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| Details |
| Author: | Athena |
| Summary: | Avrenne reveals what she's wearing to receive guests for the casual afternoon dance party at House Fallon, and the Fallons sync up their daily schedule for their planned meetings. 1400~ words. Romantic RP. |
| Rating: | T for Teen |
Chain: Dance Dance Day
Chain: Siarenne
If there is one thing that can be said about Lady Fallon it's that she loves a schedule, and she loves adhering to a schedule even more. The timing of her day has been thoroughly organized and laid out to account for all that she hopes to achieve on this particular Tuesday. So, she is running exactly on time, as per her well estimated allowances for each part of her morning and afternoon, to finish getting dressed for the greeting of people for the dance party of friends and family, and with time allotted to spend some moments with the Admiral.
Her voice carries through the open middle door between Lord and Lady Fallon's bedrooms. "Thank you, Melynda." There is a softer murmur from the maid in response, before the door to the rest of the house opens and closes with a quiet click.
Avrenne's dress makes only a susurrus whisper, as she comes to the threshold of the connecting door, her right hand touching it lightly, as she is framed within it for a moment, the larger rectangle emphasizing her own angular build. It isn't quite a ballroom dress, not of her usual sort, but it is certainly no ordinary dress.
The color is the most instantly captivating for interest, for it shifts with movement and angle of light from a deeper blue to a richer shade of fel green, with gold beading in the shape of a sort of coral that stretches across her diagonally from her right hip to her left shoulder; the silhouette is a softened mermaid, strategically draped over her to hide her own newly softer form beneath it, though the smoothness of it all is achieved through the use of boning in the bodice; and the final touch is the back, a very low cut that exposes her flawed Circinus, draping just along the edges of the delicate wings of her shoulder blades.
All in all, it is an echo of the dress she wore to the Charity Gala in Year 27, the one she was wearing when Siamus missed his dance with her. It is also a similar statement — an acknowledgement of the acceptance of the fel infused Illidari they are hosting.
She is not only a dress, though. She does have a face. Her eyes are outlined in dark smokey grays enough to intensify them, not quite her ballroom cosmetics, not quite the subtle everyday she wears, but something in between. Two golden discs of pressed dill dangle from her ears, and she wears a necklace of Zandalari gold and jade. Her hair is coiled up into a sleek chignon, and one piece has been left out intentionally, curled into a long ribbon of gold and guided over her right shoulder in a pretty temptation. Not quite a ballroom duchess, but certainly elevated beyond the everyday.
"Siamus," she greets, her gaze going directly to him.
Her husband is standing nearly directly across his bedroom from her, framed in the doorway of his dressing room and arranged at an angle; he's gazing at the mirror in the dressing room's corner as he knots his dove-grey cravat.
His gaze shifts at Avrenne's greeting, but the angle and placement of the mirror don't catch her image behind him, so he takes a step out of the dressing room to glance at her over his shoulder with a smile. "Your Gra– " His eyes widen and his hands still. He turns further toward her and takes another step to sweep her with a slow up-and-down look. "Turn for me, pet," he says.
Avrenne's smile is sweet, and very warm, as she steps to better perfect the angle, and does as she's been told, turning slowly, her arms moving elegantly to each side in display. When she has completed a 180, she looks over her shoulder at him in a pause, and then completes the turn to the full 360 degrees, resting her arms back at her side. "Does it please you?" she asks.
Siamus's smile gleams. "It pleases me very well," he tells her, looking her over again. He has lost his place in the cravat-knotting and absently starts over, still contemplating his wife.
He is wearing his waistcoat — a slightly darker grey than the cravat — still unbuttoned over his crisp white shirt and night-blue trousers; his coat hangs from the door of his wardrobe inside the dressing room behind him.
Avrenne sweeps across the room to him, hands reaching out to set against his waistcoat, stroking a line up along the open edges first up and then down again, head tilted to look up at him. "Mr. Latour still had his sketches for the dress I wore to the Charity Gala of 27, and we modeled this one after it," she tells him. She toys with the second lowest button of the waistcoat, fingertip tracing the circle, before she sets it to the buttonhole. "You look wonderful, but you always do."
Siamus smiles fondly down at her. "She's a gracious lady, my wife. Thank ye, anamchara." He lifts his chin to finish the cravat-knot, smooths it, and then gives it a short sideways tug: There. Jauntily askew ™️
He stands dutifully to let his wife arrange his waistcoat. "How much time is there before the thing?" he asks, gazing down at her. No reason.
She is taking her time in finishing his buttons, and there is a significant addition of touching from what a valet like Weils would ever do. She leans closer to him, arching her back. "Oh, fifteen minutes or so to the official start. I should be downstairs to greet our arrivals in five minutes to be sure not to miss anyone. We have not even twenty minutes," she teases him playfully, a joke from another day. Her eyes dance with foreknowledge of other, perhaps relevant, facts. "But the twins are one month old today. And there is nothing planned after tea beyond the usual dinner." Just information, presented for his consideration.
Siamus's smile spreads. "D'ye know, I'd known that about the one month? As it happens, I do have plans after tea. Cleared the rest of the day for 'em," he informs her solemnly.
Avrenne's returning smile is bright, a lambent glow that lights her from within, as she lifts herself up on tippy toes, holding onto his shoulders for balance, pressing the line of herself against him. "Is that so? Should I check the ledger?" she says in a sultry whisper, a little teasing woven around it.
"I'd be pleased if ye did," he tells her, still solemn. He lays his hand against the arched small of her back. "Ten minutes, ye said?" His hand lifts, his fingertips tracing the curve of her bared spine.
There's a start of a little rouge to her cheeks, a tension building in her as he strings the bow, an inviting tilt of her head. "Oh, yes," she tells him, eyes dark pools that watch him with anticipation. Wait, time. The party, guest greetings. Reality intrudes. "I should probably already be starting downstairs for the earlier arrivals." It still doesn't make her let go of him, or lower herself back down, reluctant to leave his hold on her.
"I will escort ye, Your Grace, as soon as I've put myself together. If ye give me a moment," he tells her. He does not move away from her; his fingers do not stop tracing a slow up-and-down path. Is this a test? If so, for which one of them?
She does not repress the needy whimper it evokes, as that tension follows the path he traces, until she is near quivering with it, even as she tries to steady her breathing. "You would tempt even a committed stoic," she says, her voice smoke and desire. "And make a lady wish for a sudden unexpected simultaneous breaking of every instrument in the house so that we might be forced to reschedule the party."
But discipline of a set path wins out. She lowers herself back down, making no attempt at all to avoid brushing herself against him, before she takes a single step back to free him to put his coat on.
Siamus smiles lazily down at her. "Alas," he says, and moves back into his dressing room to collect his coat.
He turns to face the mirror again as he slides into it, contemplating his reflection as he adjusts the lie of his shirt collar and cravat-knot, the lapels of his coat, his cuffs. He smooths his moustache and then rakes a hand through his hair to tousle it. He does not actually make finger-guns at the mirror because he is a gentleman. He only spiritually makes finger-guns at the mirror.