four Corners?”, he asks, perhaps wishing to hear it from her spelled out more specifically. Remembering the fork in his hand the Tyres has his next bite, and washes it down with a good sip from his wine, emptying his glass. An empty glass calls for a refill, which he will administer quite readily, after topping off the glass of his charming guest first.

"… I would not have received such, from your father, the Chancellor of Four Corners," his guest murmurs delicately. From which he may infer what he will of the manner in which she rejected that gentleman, once upon a time. Expecting her to say it again — how crude! She gives him her unwavering blue-grey (please, make a note) gaze; what more can he really wish? Surely they've settled the matter between them? Surely he understands that a courtesan of her calibre has preferences, perhaps unfathomable, which must nonetheless be respected. Surely he's engrossed by the sight of another whole and entire scallop vanishing between her scarlet lips.

Her delicate answer earns her a curious glance from the younger Tyres, who seems for a moment tempted to inquire further on the matter. Guillaume may have his reasons to yearn for such assurance - of being the preferred choice - for once, when his own relationship to the most important man in Four Corners may be slightly more complicated than would be publicly known. He may sense Marguerite’s wish to leave it at that, or it may be the next assault on his senses, when she repeats her alluring performance from before, either way, the younger Tyres falls silent, his dark eyes glued to the spectacle in attentive contemplation. He will wait until she has swallowed, before he turns his attention to his own meal, noting his appetite to have been moderately enhanced by the display. It will take a moment or two, until he raises his voice again, to change the subject. “Mistress Lavecq. I am curious as to what else you know about me – apart from the fact that I am the son of Chancellor Frederick Tyres.”, he inquires in a charming challenge, after having another sip of Romante Red from his recently refilled glass.

A third scallop must necessarily be vanquished — well, she could hardly help noticing the effect that has on him, could she? — she, who is so attentive to any sign of interest, voluntary or otherwise? — before the Gilded Lily answers.

"I know," she murmurs, bringing to her lips the glass which had still rather more in it than his, when he replenished them, "that you were married, and you have two fine young sons; that you are a handsome man; and that in more recent years you have known any number of sweetly acquiescent young courtesans who whispered to you whatever you would hear. I know," and this is a much bolder assertion, "you could have as many of those as you wished; but that your taste has turned to… a challenge worthy of you. A woman who, like you, is of Four Corners and is no fool."

"Aye, my wife Felicity passed away… three years ago. It seems her health was not the best…and that the birth of our second child proved to be too taxing.", Guillaume Tyres states, his demeanour sobering a little and showing the hint of a shadow. "It wasn't a love match, of course, but a union that aimed to further my father's goals, to strengthen his position." A low snort leaves his nostrils, dark eyes engaged with contemplation of the red wine he swirls about in his glass, with a slow shift of his hand. "She and I, we really tried to make it work. She gave me two sons, Geoffrey and Amalric, and for that I'm grateful." His gaze lifts from his glass to meet the lovely courtesan's blue-grey eyes, one corner of his mouth lifting, despite the thoughtful look he gives her.

"But in the end I had to learn I couldn't deny that I am what I am, a man with needs. I am not impervious to women's charms. I haven't been as faithful as the One above would have liked, perhaps. Even so, I was as discreet as possible in my dalliances." Guillaume's eyebrows lift, as he regards Marguerite, curious for her reaction. “Even if I’ve mourned her death, I wouldn’t want to repeat such a restraining engagement. So… yes. Courtesans and wine are my vices, my diversion from my daily tasks, of leading the enterprise of my father, when his other duties claim too much of his attention. I am not yet convinced I should go for greater challenges.”, the Tyres offers with a wink, his dark eyes glinting as her regards her. “But so far I must admit you are delightful to look at.” His gaze roams once again appreciatively over the Gilded Lily’s so alluringly wrapped frame. “Intriguing company that manages to distract me, and makes me wish to be distracted even further.”

The rather ruthless beauty he has been confronted with this evening shifts into sympathy when he speaks of the loss of his wife in childbirth — how could a woman who has known its pains and its rigours herself, fail in that regard…? Though it's uncertain whether Guillaume Tyres knows that Marguerite Lavecq has a small bastard daughter of her own, courtesans being notoriously unwilling to admit in public to any facts which might age them. She only listens, her demeanour softening the more he unbends, her attention unwavering. She even leaves the scallops alone. It's something, isn't it, to have such a beautiful woman hanging upon one's every word…?

"Of course you have needs," she says gently, at last. "It's only natural, isn't it? For most men, and for some women as well… There's nothing to be ashamed of, in addressing such matters straightforwardly. After all, where would a woman like Marguerite Lavecq find herself, if it were not for the needs of such men as Guillaume Tyres—? I don't think it dishonours your late wife, to see that you are not too lonely in her absence." And then a little of the Mar- the Mistress Lavecq he has begun to know, returns, lifting her gaze and lifting her glass, renewing the stain upon red lips which have already this evening known the touch of cosmetics, and pleasing her palate as well, if that lingering soft smile is any indication. "Whether you feel you've leisure enough, now, to take up such a challenge — of course, I leave that to you."

Obviously Guillaume Tyres does not know of Sidonie Lavecq, taking Marguerite's empathy as a natural consequence of her profession rather than the result of personal experience, as his glance conveying silent gratitude suggests. The break in her consumption of scallops is appreciated, her attention noted, her words of reply received with a nod, and a smirk slowly sneaks back onto his so negligently shaven features. “Indeed,” he concedes with a low rumble of a chuckle to her assessment that courtesans were dependent on such morally deranged individuals, for whom he was a prime example. “I do not worry too much over my lifestyle after she has passed away. But I should feel guilty over my deeds while she was still alive and my wife.”, he admits with a hot flicker in his dark gaze, when the thought of those ‘deeds’ seems to inspire another appreciative glance over the Gilded Lily’s appealing curves. His eyes are soon raised to observe the manner in which she takes another sip of the Romante Red. “Leisure?,” the Tyres echoes with a grin, “enough of it to assure you of all of my attention for as long as this delightful evening lasts.” His hand reaches over the table to take her free hand, if allowed, to lift it, his stubble tickling her probably, but his lips will press against those delicate fingers nonetheless. Letting go of them, Guillaume Tyres will raise his glass, as if in a toast to his own remark, and take a good sip from it, watching Marguerite with the latently hungry gaze of a predator in the process of sneaking up on its prey.

"Ah, now," offers his companion, in a tone deliberately lighter, as her hand is lifted from the tablecloth and brought unprotesting to his lips; "that was the thread you saw I was so deft as to let fall, for your sake…" Marguerite gives him a confidential little smile, and the slightest press of her silken fingertips before he releases her. "But if you've plucked it up again and held it to the light, shall I remind you, perhaps, that it is the way of the world—? That it has been, for as long as parents have been making marriages such as yours for their children. There's a way, you know, to behave well without giving up all the pleasures which make life worth living… The discretion you spoke of, and the simple human kindness which inspires it.

"… I can't tell you," she admits, with a mischievous glint in her eyes as she inclines her head towards him in sudden (though actually carefully plotted) candour, "that all my admirers are unmarried — but it's the married men whose personal arrangements concern me the most, before I decide. If the wife is indifferent and the husband free to go his own way, very well, there are wives enough in the world glad not to be troubled; if the husband is at least concerned that the wife should not find out, well enough; but a husband who doesn't care at all for his wife's feelings, a father who doesn't respect the mother of his children, perhaps even fear her a little," she winks, for such ladies do hold tremendous power over good, God-fearing men, "well, how much less respect will he prove to have for a mere courtesan, in the end? And so, whatever other qualities he might have to recommend him, I feel such a poor husband is not for me. Does that seem peculiar to you?" she laughs softly. It's an appealing, pealing sort of sound, each note as round as her pearls and as golden as that marvelous rope wrapped about her. "A courtesan so concerned with the state of a man's marriage. But I've already admitted to you, haven't I, that I look to a man's character first of all."

"Indeed," Guillaume concedes to the remark of his lovely guest. "Discretion. For abstain from those pleasures I could not…" A dark flicker occurs in his eyes, his hand remaining with its palm turned upwards for a moment, even after the fingers of the courtesan have left its hold. “It was not inspired by kindness, though.” Admitting as much before Marguerite continues on her own views on married clientele. His gaze will be lowered momentarily when she speaks of indifferent wives, eyes lifting then when a husband's concern to keep his dalliances secret is addressed. It is when she refers to lack of care and respect that Guillaume’s gaze goes distant, a frown forming on his forehead. "In fact, your description seems to fit my father, the Chancellor, all too well.", the Tyres states after a moment of consideration, as he extends his hand to reach for his glass of wine. His mirth from before faded somewhat, as a sigh leaves his lips. When he continues, his voice is kept at a comparatively low volume, the smoothness perhaps marred a little by the rumble of some sentiment underneath. "It is such conduct I find hard to forgive, both towards my mother, and my sister." And himself. A dark fire burns within his eyes when they meet her gaze, and Guillaume seems for once to be distracted from the Gilded Lily's charms, through the turn their conversation has taken. A brief moment where she may glimpse some of the true Tyres behind his mask of confident negligence. Before the fire dims to a glow that once again seems to pay homage to Marguerite’s astonishing looks. "So… No, I don’t find it peculiar for you to avoid such a man." One corner of his mouth lifts into a faint wry grin. "And I do hope you find my character to be appealing enough to stay around."

"Your father? I hadn't thought," the courtesan opposite him lies carelessly, and in case he's inclined to ascribe to her any want of truthfulness spears another scallop upon her fork, guiding it up towards her lips; "but now that you say it…" She rolls one shoulder in a slow, elegant shrug, trailing off from what is not, after all, her business, and devours her prey with the sort of precision and alacrity which can only inspire a man.

Rather than speaking to his character she speaks next (after wetting her throat with a conservative mouthful of his excellent wine) to his appetite: "You've hardly touched your dinner; do you find it not after all to your taste? Of course," she confides, a hint of one of those teasing smiles curving her lips, "sometimes one does make these little mistakes about one's appetites, and supposes that one desires something which, once one has it… Perhaps those poor little scallops simply don't please you after all, Master Tyres?"

A bit of air leaves the man’s nose in an amused snort, while the wry grin remains. “Of course,” he concedes, with a slight upwards twitch of his brows and a low apologetic rumble of a chuckle, “I shouldn’t emburden you with any of my own personal grudges. I wouldn’t want to spoil this delightful evening with you.” His attention seems to be captivated by the simple act of an elegant one-shoulder-shrug for one moment, and engaged with contemplation of another scallop vanishing in the courtesan’s mouth in the next. It is her voice that draws him out of his contemplations, his gaze jumping to meet hers with a slightly caught expression, before it shifts to the plate in front of him. “Hmm, it seems your enchanting company has distracted me from my meal,” Guillaume admits then with a charming smile, as he starts to attack the last two scallops on his plate. Even so his dark eyes are lifted again, considering Marguerite Lavecq’s remark and enticing physique at the same time. “And no, they do please me; even if I’ve already had a few. But then again… I can have them any day I want, whereas your charming company… is not that easy to attain.” He falls silent, dealing with one scallop after the other, all orderly with knife and fork – the use of which even he seems to be properly trained in. His gaze still lingering on his food, the Tyres remarks casually: “My appetite for desirable things may of course vanish, if I do not find them to be to my taste, after attaining them.” Addressing her other, implicit question, in a rather vague manner.

Marguerite only smiles. She leans a little nearer the table, threatening to improve his view of her bosom, reaching across with a fork in a hand at the end of a most elegantly-inclined wrist to spear a cube of fresh melon wrapped in thinly-sliced ham, straight from its plate; she chews this with her eyes upon him, fond but teasing, thinking her own thoughts, and then murmurs, "But my company is easy enough to find, for a man who knows just how — and I think I have a little more to offer him than a simple scallop, howsoever it may have been cooked."

This new manoeuvre will of course draw Guillaume’s attention – and his gaze, the fork with the last half of a scallop once again pausing on its way to his mouth, when the play of white fabric about her comely assets demands another moment of contemplation. “I am not used to making an appointment with a steward, if a comely maiden catches my eye,” he quips easily. “And I would assume as much, or we would not be sitting here together in this very room.” His eyes lift from momentarily from his consideration of her appealing physique, to meet Marguerite’s gaze. “I suspect, a delight for the senses awaits me, if I will be deemed worthy of pursuing you further. My eyes are already well pleased with what they see.” He raises a brow, falling silent again to chew on his scallop. “You have received your training at the Academy?”, the Tyres inquires then. “What sets you apart from other graduates, I wonder? Beside your obvious beauty?”

The courtesan looks steadily into his eyes in return, considering the question as she sips from her glass of water, and raising a perfectly-plucked eyebrow at his remark that, yes, she's pleasing to the eye. It's all very well to say that — everyone says that — it's the most self-evident of all truths — she always looks for an admirer who can say, or do, something a little more striking… "The academy is very well of its kind," she agrees, "and its graduates all exquisite creatures; but you know, don't you, it's only the beginning…? That apprenticeship begins in truth once one leaves its doors… Or before one enters. So many of those beautiful young girls and boys began in nothing, nowhere; the children of washerwomen and farmers and the men who sweep the streets. Some began their own careers as whores, who showed a talent young enough and were chosen for better things. Many don't graduate till they are twenty-one or twenty-two. I know," she smirks slightly, teasing him as she so likes to do, "you don't care for my mother — but I believe you aware of her repute, once upon a time. I was born to be a courtesan, Master Tyres; I was trained by the best, long before I crossed the threshold of the academy as one of its official pupils — not only by my mother herself but by the tutors she engaged for me from the time I was four years old. My graduation on my eighteenth birthday was the merest formality; everyone knew I had been held back a year by that trifling law." Which she dismisses with a fleeting, graceful gesture. "I am my mother's daughter perhaps as you are your father's son. We are not only imitations, are we? … We are a new generation, and we have perhaps even more to recommend us."

Guillaume may have toyed with the idea of unleashing a number of assumptions on the Gilded Lily, in regards to her abilities to enhance other senses than the visual one. But such would have not been fitting the cultivated air of their interaction thus far, when it is about a potential client to woo this renowned courtesan, and her ability to make herself a rather hard sell to keep his interest. A woman of lesser standards may have seen herself already confronted with juicy remarks, and generous refills of wine to lower inhibitions. Speaking of which, as Marguerite continues to sip from her glass of water, the Tyres heir seizes the opportunity to once again top off her other glass which she has barely nipped from, before he replenishes his own. “You have been trained more thoroughly?”, he sums it up with an impressed flicker in his dark gaze that he focuses once again on that captivating pair of blue-grey eyes , “and graduated earlier? To say I’m intrigued would be an understatement. I would have tried sooner to gain your favor…” His words trail off and he sighs. Rolling his eyes at Marguerite’s mention of her mother and his father, Guillaume inclines his head. “Alas, that fact kept me from it, you being her daughter and me suspecting… well, what I mentioned earlier.” A light shrug there, as he raises his glass. “To us, for meeting on this eve despite your mother and my father.” A toast, which he will follow up with a generous sip from his glass of Romante Red.

It's no use how much wine he pours. Marguerite has her glass of water and it's the level in that one which seem most often to fall… She has been cautious in her consumption of that fine Romante red, employing it chiefly for its flavour, or to toast her host, or now to join in his toast. Her smile has been deepening as he catches on to her meaning, stated in words so discreet; she adds, "And, of course, I have more experience as a courtesan in truth than almost any other of my years," and lets the rim of her glass touch his with a gentle clink. "To us, then; to you, Master Tyres, for recognising where, after all, your tastes might lie…" Her luminous blue-grey gaze holds his. Slowly, but more deeply than hitherto, knowing his eyes to be upon her in turn, she drinks.

Maybe The Tyres should change his tactics and bring out more toasts, to encourage more wine drinking on the Gilded Lily’s part? He smiles when she joins his toast with the replenished glass, a glint in his dark eyes the reaction to her stressing her experience. He for his part takes a good sip from his own glass of wine, keeping it in his hand then to watch the remaining Romante Red he swirls in his glass, considering the vintage and something else as well perhaps, for a moment. “Mistress Lavecq,” Guillaume intones then, raising his gaze to the level of her eyes, his eyebrows jumping upwards in a way as if he were about to make an announcement. “I may have paid for your time already for this eve.” Which already did not come cheap. “The time of your kind is valuable, yours especially, as I have learned.” The glass of wine is deposited, and his right hand vanishes for a moment beneath the table, reaching towards the third vacant chair at his side, where a bag of dark-blue velvet had been sitting all the while; only to reappear soon after with a tiny box, made of wood probably, the surface smooth and lacquered in a dark hue. This item Guillaume places beside his plate, his fingers resting playfully on it, while he gives Marguerite a confident glance.

“I may have many vices, women, wine, gambling even occasionally…”, he smirks. “I enjoy games. Even the games that were involved to attain this appointment have not failed to amuse me. I haven’t forgotten what I’ve written in my first letter to you, and I am sure you remember as well… The promise of additional tokens of appreciation, should I feel my admiration to be met with… rewards. I mentioned one particular reward in that letter. I wonder, if your curiosity as to the contents of this…” His fingertips tapping lightly upon the box will grant it a moment of peace finally, when Guillaume leans back once again, watching Marguerite Lavecq with amused attentiveness that is diminished slightly by the dark fire in his gaze. “…will tempt you enough to give me a little demonstration of those skills you’ve boasted to have excelled and obviously are so very experienced in?”

Whilst her host drinks wine, and contemplates her, and essays to speak, Marguerite Lavecq occupies herself in delving into various dishes upon the table, transferring a bit of this and a bit of that to her plate with the serving utensils provided — she lifts an inquisitive eyebrow at the emergence of the lacquered box, for she knows what large delights are often to be found in such small containers, but forbears to inquire with her mouth successively full of little tidbits. Oh! The mussels are rather good; even while listening, she decides her host ought to have a few. When he comes to the point he catches her perched on the very edge of her chair, sitting up even straighter than usual, in the act of leaning across the table to deposit mussels upon his plate.

She laughs! Quite as though delighted, by the prospect, or by his continuing cheek, or by the incongruence of the moment… She hurriedly restores to the pot the shallow ladle supplied for dispensing the mussels in their white wine sauce; and reaches for her napkin, to touch it just once to her lips, eyes still merry above it.

"Oh," she sighs, spreading the white cloth once more across her lap with both hands, "really, Master Tyres…?" She rests her wrists upon the edge of the table, one palm lightly against the other, elegant long pearl-bedecked fingers interlacing. "Do you think that's what it was, truly? Any game you think I played, was to try to spare your feelings, by not telling you directly — and in a public chamber, no less, before so many other eyes and ears! — any truths you'd have found still less palatable." She has disciplined her mien into seriousness now, even into the gentle sympathy he has seen from her already once, when they spoke of his late wife. "By now I think you know well enough that while my time is for sale… my favours can only be earned," she reminds him; "and even should I feel tempted by your smile — why, you've already made it impossible for me to give in to such a feeling. You've served me a delightful supper, but —" Her eyes widen at him, her incredulous good humour creeping in again to set her eyes agleam. "So much of it cooked in garlic, and with such pungent cheese — how could I let your first taste of me come under such circumstances? And now you think you can tease me into abandoning all principle and all good sense, for a box that may very well — if you're so fond of games — prove empty. Shame on you, Master Guillaume Tyres!" The first time she's spoken his first name aloud — but hardly in an intimate context, this amused, smirking accusation.

To observe the Marguerite Lavecq's growing appetite may be distracting to some, to Guillaume Tyres it is an amusing display he takes in, while it does not distract him from his pursued course. Even so, his brows twitch upwards when the courtesan serves him some mussels from the pot, a considerate gesture that baffles him somewhat. She seems to be likewise amused - delighted perhaps even by his interesting proposition, alas, once again she is not playing along to his wishes.

Still, Guillaume's grin widens a touch, his dark eyes losing not even a hint of their confidence as he considers her words. "You've played well, by sending me that answer, Mistress Lavecq. I am aware I paid merely for your time, and nothing more, but wouldn't you agree, that me handing you this just so, without the thrill of being nice on a mere suspicion of what this may contain…" And here his hand reaches once again to allow his fingertips to rest on the box in question. "…would rob you and me of the suspense… and the surprise?" He shifts in his seat, his gaze dropping to the plates some of which are already looking a bit empty.

"As for the taste… I am aware that garlic is only offensive to those who haven't consumed it in a while…" His fork spears into a mussel wearing the traces of white wine and garlic and draws it from its shell, before he brings it to his mouth and eats it, chewing slowly on it before he swallows. "There. I've had some garlic as well now, I wouldn't find your taste marred by any such spicy ingredient. But to tell the truth…" He raises his glass to take another sip from it, a moderate one this time. "I doubt that your kisses can taste anything but divine, whatever wine or delicacies you've had, Mistress Marguerite." Digesting her name as he pronounces it, rolling the 'r' with a flicker in his dark eyes. Her final argument for shying away from such game has the Tyres lift a brow. "Well… I suppose we never find out, if you do not give it a try," he smirks, as his hand closes about the box to lift it from the table, perhaps considering to put it right back into the bag on the nearby seat, while his gaze is on Marguerite, glinting with mischief.

And Marguerite's smile deepens as she looks into her companion's eyes, paying all her attention to the man and none to his little box. "Yes, that was well said, wasn't it? Though your suggestion of a quid pro quo," she sighs, casually slipping in a phrase in the Old Tongue; "well, I won't say it doesn't wound me, Master Tyres, when I thought we were truly beginning to know one another. And then, you say you wouldn't be robbed of the suspense, of the surprise… You'd prefer, would you, to be robbed of the satisfaction of knowing, knowing beyond a doubt, that I'd kissed you simply for the pleasure of kissing you. Really, I can't make you out… Or can I?"

Red lips draw a morsel of melon from the tines of her fork, and she holds his gaze until she has released its delicate juices with a nibble of her teeth, savoured and swallowed it, and is ready to give him a few more of her views. "You prefer courtesans, because you prefer to buy your kisses; and if I kissed you because I liked to, you wouldn't like it half as much. It wouldn't have for you the same prestige, the same frisson of financial victory. You men of Four Corners," she laughs easily, "I know you so well. You don't even like to pretend for an evening that there's something you can't buy and sell. You talk of your charm, and your skill, but you'd much rather rely upon your purse," she concludes with a wink. "You don't trust the others nearly so well."

Guillaume's lips twist into a wry grin, when the courtesan once again seems to be reluctant to give into his rather direct proposition. "We are speaking of a kiss here, Mistress Marguerite, which might help you determine if I may indeed arouse such pleasures in you. A game, what's wrong with that?", he insists gently. "Does it wound you to know that staring at your lips all eve, watching them devour scallops in their entirety… that such would not inspire the hope for at least a kiss? What a cruel creature you are, to indulge in tormenting me…" His dark eyes flicker as the roam over Marguerite Lavecq, the glowing red tone of her hair, that is spilling so artfully about her, the pearls arranged there as well as about those maddeningly slender arms. Despite the reproach in his words, his lips are still curled, as he considers her words and readies a counter.

"There is a slight flaw though in your argumentation, my dear Gilded Lily. To know what is in this box beforehand would make it a 'bought' kiss; by not knowing your kiss would be the adventure your kind so readily advertises - besides, to find out what is inside of it, would tell you at once about the sincerity of my intentions. We can decide the matter with this kiss. Which will save your time for more deserving admirers," the Tyres explains with a bit of mischief flashing in his gaze. "I am aware your attentions can't be bought; but… can you be tempted?" He holds the lacquered box in his right hand still, ready to put it away it would seem. "By the thrill of the game… and my charms of course?", he asks with a raised brow and a playful wink towards Marguerite.

He has at least the pleasure of hearing her laughter again; and of seeing her chin rest in the cradle of her hands as she regards him across the table. "… Mmm," she concedes at last, clearly still toying with the idea, "perhaps I could be tempted, by a man who understands me, who eats garlic for me, and who offers me the answers I can't help but seek…" She lets out a little sigh; a smile plays about her lips as she straightens again, reaching for her glass of wine to indulge in another delicious little sip.

His smirk begins to reach to his dark brown eyes, Guillaume clearly pleased with Marguerite's reaction - laughter not being the worst reaction he has inspired in his life so far. But to be honest, her reply and the glance she gives him appear to be even far more encouraging. "Certainly," the Tyres smiles, with a low rumble beneath his smooth tone of voice. "I am willing to sate your curiosity, so… what is it you wish to know?" Taking for granted that he fulfils the first two requirements she named, Guillaume notes with a pleased gleam in his eyes the choice of glass when the Gilded Lily reaches for it and watches her act of taking a sip from it with intrigued fascination.

His companion lowers her glass to the table and is simply quiet, giving him a small, deliberately mischievous smile… and raising the perfect, plucked curve of an eyebrow… and then at last she gives up and laughs again, shaking her head of lustrous pearl-dotted red hair at him. "It wasn't," she explains, still with mirth in her voice, "that sort of question. Shall I simply finish my supper, mmm?" And she takes up her knife and fork to prise open, daintily, the shell of another small mussel. This an even greater tease than all her others.

“Oh?”, Guillaume’s brows twitch upwards, he tilting his head a little as he reaches for his glass of wine, to contemplate this next riddle. “Ah!”, the realization hits him after a thought-inspiring sip from the Romante Red, as dark eyes shift to regard the box. “What I said, those answers? As long as we keep the procedure, I shall have no objections…” His gaze returns to regard the Gilded Lily, content to watch her for a moment - and soon captivated by the display. Until he remembers his own plate is still filled with some mussels and his own appetite that has been enhanced through the consumption of wine and the charming company.

A mussel later, Marguerite Lavecq says drily; "I fear you missed your moment, Master Tyres; do you count upon creating another one…? How shall you go about it, I wonder? Would you like a little cheese?" And in the midst of transferring a few squares of it to her own plate, she diverts several to his as well. If the diversion of cheese could be considered arch — this diversion is.

One above, women and their games. Games this courtesan seems to master quite well. She did say, she wished to finish her supper? "Maybe I should just seize it," the Tyres murmurs, his hand closing about Marguerite's slender wrist as she is in the process of diverting cheese to his plate. He is leaning forward, to bring his face into a distance to hers she could easily breach. His hold about her wrist is gentle but determined not to let her go that easily.

The courtesan opposite him lowers her long dark eyelashes till she's looking at him via a narrowed and speculative gaze — and then leans away again, sitting comfortably upright in her chair, with that slender white pearl-wrapped arm stretched in an elegant curve across their small table to his restraining hand. It's his move. It's his choice, to come to her, or simply to release her.

Guillaume meets her gaze with brown eyes burning with a dark fire that gives away his intent to read in her expression but also a certain impatience. It is when the courtesan straightens, leaning away from him that his own gaze narrows, below brows that furrow ever-so-slightly. His choice to come to her? That would be as much as force himself upon her. His grip about her wrist loosens in the moment he lets go of Marguerite. "No. I should not.", the Tyres states with a sigh, reaching for his glass of wine. "Forgive me."

And that, really, is all it takes. He has attested to his character. Marguerite Lavecq rises from her chair — there's a scraping sound as it moves backward upon the floor of this deliberately intimate chamber — and with white silk flowing about her, enormous pearls glowing against her skin, a thick red halo of hair about her face, she leans down over him and captures his lips in a sudden, passionate, altogether extraordinary kiss.

One hand grips the back of his chair. The other — almost as though it were premeditated! — finds his hand, and clasps it hard, fingers lacing together.

Dark eyes widen ever-so-slightly when Marguerite moves to stand, because this could be very well a sign she is taking offence in his conduct. The moment of uncertainty is only of short duration, when she moves around the table to cross the distance between them and leans forward, in fact so far that he is treated to another new view of her white silk wrapped shapely forms. His lips start to curl when the realization hits him. She had tested him - his character. A test Guillaume Tyres has apparently passed, surprisingly so.

The smile is not quite formed yet on his features, when the Gilded Lily presses her lips against his, and yes, she can feel them curl even more. A hand reaches to touch the wealth of pearl-bedecked red hair, fingers running through the tresses as they find the back of her head to rest there gently, while the other hand is claimed by her fingers; this hand in fact following the urge to draw Marguerite into his lap and keep her there, as the thrill of holding her enhances the triumphant passion in which he shares and returns the kiss; a kiss that conveys hours of contenting himself watching her enticing form across a table, and the joy of being no longer inhibited by that piece of furniture.

Marguerite will find Guillaume to be experienced kisser, a willing subject to delay the breaking of the kiss for as long as possible. Which will occur at some point. And when it does, she can tell he is pleased, from the wide grin that adorns his face and the hot fire glowing in his eyes, as the hand not currently entangled with hers drifts slowly down her back until it comes to rest on her waist.

To kiss Marguerite Lavecq is to experience all over again, on a more intimate stage, the little game they have been playing together, no matter how she denies it. Though she stoops to begin it she's tentative, delicate, rather sweet despite all her talk of garlic and cheese — and only gradually does she let herself be coaxed into returning more and more of his passion, displaying more and more of her vaunted skill, letting her body soften (his hand at her waist will detect no hint of corsetry) and begin to rest willingly against his, her eyelids slowly lowered by sensual pleasure until…

She breaks away with the softest of gasps, and holding his captured hand away from herself to permit her passage (it's always a useful precaution, to keep hold of a hand or two, at least then they can't surprise you) alights again from the lap where she was not at all surprised to end up. A gentleman given an inch will take a mile, and a Guillaume Tyres will probably try for five miles and have a glittering eye upon the rest of the course. It's a minor foul in their game, hardly worth arguing. She does, however, object to being obliged to sit upon a fellow's napkin. Thank the One he has barely touched his supper, contenting himself chiefly with the tidbits she fed him, or who knows what might have happened to her white silk gown—? It was expensive.

As it is she can't show him her back and return at once to her chair: she must needs walk behind his, her hand leaving the back of it in order to stroke teasingly over his hair, whilst her other hand unseen swipes over her shapely silk-draped posterior to check for crumbs or sticky bits. Oh, thank goodness. It feels clean.

"And what have we decided, mmm?" she inquires of her host in a low, velvety voice, moving round the table now, making sure it's difficult for him to catch her eye again so soon. Her hand lifts — the gesture of many a woman, surely, who has just been kissed: but in her case it's to employ a fingertip and thumb to correct the slight smudging of her red lips, and her knuckles to pinch quickly at one cheek then the other to put a touch more colour into them. And with that 'mmm' she flings him a suggestive glance over one shoulder — the fingertips of her other hand grazing the edge of the table, an exquisite pose she knows by heart, copied from an ancient statue — and after half a breath to let him admire her, turns about her fingertips as a pivot to perch upright and just faintly 'flushed' upon the edge of her chair. Spreading her napkin across her lap she wipes her reddened fingers in turn, unobtrusively. Perfection is what he's paying for — but perfection requires a degree of scheming to maintain.

We will not go into detail when it comes to the kissing abilities of one Guillaume Tyres, but he has quite the reputation of being a womanizer, even if widowed, which would suggest he has acquired some particular experience in that area. So far, it seems he appreciates Marguerite's tactic of increasing the intensity and skill involved, while his hand at her waist will of course be prone to such detail as the absence of a corset - not that he would have expected such restraining garment, with the flowing - almost maddening - nature of her gown. The way she springs to her feet and withdraws, leaving him with the sweet taste of her kiss on his lips, elicits a slight lift of a brow and a glance of deeply felt regret. But to say he had not expected such - for her to retreat after sharing the kiss - would not do the cunning mind of a citizen of Four Corners justice.

The situation of the courtesan moving behind his chair, the sensation of her fingertips brushing over his hair in an almost casual touch will not draw an immediate objection from Guillaume's lips either. Asked for his verdict, he will consider for a moment before he will respond with an appreciative low rumble of a chuckle. "I am impressed," the first simple statement, that is offered with a warm flicker of his gaze as lingers on her in that rather enchanting pose by the table. "As to what I have decided…" His words trail off, dark eyes shifting to the small box before him on the table, before they lift once again to meet Marguerite's gaze. "I would be pleased if you would accept this small token from me. In the hope of sharing more kisses with you, Mistress Marguerite. Whenever such will be agreeable to you." And further pleasures - which apparently cross his mind as his smirk betrays.

Guillaume's hand reaches for the lacquered box and hands it over to the courtesan, with a respectful incline of his head. Should she accept it and take it from his hand - and even open it… she will find a pair of elaborately crafted earrings made of gold, stylized depictions of lilies in full bloom, executed with astonishing detail.

Dark eyes of the Tyres are lingering on the Gilded Lily to study her reaction, as he takes another moderate sip from his glass of Romante Red.

The easy smile with which Marguerite awaited his words, broadens at his confession that, yes, she had rather an affect upon him. Which isn't to say that she didn't know as much already, but there's something in the way he says it… Well, she does like to be admired, and by a man who is rumoured to be something of a connoisseur.

"Why, thank you, Master Tyres," she says drily, accepting the petite lacquered box with a brush of her fingertips over his. She glances down at it, held between her thumb and her forefinger, and makes a place for it on her side of the table, echoing the place it once held upon his. But she doesn't open it yet. Oh, no. If he wouldn't let her see what was inside, her revenge shall be not to let him see her reaction to what is inside. Or, at least, not yet. She hasn't the childish impatience of some particularly spoiled young courtesans, who just can't wait to see their treats — now that she has what's hers she can leave the box shut and move along with her scallops and mussels without displaying the least impatience, the least lapse in dignity.

Biting into half a scallop she lets out a little sigh; she's quick to swallow it and remark upon its condition. "Oh, they are cold — you see what happens," she lifts an eyebrow at him, "when we become so distracted… Never mind, I'm certain the smoked ham will be perfection just as it is." She helps herself to a few morsels and helps her host to the same, serving him with her usual graceful presumption, inviting him to share this pleasure with her at least. "Whenever such is agreeable…" she muses. "Well, next month, perhaps, if you wish it…? You know now," she lowers her chin, giving him a mischievous smile, "how to bespeak my time of my steward."

Guillaume - who was indeed expecting the Gilded Lily to open the box after he handed it to her – might be caught staring for a moment when he realizes this expectation of his is not about to be fulfilled, his brows furrowing for a brief spell, when a bit of air escapes his lips in an astonished exhale. “You’re welcome,” he intones then in smooth but somewhat instinctive courtesy, to her words of thanks. While her complaint about cooled scallops elicits a raised brow, a bit of feigned guilt apparent in the glance he gives her. “Oh? I am… devastated to have caused such delay – and a cooling of your delights. With me, I have found it to be rather the contrary.” The hot fire in his glance could mayhaps be seen as a good proof for this statement, when his dark eyes move so appreciatively over Marguerite’s pleasingly wrapped shape. “Inspiring, if you will… A MONTH?”

The glass of wine is deposited rather brusquely onto the table, with a loud clang – the momentum enough to draw attention whilst leaving the drinking vessel intact. His dark eyes are indeed now staring at the courtesan with affronted and momentarily speechless bewilderment. It takes Guillaume a moment or two to regain his composure to a degree that he can inquire, with a forced calm in his tone: “Not sooner? Is this… suggestion of a time somehow reflecting your degree of eagerness for a next meeting?” Male vanity –so easily bruised.

Those blue-grey eyes — surely, by now, he has some idea of their hue, and could even plot their location upon a colour wheel with a reasonable degree of accuracy — widen at his consternation. "But surely Elen," that being the name of the infernal steward of the House of Lavecq, who keeps so strictly and implacably its ladies' diaries, "told your man… I thought you knew, Master Tyres. I have been invited to join a party traveling to Kentaire to attend the tournament in Matera; we leave in the morning, and the date of our return is to be in the middle of Septebre. I have quite a few engagements already in the rest of the month — those clients of mine who won't be in Matera as well, to see me there — but I'm sure that, if you wish it, an evening might be found somehow…" His companion lifts a shoulder in an elegant, helpless little shrug, as though to say, well, no, she hasn't re-arranged her entire life in order to wait upon his fancy — but she'll do what she can for him, of course she will.

“I didn’t,” Guillaume replies in a low grumble. Know. Even so, his chagrin will fade as he allows her explanation to sink in, as well as the realization that her words were not meant as an affront. “Kentaire. I see.” A sigh and a shrug of his shoulders. “My business will prevent me from attending the idle lance and swordplay, the nobility of the kingdoms seems to find so enjoyable.” A low snort accompanying his words makes it clear that his regret is rather moderate, a certain lack of respect for those of higher birth evident in his bearing. “These lords and ladies are to be envied, though, as you will certainly be a most charming addition to the spectators, bound to catch the eye.” A pause follows, the Tyres considering the wine in his glass he has reclaimed from the table. “I’ll send Master Bertrand to inquire with your steward, in the next days. And I will make sure he reports every detail of your busy schedule to me this time, as to prevent,” - his dark eyes lift to meet her blue-grey gaze, one corner of his mouth lifting a touch - “such misunderstandings in the future.”

Yes, these men of Four Corners — and their all-important purses. Marguerite smiles encouragingly across the table at her swain, and extends her hand at the end of a graceful arm to touch his for the briefest moment before recapturing her knife and fork. He did ask her to dinner, didn't he? How can he keep being so surprised that she takes an interest in it? Honestly, some fellows are pleased to provide her with a meal which meets her — admittedly elevated — standards… "I like the pageantry of it all," she confesses; "and I am to be paid well for my presence, you understand…? For me to go, is as much a matter of business as for you to stay." The sort of matter she wouldn't bring up, usually, save with a man who by his own canny implications must (grudgingly) respect her attention to such dealings. "Business is business, after all. But we'll meet again before long, if you will it, Master Tyres — you have my word upon it," she promises him gently. As she speaks she looks deep into his eyes and then lifts her brows, as though seeking to provoke a smile from him in turn. "Even if it be only for an hour or two, in the afternoon — that's often easy to manage, you know, when a longer engagement is not, if all you seek is to renew our friendship…?"

Being a businessman himself, Guillaume cannot mind the Gilded Lily’s candid admission of her own, in Kentaire, when her intention to travel there certainly can only be to make a good profit. The wry grin on his negligently shaven yet handsome features remains, a hint of a nod occurring in acknowledgement of her words in regards to business being business. As for her remark about their next encounter…? The Tyres will meet the gaze of those captivating blue-grey eyes and indeed, his lips curl into a charming smile. A soft chuckle of amusement the reaction to her rather provocative assessment. “An hour or two? Friendship?”, he echoes with a raised brow. “I believe you mistake the nature of our relation, Marguerite, to assume I would content myself with so little of your time. I may wish to invite you to my manse next time, for a longer engagement, that will allow us to become,” Guillaume states with a slightly ambiguous smile, “more intimately acquainted. But…” That smile dims into a slightly more thoughtful expression, “I believe such will perhaps have to wait till Octobre. By the end of next month I am planning to have a festivity at my manse, with some important people of Four Corners in attendance, and mayhaps a few of those degenerate nobles as well… If such could tempt you? You will be invited as well to attend - as my guest.”, he states, leaning back in his chair. “As a friend, if you will, for that eve.”

"Oh, I wouldn't speak so slightingly of friendship, Master Tyres," his lovely guest suggests with a smile; "perhaps you mistake what a courtesan might mean, when she conjures its name." She takes up her glass and sips slowly, her eyes upon him, letting him have a moment to reconsider his notions of her. Her truest pleasure in their 'friendship', after all, seems to be turning such notions back to front, sideways, and upside down, so often as to ensure he needn't rely upon the flow of fine wine to keep his head buzzing and spinning. "If you should send me an invitation to your festivity, of course I should be delighted to consider it, my own arrangements permitting — I'm certain it will prove a glittering evening, one I should be sorry indeed if I had to miss, but I'm afraid I never know by heart," she gives him a charming little shrug, a smile of apology, "where I am to be, and when, and what for — I rely on Elen to tell me. If I am a guest, however—" She hesitates; and then decides, yes, she'll speak; and inclines herself forward, a wrist leaning elegantly upon the edge of the table, to take him into her confidence in a low, awfully sympathetic voice.

"Perhaps I had better tell you now, so that we understand one another…?" And, at a signal that he's with her, be it only an alteration in his gaze, or the slightest shift of his chin. "If I am a guest I am only a guest, and not an entertainment for your other guests," is her clarification, gently delivered; "I am under no obligation. You might find it simpler, more convenient, to keep our friendship upon its present footing, and not ever have to ask yourself, who or what is Marguerite Lavecq tonight…? I have known men become a little troubled in their minds over such questions — but you know your own best, of course, Master Tyres, and I shall say no more of it, mmm?"

“Friendship to me is a relation that does not extend to exchange of kisses, and therefore is not the first word that comes to mind when it comes to characterize our relationship - or what I wish it to become.”, Guillaume Tyres states smoothly, for once not that easily shaken by the Gilded Lily’s tactics of confusing him with her use of terminology. “Whereas I would be glad to see you at my festivity - it will be by no means an engagement. So do not fear… I am not planning for you to entertain, just to attend if it pleases you. I have other means of entertainment arranged - some bards and musicians. This will be more of a social gathering - to see and be seen, rather than that intimate arrangement I have in mind for our next appointment.”

He will lean forward as well, when she does, his elbows beside his plate, one arm reaching casually over the table to have his finger run over her lower arm towards her wrist in a playful manner. “A friend, for that eve. A lover on the other.”, the negligently shaven man murmurs with a smirk, in affirmation that he, Guillaume Tyres, is able to handle the different roles one Marguerite Lavecq can assume. Even if it comes with the optimistic assumption that the next ‘official’ appointment will be rewarded with more than kisses.

His companion, far from shying away from the touch of that wandering fingertip, glances down at her pearl-wrapped forearm and then up into his eyes again with a slight, pleasantly thoughtful smile. She lets a moment pass after his hand has risen from her and then reaches idly for the bowl of grapes and sliced apples she has been reserving as a potential dessert, a sweet yet tart conclusion to their meal. She spears a grape and bites into it with pretty white teeth, and when she has eaten it she suggests, still smiling: "We'll see to that when we see to it, Master Tyres."

THE END - for now

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License