Fic: Footwork
Jan. 20th, 2010 09:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dolevalanTitle: Footwork
Fandom/original: Original
Rating: G
A/N: Prompted by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rougen: "Look, don't touch." Because I wanted a second go at it.
They danced because it was expected.
Nicolas had to admit, she was a fair enough partner. Well-dressed, graceful. A plainish but not unpleasant face. Her father was one of the more wealthy land owners in the area, and he’d been opposed to the Willoughbys on principle ever since Anya had called his wife “horse-faced.”
Ambrose had steadily attempted to rebuild the family’s relations with the neighbors, and this included subtle and not-so subtle encouragement of Nicolas’ more social inclinations. When Stella had been home, he’d been happy enough to comply; the two of them spent the night after a party dissecting its guest, though Nicolas had moved among them and Stella generally sat apart.
Now, however…
Now, he was spending the evening dancing with girls like Nina Gorkinov.
She said, after some time, “I understand you’re quite the gamesman, Ambrosovich. Have you had any good sport, of late?”
Nicolas cleared his throat. “Yes, tolerably good, I suppose. I’ve not had as much time for it as I would wish, lately.”
“And why is that?” She deftly swept her skirts to the side, so he’d be in no danger of tripping on them as the dance shifted their positions.
“A little of this, a bit of that. I trust you know how one’s time can just slip away, Miss Gorkinov.”
“Very true.” She looked at him steadily, as if trying to penetrate the pleasantly bland façade he presented. “If you’ll forgive my saying so, you seem a bit preoccupied this evening.”
Nicolas chuckled, softly. “Perhaps a little. My apologies.”
“Hm.” He noted that though her eyes were sharp, her expression remained pleasantly neutral. Perhaps he had underestimated Nina. “Your sister is well, I trust?”
“Quite well,” he said, a bit more cautiously, though his own smile was steady. “She plans to return by the end of the year, I believe.”
“Ah. Very good. We have all so missed her.” It was unclear whether Nina was being bland, sarcastic, or simply trying to bait him. Nicolas was startled at any of the three possibilities.
“I didn’t know you knew her well.” He wondered when exactly he’d gone on the defensive.
“As well as anyone, I suppose,” Nina said carelessly. “She was always somewhat… aloof.” She took the time to smile at another couple as they passed them. “But then, I suppose when one is so unorthodox, one finds the society of little minds obtrusive.”
Nicolas, keeping a firm grip on his temper, changed the subject. “What of your cousin? I hear he has become a lieutenant, now.”
“Yes, yes. Everyone is proud of dear Rodia.” Though he clearly had caused her no compunction by mention of her cousin, a rather notorious rake, he had at least succeeded in bringing the conversation to a pause, as a more difficult section of the dance occupied his partner’s attention.
After a while, he said, “And I do hope your mother is feeling better.”
“Mother, I have no doubt, will live to be one hundred.” There was a touch of bitterness, there; he’d scored a touch, though not a very deft one. Still, now that he’d realized they were fencing and not dancing, he was pleased.
It might be an interesting evening after all.
Fandom/original: Original
Rating: G
A/N: Prompted by
rougen: "Look, don't touch." Because I wanted a second go at it.They danced because it was expected.
Nicolas had to admit, she was a fair enough partner. Well-dressed, graceful. A plainish but not unpleasant face. Her father was one of the more wealthy land owners in the area, and he’d been opposed to the Willoughbys on principle ever since Anya had called his wife “horse-faced.”
Ambrose had steadily attempted to rebuild the family’s relations with the neighbors, and this included subtle and not-so subtle encouragement of Nicolas’ more social inclinations. When Stella had been home, he’d been happy enough to comply; the two of them spent the night after a party dissecting its guest, though Nicolas had moved among them and Stella generally sat apart.
Now, however…
Now, he was spending the evening dancing with girls like Nina Gorkinov.
She said, after some time, “I understand you’re quite the gamesman, Ambrosovich. Have you had any good sport, of late?”
Nicolas cleared his throat. “Yes, tolerably good, I suppose. I’ve not had as much time for it as I would wish, lately.”
“And why is that?” She deftly swept her skirts to the side, so he’d be in no danger of tripping on them as the dance shifted their positions.
“A little of this, a bit of that. I trust you know how one’s time can just slip away, Miss Gorkinov.”
“Very true.” She looked at him steadily, as if trying to penetrate the pleasantly bland façade he presented. “If you’ll forgive my saying so, you seem a bit preoccupied this evening.”
Nicolas chuckled, softly. “Perhaps a little. My apologies.”
“Hm.” He noted that though her eyes were sharp, her expression remained pleasantly neutral. Perhaps he had underestimated Nina. “Your sister is well, I trust?”
“Quite well,” he said, a bit more cautiously, though his own smile was steady. “She plans to return by the end of the year, I believe.”
“Ah. Very good. We have all so missed her.” It was unclear whether Nina was being bland, sarcastic, or simply trying to bait him. Nicolas was startled at any of the three possibilities.
“I didn’t know you knew her well.” He wondered when exactly he’d gone on the defensive.
“As well as anyone, I suppose,” Nina said carelessly. “She was always somewhat… aloof.” She took the time to smile at another couple as they passed them. “But then, I suppose when one is so unorthodox, one finds the society of little minds obtrusive.”
Nicolas, keeping a firm grip on his temper, changed the subject. “What of your cousin? I hear he has become a lieutenant, now.”
“Yes, yes. Everyone is proud of dear Rodia.” Though he clearly had caused her no compunction by mention of her cousin, a rather notorious rake, he had at least succeeded in bringing the conversation to a pause, as a more difficult section of the dance occupied his partner’s attention.
After a while, he said, “And I do hope your mother is feeling better.”
“Mother, I have no doubt, will live to be one hundred.” There was a touch of bitterness, there; he’d scored a touch, though not a very deft one. Still, now that he’d realized they were fencing and not dancing, he was pleased.
It might be an interesting evening after all.
