You underestimate me, Sir. I understand many young ladies might swoon at the story, but I guarantee [--she sets aside her teacup bow, small click of porcelain on the tray--] that I'm made of stener stuff.

[Or so they say, apparently.

She sets her hand into his, touch firm as she rolls smartly to her feet. For all the cheek, there's nothing terribly coy about how she doesn't immediately draw her hand from his. Instead she lets it set just there, the heel of her hand against the heat of his upturned palm.]

Well? Lead on, my lord.