“Ah,” she says, nodding, molding her expression carefully into one of great concern, “but of course, my lord - I should have guessed that one so talented with his hands would not be so with his feet, and it was foolish of me to presume you could dance as well as you can craft - that is, if all the stories are to be taken true.”

As expected, that causes his gaze to shift, to sharpen its focus upon her (and oh, how she holds her body carefully still at it, so as not to shiver straight through), and those glorious hands she’d spoken of to shoot forth, grasping hers as he pulled her out into the open courtyard, grinding out, “I assure you they are, and you will find, my lady, that I am just as talented with feet and mind as I am with my hands, and can prove it well,” and though she knows the danger, her tongue runs ahead of her, to say, “And with your mouth, too?” His wolfish grin is her only response, gleaming in the light as they orbit one another, and she knows she is truly lost.