It would not, actually, be difficult for Gwenaëlle to blend in more than she does. Her wardrobe is not short of silhouettes that better suit the Val Royeaux upper crust; she likes a great big skirt as much as the next fashion-plate aristo. She kept one or two of her masks, just in case, and her grandfather is generous with what she can invoice to him (she'd come early to make their arrangements; Liaissons Dangereuse will be in touch within the week), so it isn't as if she hasn't options. It is therefore a choice, the slim, structured fit of her burgundy gown, the hood she'd arrived wearing dropping into cape sleeves; that in lieu of a mask she wears what would be a jewel-dripping eyepatch if it weren't open to display the ruby eye underneath in place of the usual gold.
The fact of the matter is that her grandfather's ongoing support of her opens doors that otherwise remain closed, and the fact that some of them she wouldn't mind being closed is neither here nor there when it comes to opportunities that they can make use of. The fact that inviting her (Mademoiselle Baudin et companion) had good odds of digging l'Duc out of his disinterest in summer balls is not irrelevant to having received an invitation at all.
Visiting Baroness de Dreux's ballroom to examine her new architectural features will probably involve less actual dancing — or, knowing Gwenaëlle, roughly the same amount. In the meantime, the enthusiastic celebration of a recent graduate's thesis defense that she suspects is doubling as thank the Maker that's done with, now let's dangle the bait and see if we can't get you married, well. She expects the evening to result in some productive contacts for Stephen amongst the university crowd, at least, and if she doesn't stab anyone in the hand she'll call it a success,
“Bon-papa,” she says, markedly more warmly than she's greeted anyone else yet, letting go of Stephen's arm to reach for Romain's elbows and present her barer cheek to be gestured near, at least, “you did come.”
Astonishing they aren't related when they do make almost exactly the same face upon having to socialise extensively. She'd really much rather just absorb ambient gossip at the modiste, but at a certain point it becomes odd that you haven't also worn your new dress anywhere, and the combined novelty of both herself and Stephen slightly off-sets how annoying most of these people find her,
“This is Dr Strange, Riftwatch's head healer. Stephen, my grandfather, his grace l'duc de Coucy,” who she had earlier drilled him would be politely referred to and addressed as your grace or my lord Duke and absolutely under no circumstances besides express and explicit invitation Romain Charnier, his actual fucking name.
no subject
The fact of the matter is that her grandfather's ongoing support of her opens doors that otherwise remain closed, and the fact that some of them she wouldn't mind being closed is neither here nor there when it comes to opportunities that they can make use of. The fact that inviting her (Mademoiselle Baudin et companion) had good odds of digging l'Duc out of his disinterest in summer balls is not irrelevant to having received an invitation at all.
Visiting Baroness de Dreux's ballroom to examine her new architectural features will probably involve less actual dancing — or, knowing Gwenaëlle, roughly the same amount. In the meantime, the enthusiastic celebration of a recent graduate's thesis defense that she suspects is doubling as thank the Maker that's done with, now let's dangle the bait and see if we can't get you married, well. She expects the evening to result in some productive contacts for Stephen amongst the university crowd, at least, and if she doesn't stab anyone in the hand she'll call it a success,
“Bon-papa,” she says, markedly more warmly than she's greeted anyone else yet, letting go of Stephen's arm to reach for Romain's elbows and present her barer cheek to be gestured near, at least, “you did come.”
Astonishing they aren't related when they do make almost exactly the same face upon having to socialise extensively. She'd really much rather just absorb ambient gossip at the modiste, but at a certain point it becomes odd that you haven't also worn your new dress anywhere, and the combined novelty of both herself and Stephen slightly off-sets how annoying most of these people find her,
“This is Dr Strange, Riftwatch's head healer. Stephen, my grandfather, his grace l'duc de Coucy,” who she had earlier drilled him would be politely referred to and addressed as your grace or my lord Duke and absolutely under no circumstances besides express and explicit invitation Romain Charnier, his actual fucking name.