einblicked:
Had Oswald been replaced by a cold and heavy air, the effect would have been the same. Were his fingertips not already so worried with the brass latch of the window, he might think it swung open and the outside no longer out but in. Jack seeks a more gainful employment for his hands and discovers none.
Am I so unwelcome?
Thread spun from the thinnest tact sews his lips closed before he may put the needle’s eye out. One palm clutches uneasily at the sill, as if the mild tremors of Oswald’s steps might send him hurtling to the floorboards.
Propriety demands he bow, and bend his knee he does.
"You speak true—" Even the fine weather cannot chase away the pallor sapping the lifepaint from the canvas of his cheek. It is painfully obvious that the fair nobleman is at a loss as to how address his social better. The words fall foreign and unbalanced from his tongue. "—my lord."
The irritation subsides. Somewhat. It is replaced by surprise. Surely this Vessalius understands the situation; he sees it in the man’s ashen complexion.
Oswald doesn’t like surprises.
"Will you not explain yourself?" The query, condescending as it is, is belied by confusion. He’d been so sure Jack Vessalius would at least attempt to make up some story on why the son of a Viscount thought himself worthy to ask for Lacie’s hand. Oswald motions for Jack to stand up.
A question is born: did the heir underestimated him? How foolish.