all_inclusive | Gathering: Masquerade Ball

"You haven't yet seen my Hispano-Suiza run," she said, her lips curling in her smile to show a flash of teeth between the red slashes of her painted lips. "She is a thing of beauty, Porthos." When had she last ridden on a horse? Had she ever? Ah, well, a horse did not come with a steering wheel and she did love the thrill of seeing the world fly past through the glass of her goggles, the road set before her gloved hands on the wheel.

There's no difficulty in it for her to flirt and tease, taking the shape of the heraldry he wore on one shoulder with a fingertip. She delighted in it, rather. The fact that he was taller, broader, and likely far more powerful than herself and yet wore an awkwardness to his words when he spoke made it all the sweeter. Thrilling.

She liked the sound of his voice and leant just a touch into him as she dropped her eyes to closer examine what she had first taken as a costume. The leather was scored and worn, and yet obviously well cared for. The same could be said for each piece of what looked as if it were made of a dozen layers, each one seemingly worn with as much care as pride. There was not an ounce of carelessness in the outfit and that surely said much about the man who wore it.

"Is that all?" she prompted, her eyes returning to his face as she smiled up at him again. She rather liked the possibility of what could be slated in to finish that sentence, but was quite in the mood to tease him further. She did like that smile, after all.

"Nothing I'd feel right mentioning in the present company," he replied with as much aplomb as ever, a warm twinkle in his eyes letting on that he was quite certain (at least by now) that they were thinking about the same thing. Even if he wouldn't say the words, possibly in part because she was clearly playing. And playing was fun.

He hadn't had anywhere near enough to drink yet to say that he would rather show than tell. Again, not to a lady, and not to any woman after so short an acquaintance.

"Now that does sound intriguing," she said, hand flattening out against the fleur-de-lis as she leant her weight just so against the hard curve of his shoulder. "Paris was full of stories of the musketeers, but it's a wholly different thing to have one in front of you. Living and breathing." Phryne spoke the last as if there were a good deal more to be done with living, breathing musketeers, but where forwardness and blatant invitations could be as much her style as any other, she was having too much fun to not continue on with the ongoing theme of their conversation.

Where she could have easily slid her hand higher and curved her fingers over the top of his shoulder, or allowed it to slide down to instead find how the leather was fastened together over his arm, she decided to simply brace a part of her weight against the heraldry beneath her palm. It allowed her the perfect vantage to eye him up from a closeness that was personal (perhaps to some overly so) without actually being intimate. All while still able to bring up her rapidly draining glass up to her lips to swallow more of its sweet champagne. "You must be full of stories yourself, surely."

Well, if she's going to be leaning against him like that, proper or not, lady or not, Porthos was going to rest a gloved hand on the small of her back. It seemed like the thing to do if he didn't want to feel like a prop for her to lean against - and, of course, to assure her that he far from minded the impropriety of their proximity.

"None of them containing motorcars," he confirmed, and stated, although the way he said that last word made it clear he was only hoping he was remembering it right, since it was completely foreign to him. He figured that, like Mademoiselle Dawn, she was from years ahead of him. That would explain the motorcars, and the way she talked about Musketeers, as if they were a thing of the past. It could have been disorienting, but Porthos wouldn't let it be. "But still worth the tale. We don't lead quiet lives."

Now, seventeenth or eighteenth century French history was hardly her strong suit, but she had to admit she was tempted to find herself a volume on the subject to brush up. Or, she supposed, she could always just hear it from a primary source. Now that sounded like a plan. She did love a good brush up...of knowledge, that was.

How shocked Aunt Prudence would be. Leather-clad fingers and palm settled in what was altogether innocent enough (at least by Phryne's own standards) but an action that would surely send her aunt into palpitations had she known. It earned him a smile from Phryne, as Aunt Pru was not around to interrupt and put a damper on things. Really, there was no harm in it. No more than her fingers drumming an abbreviated light against the hard leather under her touch. "I'm sure we could fix that," she said, burying a fraction of the amusement the site of him mouthing that last word as if it were an unfamiliar taste on his tongue.

"I do love a good story. The louder and more colorful the better."

Edited 2015-03-04 02:48 (UTC)

"Loud and colourful are two of my favourite things," Porthos assured her with another one of his rakish smiles, and tilted his head towards the corner of the hall where people were actually sitting. "I can secure us a bottle, if you'd like to claim a table?"

The best tales were told over wine - or champagne, if that was her preference. He preferred a strong red, himself, but it was very much the lady's choice.

Loathe as she was to give up the gentle press of his hand against the small of her back and the easiness of leaning against the solid wall of his shoulder while the spoke, there was nothing the least bit unappealing in his suggestion. As far as she was concerned it would surely have been a crime to pass up the opportunity to hear first-hand stories of the life of a Musketeer. If they happened to come from a particularly handsome example of the same, and promised to be far more interesting than any history lesson she could ever remember sitting through, all topped off with a bottle of wine, so be it.

"I will definitely take you up on that," she said, lingering a moment longer than was strictly necessary (and who could blame her, really). Whether her words were directed more toward the idea of mixing him up with 'loud and colorful' or simply agreeing to claiming a table for them was up for debate.

Why not both?

She gave him another sly smile before she stepped away from him, setting off to find an open table with a definite sway to her hips.

Porthos secured them a bottle of champagne, as promised, before joining her at the table, and it wasn't long before he was telling her stories of his time with the Musketeers. And he was a good storyteller if, in fact, you had a fondness for the loud and the colourful. For the boisterous. Champagne flowed more slowly when he told a tale of real danger and suspense, and then more quickly again when he switched to something of a more humorous nature, a story involved very silly smugglers operating out of Fécamp, all of which ended up locked inside their own hold.

"All of that to smuggle wigs," Porthos snickered, clearly fondly remembering this Normand adventure. "They were convinced they were going to catch on!" Which was obviously ludicrous.

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."

Porthos looked around the room as if assessing the hotel then and there, which of course he didn't need to. It did remind him of how impaired his peripheral vision was by the mask he still wore, though, and he pulled it off, leaving it carelessly on the table. "It's not so bad," he replied honestly. "Not with the Doors and all - they can lead to some merry adventures as well."

He took a long sip of champagne, since he'd neglected his glass while he told that story, and it hadn't been a short one. "But tell me about you," he requested, with a half-grin he hoped she would found charming. "You don't strike me as the type to have led a quiet life either."

The world of possible infinite variety that might lie behind those doors was one she had yet to explore, but there was no question that the thought was enticing. Pity that Dot wasn't then around to explore with her, not that she had ever flinched from the prospect of taking up adventures alone. Or that sweet Dot wasn't more often than not dragged in semi-reluctance into her own adventures. Loyal and courageous as Dot was in her own way, she never went motoring without her knuckles going white on the dash or the protection of her own seatbelt.

Once the mask was removed and her estimation that what lay under the mask was as striking as what had been left unconvered was proven to be exactly correct, she reached up and back to undo the tie in her own mask, pulling the delicate wiring away from her face to lay out carefully on the tabletop. "Certainly not if I can help it," she replied. "I don't believe I would do at all well in a quiet life. Far too much to see and do for that."

"I'm a Lady Detective, actually."

Well, Porthos couldn't say that the filigree mask had been hiding much of her features, he supposed, but it was still a welcome sight to behold her face without hindrance. It was a lovely face! Despite the odd length of her hair. Odd it might be, but it framed her face beautifully.

But at her words, he frowned again at the word he did not know. "What's that?"

Once she had taken a second to assure that her hair fell neatly around her face in the wake of the mask's ribbon, brushing over the bob of it with a quick glance of her fingers, Phryne settled her attention entirely on the man before her. Well, there and on her glass.

She had forgotten nothing of the fact that he had been born and lived in a world centuries separated from her own, and yet it still struck her as an odd little hiccup of a reminder when he didn't react the way she had come to expect. Not that she had truly expected him to know what she meant with so little, but the reminder of how different their lives were was there all the same. Her lips curved in her amusement over the look of puzzlement on his face, all the same, and she explained. "I solve mysteries. Crimes, really, although I pick up the odd domestic affair here and there in need of untangling, my specialty really has become murder."

Porthos frowned in concentration as he listened to her, trying to understand what she meant. "So... you're a bit like us Musketeers, then?" With, presumably, less fighting, if only because she hadn't mentioned any of that. But they certainly solved crimes and mysteries on a regular basis.

What she might mean by the odd domestic affair was still a bit beyond him, though.

What reactions she had earned for similar proclamations had never been quite like his.not simply for his confusion, but that he did not sneer or disbelieve her, either demanding she prove it or refuse to even consider that a woman could do such things. It was better than novelty, more appealing than familiarity. It sparked new delight where she needed little help in being charmed by him. After all, she doubted a Musketeer would even tentatively suggest such a comparison if it was a matter of denigrating what she tried to do.

And did well, she had to say.

"I hadn't thought of it quite like that before," she told him, typing her head as she looked at him. "I quite like that. Wait until I t-" she caught herself, and smiled rather than linger overmuch on the thought. "Not quite so many sword fights, but the odd gunshot here and there, I'll admit."

Porthos couldn't help the swell of protectiveness that slashed through him at the thought of Phryne here suffering from a gunshot wound. He reckoned she could handle herself, or she wouldn't do what she did (and he liked that in a woman, let's be honest), and she was clearly just fine, but he still felt the definite need to find whoever might have hurt her and make them suffer.

It was a useless thing to feel, given their circumstances, but there he went anyway.

"Sounds just like us," he stated with a half smile, pushing past that feeling. "Less motorcars, more sword fights. You can't have everything."

War assured that where she knew too well what could be made of gunshots and shrapnel, the injuries she had earned along the way of being a lady detective were ones she proudly wore. No, no one was fond of scuffed and bleeding knees from needing to duck out of the way of an assassin's bullet, or the consistent pulling ache of ribs bruised by an intruder in her home or a murderer attempting to place her name on the newest line of their crimes. Her gaze lingered on the scar that bisected his eyebrow and crossed over his eye toward his nose, and thought that he would understand. Battle scars were proof you lived, after all.

It certainly didn't hurt that the line of that scar added to the air of rakishness about him she found so very appealing. She wondered at his style of fighting, and thought perhaps by the look of those shoulders of his and that certain amount of swagger in the way he moved that he might just be a brawler.

"People do always say that," she nodded, as if allowing that sort of logic in the least before she lifted her brows and leant in across the table a touch more to tell him, "I refuse to believe it."

"Perhaps I just need to brush up on my swordplay."

The conclusion had Porthos break into a surprised, approving grin. Of course she would know swordplay; he was beginning to wonder whether Mademoiselle Phryne had any flaws at all, the more they talked.

"If you'd like a sparring partner," he offered without a second's thought. He was always happy to be doing something, after all, and she was great company, as far as he was concerned.

It didn't hurt that she looked the way she did, or looked at him the way she did.

There was a lightness to her smile then she'd sorely needed in past days, her comment regarding swordplay. If there had been something of innuendo in her choice of words, it was surely...no, that would have been a lie, it had been entirely on purpose. As ever.

Phryne might have wondered whether a living, breathing Musketeer would see past something as commonplace in his life as swords to see double-entendres in the discussion of them if she hadn't been around enough soldiers and sailors to know that they were just as likely to chortle over them as anyone else. Moreso, she had to think, with the more time they spent on handling their weapons.

Pun. Intended.

Whether they were discussing swords as swords or swords the offer was appealing. She was, after all, always interested in learning a new skill (or refining one she already possessed). "I believe I would enjoy that," she told him, toasting her glass to him before her next drink. "Although, I should warn you that I do have a habit of fighting dirty."

"Is there any other way to fight?" Porthos asked with a grin. His fighting style would be called dirty by a great many people; he didn't stand on ceremony, or conventional weapons. But he always gave people a chance. "Just name the place." There were a few great spots outside, depending on the kind of terrain one wanted for their sparring.

As for any double-entendre linked into the conversation, it had gone right over Porthos's head - for now. He wasn't the Musketeer most versed into conversational tricks and subtleties, but he might still catch up, if only because it was hard not to let his mind wander with that look in Mademoiselle Phryne's eyes.

As great a respect as she harbored for what had been the first sport to allow women to compete in the Olympic games, Phryne was certain that what lessons she had taken from her own brief foray into fencing would be surely miles away from anything she might learn under Porthos' tutelage. Fencing had allowed adrenaline and sweat, but had never seemed exactly practical with its myriad of rules of where you were and were not allowed to strike. An artform, certainly, but she had been more attracted to the older styles of the sport no longer in use. Daggers, and the like.

"Oh, I do like you," she told him, approvingly. Fencing was all well and good for the gymnasium, but it could not help you in a fight for your life. Given the situations she leapt into, one more weapon in her arsenal could only be a benefit. If it happened to come with a handsome Musketeer's attention for a time, all the better.

"I'm sure we could find some place," she said, drawing the pad of her thumb along the rim of her glass as she watched him from across the table. "The gymnasium, the gardens, perhaps. Or-" she let her words hang a moment before she smiled and added, "We could always begin in my room."

Porthos opened his mouth to answer that he wasn't sure her room was the most practical place for that, before his brain finally caught up with what she was actually saying, and not a second too soon. He broke into a grin, and tilted his head in assent. "I did say name the place."

He hadn't realised his words would end up working on quite this level, but conversations could be funny that way.

Phryne was certain of three things then: that the Nexus had the potential for adventures she had only dreamed of; that French champagne drunk by the bottle never failed to appeal; and that there was no reason in the world she need choose between the offer of a improving her swordsmanship and inviting the man to her room for other entertainments. She might have thought she had misstepped in her suggestion had the expressionary flash of confusion not dissolved almost immediately into the more welcome return of his grin.

There was an openness to his expression she quite enjoyed. Not simply the cut of his grin into his cheek or the pull of his scar across his eyebrow with each shift of emotion, but there in the way he seemed to all but broadcast his moods as if on a marquee.

"You did," she agreed. "I have heard it is very good form to begin with a sort of warm up activity. It really is only common sense we might start there."

Edited 2015-03-11 11:43 (UTC)

"We wouldn't want to pull a muscle," Porthos agreed, as if he ever needed a warm-up, but now that he was actually aware of what they were discussing (and he had to wonder if they had been discussing it for far longer than he had noticed), he was hardly going to stick to the literal meaning of things. "And good form's so very important," he added, the smile twitching at the corner of his lips reflected in twinkling dark eyes.

There was absolutely no doubt, from the way he looked and sounded, exactly how appealing he found the idea. How appealing he found her. Beautiful, smart, daring, funny - and open to a spot of violence. His favourite things in a woman.

Every aspect of the hotel appeared to have been tailored to give its guests the richest experience possible. The strangest, in so many ways, but without a pause in the thrill of the anticipation of a new adventure. The masque with its delicate balance of elegance and entertainment was no different, and where Phryne might've liked a seat then she could more easily lounge against without the sharp edges of its borders if she chose to drape herself in its arms in any other way but mostly upright, she had no real complaint. Certainly not while she shifted to lean back against the chair's back in watching the man across from her.

"I've never heard any complaints," she replied, voice warm with flirtation and amusement not soon pulled apart. The chilled glass against her fingers where she curled them against the delicate stem of her flute saw her lifting it to him in a small toast, "Then again, a more hands-on exercise would be in order to get a more informed opinion. Don't you agree?"

Gathering: Masquerade Ball

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