gideonstjames:
If it was up to Gideon, he would’ve stayed at home with Matilda and Marceline, maybe invited his parents. It may not have been perfect. They may have hardly exchanged any words or said a little too much, but it would’ve been better than this. He recognises her touch first, but he’s already filled with frustration. He only turns to face her due to the audience, forcing a smile on his lips and kissing her cheek out of habit. “Oh, so we can leave together. What a relief.” There’s a sudden need for a strong drink, and so Gideon finishes off the contents of his glass. “I can take a separate car. I don’t intend to stay for much longer, anyway.”
Her head cocks sharply at his rebuttal, challenge kindling in her eyes. Matilda smooths over the brusque motion with a brief peel of laughter, fingertips uncurling from their perch at the base of his spine and returning neatly to her own side. She’d often pitied the Countess of Albemarle---not because her marriage had failed (it was almost inevitable these days) but because it had done so publicly. Even this, feeling one or two pairs of eyes glued to her throat, was supremely uncomfortable. “It’s your choice.” Did he really think she would beg? She decides to let the draining of his glass go, seemingly, unnoticed, as she says: “I saw you speaking with Zachary Enright of the Guardian---a scathing writer, with scathing opinions of the establishment. Did his critique hold form in the flesh?”











