He was surprised. He had waited for the sure slap to the face–unsure which hand it would come from–and yet, she didn’t slap him. Her voice didn’t even take a sharp tone with him, though when he looked at her, he could see a definite less than pleased glint to her eyes. Why did she doubt he was a gentleman? A fine question indeed. He couldn’t help it then. A slow smile spread across his face. Caught in the act, it seemed. He had never been very good at playing roles.
“Did I say gentleman?” he asked, sounding amused that she should call him one. Or rather, question his integrity as one. He knew he didn’t look the part. He could have done with a better combing, probably should have bothered tying back his hair, at least. Maybe even wear one of those prissy wigs. Hah. I’d rather be dead than powder my face and wear a damned wig!
“I meant to say poor hard working man with no manners, but ‘gentleman’ came out easier. Not nearly so long.” He looked her over again, the pale, silvery hair, the pretty eyes set in a porcelain face. She was not his typical quarry–she was far out of his typical reach, looking for all the world like a delicate doll. A lady, not the kind he would find in Tortuga. Still, she hadn’t slapped him, and that was already a positive start. He was nothing if not positive.
“Maybe,” he suggested, leaning forward slightly. “Your feet wouldn’t suffer. If I can lie about one thing, who’s to say I’m not lying about the other?” After all, the only things she knew about him based on his words alone were that he was a gentleman and a clumsy dancer. Now that she had guessed at his first lie, who was to say the second wasn’t a lie as well?
Originally posted on Before The Mast.