moritat | Victorian weenie au

Luckily for both the men's fates, a rasping voice from a nearby stairwell sounds off: "Harry?" Traces of alarm threaded through gladness.

And Mr. Bagger raises his hands in placation, finding that his apathy hasn't extended to imminent physical violence. "Miss, a guest to see you!"

Paloma whisks into view behind his terrified face, sniffing them out but immediately. Her mouth falls open, and she inhales sharply.

The man that is more Hyde than Jekyll turns his gaze to her, and luckily, is placated by it. The flowers have fallen to the floor in the doorway, but without a moment's hesitation, he bends to scoop them back up gracefully. A good thing they haven't been trod upon.

"Miss Vasquez, how good to see you, I had begun to fear you were out." Says the dude who was ready to kill a man.

She missed the good parts, Paloma can see, but chooses to wait for an opportune time to ask her butler what happened. He's politely but summarily dismissed to check on an unwell maid, and her full attention rests on Jekyll.

If ... that is Jekyll.

Her mouth works. "Mister ... Hyde?" Are flowers his style? Would she know his style? Her fingers curl into her (high) collar.

"--No, certainly not." It was close, but that side hasn't won over entirely. With the relief of rage comes relief to his soul. Sweeping his hat from his head, he bows, and offers up the bouquet. "Good evening."

The pretty things are a killer distraction.

"Oh ...!" Butlers and narrow misses fly clean out of her head. She's too excited to accept his gift, burying her face in the petals and breathing deeply. "And what a good evening!"

Above the flowers, the warm brown of her eyes lifts and seeks out his, crinkling in a wide special smile. "I have an empty vase to fill."

"I hope you will enjoy them." He can't help feeling a little giddy, with all those butterflies fluttering about in his stomach. "And I apologise for having not paid you a visit at home sooner. I received your note, of course." Ah, no, he just wants to run right up to her and kiss her, with that beautiful smile!

"I know what you attend to, please, you are forgiven."

With Mr. Bagger left, it's up to the lady of the house to finish shutting the door behind their guest, which conveniently brings them closer.

Certain no witnesses lurk in the parlor or next room over, Paloma leans onto her tiptoes and hops to plant a kiss on his cheek in gratitude.

"Your butler has warned me against unseemly intentions," he laughs, even as he bends a little to assist.

Even funnier is 'what he attends to' - what does he attend to? These days, not much besides being crazy. He isn't a vampire, but he shares a very similar schedule to one, preferring the dead of night to any other time, even as himself. He can't exactly take patients at three in the morning.

He attends to the dead. Cleaning and hiding them can be time-consuming ...

Her laugh is low and private, too reluctant to drift from his side. "Yours? Mine?" The bouquet nestles comfortably between his elbow and hers, enabling this close flirtation.

"Mine, I think." Imagine that, Dr. Jekyll, improper, unsightly! As if he would ever have anything but pure intentions. "Certainly I have no such thoughts, I wished only to see you." Yeah sure. Honest.

"I thought perhaps to ask if you should like to attend the theatre tomorrow night?"

Paloma chooses not to dwell on the licentious poisons Hyde dripped into her ear.

The hand that's begun to slide toward his wrist cuffs as if with a mind of its own returns to herself, bunching a fistful of dress fabric around the legs. Otherwise, she valiantly tries to affect an image of moderate enthusiasm ... as opposed to the delighted, silly idiot who'd rather like to waltz him on the spot.

"I am not engaged with any more terrible -- vultures? Vulture men hoping to steal my house from under me. Tomorrow night I am yours."

His hand too wishes to seek out her fingers, but suddenly his expression hardens. "What do you mean? Who is trying to do such a thing, and what for?"

A RICH GENTLEMAN'S TIME TO SHINE let him take care of this shit.

"Are they here still?"

Her smile at the line of questioning is too quick to be natural for the subject matter, and her grip on the flowers too tight.

"It is said that alone, and Carlos's fortune left to my account, I must need a ... companion, or an investor, or the two." Their false smiles and insinuations just shy of flirtation bruised her, which she could not let them see lest they taste blood in the water. Paloma's eyes dart up to look wearily at him.

"They do not remember their intention by the time of their leaving."

"Good." He won't question how that came to be, so long as they've left her alone. "If you should...need any such excuses, or assistance, I would be glad to help. I do have a particular advantage which may be useful."

"Tell me what that may be, up the stairs? There is a vase to fill."

Once upon a dark and sinful night he followed her up a different staircase, a creaky thin set stripped almost bare of paint. This one's bonafide mahogany and fitted with a lushly designed carpet. Biblical paintings line their ascent and stop at the second level with a depiction of Cain, the notorious betrayer. Paloma stares too closely at it.

"His collection."

"Why, the colour of my skin and my sex, of course." At least he realises.

He pauses to look at the paintings, admiring each. Some may not be dissimilar to paintings he owns himself. "Quite remarkable, I have always appreciated Biblical artwork." It's a good thing to look at while trying not to think about the last time he followed her up a set of stairs.

Don't look at that swaying ass, either. Pure, virginal thoughts.

Paloma rests a palm over the knob on the upper landing. As if hiding the bouquet of flowers from view of those works of art, she keeps it slightly behind herself. "And my curse also is my blessing. Some of the men who leave, they believe they go with what they came for. Or else become suddenly kind to me ..."

Cain remains in the same seething position.

No, he's... Definitely not doing that. Absolutely not. Why would he stare at her butt. He never stares at her breasts, either. Nothing sexual ever.

"I hope I haven't been one such fool!" He laughs, because he's quite sure that isn't the case! But he can't take the joke so far as to suggest she might have told him a lie about having sex........

Her chin jerks from the paintings and back to him in a move too fast to be natural.

"No! Not ever!" Paloma sucks in a useless breath and lowers her voice out of prudence, and for the servants who aren't far. A horrible fear-- his cause to doubt the veracity of the love he confessed to-- takes root in the dead cavity of her heart. "Please, trust that."

Oh no she took him seriously-- "No, certainly not, I trust it entirely!" Now he feels terrible for making her worry about that?! "It was nothing more than a joke in poor taste!" Without thinking it over, instinct pushes him to reach out for her hand, to emphasise his point.

This is fine, too. She is okay with the events currently unfolding.

Far from taking back what he's stolen, Paloma lets things go this way. The firmness of that hold is grounding and gratifying. A wavering smile forms.

"That relieves me. After what you see, I could not cast blame if you did not. Would you ...?" A light tug to join her on the landing, to find that vase. "Follow me?"

Yes, to find that vase...that's all. "Of course." He says, even though he desperately wants to kiss her and nothing else when he steps up onto that landing.

"Your home is very lovely."

Sssh. Vase now, no dick-sucking

Her smile falters a tad, but he can't very well see that from his place behind. Maybe the silhouette of her lashes lowering in remembered submission. "You are not incorrect. The one who shaped it could brag of beautiful taste."

Some of those beautiful objects he'd left in his escape should be burnt, if she were the burning type, or could bring herself to destroy art.

They pass into a long hall fitted with half-crescent tables between every closed door. The vase they seek sits empty on one such table, next to a door that is very much open. Paloma introduces the flowers to their new home, hefts it, and sees that it's absent a necessity: water!

"Ah!! So sorry, they will not remain dry. Let us find them what they need." The impropriety of a man on her heels, into her private quarters, does not sink in right away. She's already traipsed in.

Jekyll follows, until a few steps into the room, where he realises this must be her bedroom. And promptly takes a few steps backwards to stand outside the door, heart all aflutter, cheeks very much red.

"When they do begin to wilt, they would make a fine potpourri, I would imagine!" This he calls out from the hall, so that it will reach her.

As she plants her grip over the tap in her washroom, that word mystifies Paloma enough to give pause. "A, a potpourri? What is ...?"

A light twist does nothing. Did the handle not turn far enough? It's been such a short while since its last use, surely-- no, nothing's coming out. A tiny droplet forms on the rim of the tap's spout, but that's all.

"Drat!! No!" What comes after is too rude for English. He better investigate.

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wink wonk

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Nobody treats her like this, she's too rich

Re: Nobody treats her like this, she's too rich

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