If he ventures into the library, in one nook, he may find a strange sight: a girl in Regency-era garb holding two good-sized carving knives with the blades at right angles to each other at arms' length, bashing the flats of the blades against each other. And there's a very focused pucker on her pretty face, thus she's not crazy, or at the least, there's a method to her madness.
No, Catherine Morland has not gone nuts, she's doing research for a book she's writing: her typist has done some things that are just as bizarre in the name of research for things she's writing.
Oh, look at that. A pretty young lady--properly dressed--and peculiarly armed.
Mad girls, Rupert can assure you, are loads of fun in bed, and he has no reason to fear a woman with a pair of knives. Poor lass is more likely to hurt herself than Rupert, even if she was trying. He's going to have to try to take those away from her--for her own good.
"Good afternoon," Rupert greets her, leaning in the doorway with a wolfish smile and openly admiring her form.
She turns to him, lowering the knives, and she'll blush, deep pink, looking down at them, utterly embarassed. "Oh... I did not know that I had had an audience," she says, sputtering a bit. "I am a writer of novels, you see, and my story needed a sword fight. I have never witnessed one and so I thought to simulate one so that I might describe the sound if not the action."
If he looks behind her, he might spy a writing desk and several scattered notebooks, quill pens, inkwells and papers.
"I see." Rupert takes a step into the room, slowly drawing the sword he wears at his belt. It's a beautiful weapon, of 19th century Ruritanian craftsmanship. "Perhaps I can help."
He offers the hilt to her. If she takes it, he might gently adjust her grip, and then step behind her with one hand on her arm and another on her waist to correct her stance, lips very close to her ear. But he is, of course, a perfect gentleman and couldn't possibly have anything on his mind other than his generous offer to educate her on topics of swordplay. "If you wish to understand a sword fight, you must always start with correct posture."
"I would be most grateful if you were to assist me," she says, shuffling the knives onto her writing desk. And she'll gladly take the hilt of the sword, her hand quivering a bit from sheer nerves. His touch on her waist and his lips close to her ear might add a note of surprise to her quivering: this is totally out of her depth, and she doesn't even know the gent's name. Doesn't stop her from letting him show her how to stand. "You seem quite adept at this..."
"I am Rupert of Hentzau," he murmurs in her ear, naturally falling into bragging. "And I am one of the greatest swordsmen in Ruritania. There are none who can match me."
Gently, he guides her arm in a few very basic attack and parry movements, enjoying the proximity and warmth of her body as he does so. "There, like so. You see?"
"Yes, oh, yes, thank you," she says, pleased to have such deft tutor. "I am Catherine Morland, formerly of Fullerton, but now dwelling here at the Mansion.
"I do not think that I have heard of your country before, but I admit that I was never much good at geography."
"It is near Bohemia," Rupert says simply. He takes no offense at people not knowing Ruritania. It was ever an insular country, easily overlooked. "And small."
"You are English?" he assumes. "I knew an Englishman."
A smirk creeps at his lips. How it would delight him to defile a young English miss in order to release some of his frustrations regarding the play-actor.
"Yes, I was on my way to the city of Bath with some friends of my family, when our carriage was waylaid by highwaymen: I escaped into the forest and came upon this house," she says. "That happened two winters ago, and I have dwelled here since.
"I am a novelist now and I am at work on my next tale. One chapter involved a sword fight between a winter prince and, yes, a highwayman," she says, blushing a bit.
"May the handsomer man win," Rupert says, with a rogueish smile that hints he considers such a scenario to be the natural order of the universe.
Lifting her hand, still holding the sword, he leans forward and kisses it, and then gives her a little bit of space--but not quite enough that his hand leaves her waist. "Will you have a proper lesson in how to use it, or would you prefer a demonstration?"
She'll smile and blush. "Dare I say, it is the highwayman who is the more handsome of the pair," she admits.
The blushing only intensifies as he kisses her hand. "I think that I would like to watch a demonstration, the better to know what I am describing, and what I shall be learning..."
"Excellent," Rupert decides. "I always like the highwaymen to win."
Pulling away, his hand lingering unnecessarily for a moment on her hips as he does so, he will step to where there is space and then bow before beginning his demonstration. It is a combination of practicing form and performing a play fight against an invisible opponent. Having creativity and charisma aplenty, Rupert chases an imaginary opponent around the room, showing off his youth and skill.
"Avaunt thee, my wayward princeling!" he calls, heaping challenges and insults upon the invisible prince who he is fighting while balanced on the back of the sofa. His imagination is such that there are times he appears almost to be fighting for his life, pressed back and losing the advantage, but he gains it again quickly, dodging all imaginary blows to his wardrobe and person, and at last the prince loses his feet and Rupert has him with a blade at his imaginary throat. "Surrender," he says. "The lady is mine."
She'll watch his every move, noting every jab and thrust and blocking move, visibly impressed at his skill and dexterity.
"You are a marvel to watch! A master of your art," she says, amazed, once he's vanquished his invisible foe. And she wonders just how she can do his skill justice, once she sets to writing about it...
"My lady," he says, and returns to stand in front of her as the conquering hero claiming a lady justly won. If she will allow it, he will count on her being breathless and impressed by his performance well enough that he can slip an arm around her waist, pulling her close. He won't kiss her yet, but he is clearly thinking about it.
"Shall I claim a boon for my victory?" he asks, his voice a low and seductive rumble.
"A boon? Would... a kiss suffice?" she asks, a bit in awe of such a forward man, but he is younger and more handsome -- and impressively talented -- than the last man who tried to steal a kiss from her.
"That is what I had in mind," Rupert murmurs against her lips, and then steals said kiss. His technique is confident and playful, as good at this as his swordplay, and he keeps it relatively chaste with only a teasing hint of tongue.
I'm aware that this is very forward. Let me know if you want me to rewrite.
No, Catherine Morland has not gone nuts, she's doing research for a book she's writing: her typist has done some things that are just as bizarre in the name of research for things she's writing.
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Mad girls, Rupert can assure you, are loads of fun in bed, and he has no reason to fear a woman with a pair of knives. Poor lass is more likely to hurt herself than Rupert, even if she was trying. He's going to have to try to take those away from her--for her own good.
"Good afternoon," Rupert greets her, leaning in the doorway with a wolfish smile and openly admiring her form.
Reply
If he looks behind her, he might spy a writing desk and several scattered notebooks, quill pens, inkwells and papers.
Reply
He offers the hilt to her. If she takes it, he might gently adjust her grip, and then step behind her with one hand on her arm and another on her waist to correct her stance, lips very close to her ear. But he is, of course, a perfect gentleman and couldn't possibly have anything on his mind other than his generous offer to educate her on topics of swordplay. "If you wish to understand a sword fight, you must always start with correct posture."
Reply
Reply
Gently, he guides her arm in a few very basic attack and parry movements, enjoying the proximity and warmth of her body as he does so. "There, like so. You see?"
Reply
"I do not think that I have heard of your country before, but I admit that I was never much good at geography."
Reply
"You are English?" he assumes. "I knew an Englishman."
A smirk creeps at his lips. How it would delight him to defile a young English miss in order to release some of his frustrations regarding the play-actor.
Reply
"I am a novelist now and I am at work on my next tale. One chapter involved a sword fight between a winter prince and, yes, a highwayman," she says, blushing a bit.
Reply
Lifting her hand, still holding the sword, he leans forward and kisses it, and then gives her a little bit of space--but not quite enough that his hand leaves her waist. "Will you have a proper lesson in how to use it, or would you prefer a demonstration?"
Reply
The blushing only intensifies as he kisses her hand. "I think that I would like to watch a demonstration, the better to know what I am describing, and what I shall be learning..."
Reply
Pulling away, his hand lingering unnecessarily for a moment on her hips as he does so, he will step to where there is space and then bow before beginning his demonstration. It is a combination of practicing form and performing a play fight against an invisible opponent. Having creativity and charisma aplenty, Rupert chases an imaginary opponent around the room, showing off his youth and skill.
"Avaunt thee, my wayward princeling!" he calls, heaping challenges and insults upon the invisible prince who he is fighting while balanced on the back of the sofa. His imagination is such that there are times he appears almost to be fighting for his life, pressed back and losing the advantage, but he gains it again quickly, dodging all imaginary blows to his wardrobe and person, and at last the prince loses his feet and Rupert has him with a blade at his imaginary throat. "Surrender," he says. "The lady is mine."
Reply
"You are a marvel to watch! A master of your art," she says, amazed, once he's vanquished his invisible foe. And she wonders just how she can do his skill justice, once she sets to writing about it...
Reply
"Shall I claim a boon for my victory?" he asks, his voice a low and seductive rumble.
Reply
Reply
I'm aware that this is very forward. Let me know if you want me to rewrite.
Reply
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