Formality was not the byword of the evening, this much was true. While her gold filigree mask remained in place when she had taken her seat at the small table (quite possibly chosen because it did not offer to put so much space between them, although it was far more fun to play innocent on at least that note), she had remembered long ago etiquette lessons enough to sit upright and proper. For the beginning of his first story, anyway. That small change in scenery had demanded a touch of uprightedness from where she had leant against his shoulder and smiled up at him from so close, but even that flicker of behavior suited to Society (with a capital 'S' as it so deserved) melted away like hot butter in a pan.

Between the crisp taste of French champagne on her tongue in ready refills of her glass and the fascination that overtook her as he spoke, by the end of his second story she had forgotten all strict propriety for comfort and ease. Somewhere along the way she had toed off her beautiful shoes to instead pull her stockinged feet up to tuck them beside her on the chair. Even as she laughed at the punchline of the story, her body was tipped towards his as she leant easily on the forearm she'd laid on the table between them.

"Perish the thought," she told him, pausing in her laughter only for another drink from her glass. "The hotel must almost seem tame by comparison," she teased, "Compared to a life as a Musketeer."