He lowers his head in acknowledgement, though the gesture is more differential than sincere or even wounded. "My apologies, Miss Blair. I had only thought to honor what we had agreed upon and did not take appearance into such careful consideration. I see how my presence may have done more harm that good—" But Louay does not regret it, and he does not turn for the corridor even before her invitation. He is not prideful in the way other men of the ton are, but his honor can easily be mistaken for it. Her correction stings, but not because it is true, no— it is true. He is not as versed in this world as he hoped he'd be. There were simplicities in the countryside that were easier to adhere to, while complications lied in London. This time of year was even more so demanding, creating a narrow path for what was acceptable and what was not. It was, plainly, quite exhausting and he had only just arrived.
Yet, he plans to remain here for her. That should count for something, reflect upon the very devotion his promise should carry until their promise is broken at the hands of death.
Moving to abide by her invitation, he sits at one of the chairs. Still, he is far more rigid than one should be. Amongst the pastels and soft embroidery, he stands out. He tries to fold his hands together, some attempt to create some harmony, but all it does is seemingly hold himself down.
“I did not intend to disrupt your peace either, Diana," He says plainly. Her name is delivered with practiced caution, something intimate but not a demonstration of his supposed claim over her as her fiance. "I only wished to be near if you needed to call upon me, and to be easily accessible when the time is right to bring this news to your cousin's attention. I may not know much of the rules of the ton, but I do know it is far from acceptable to allow the other half of our circumstance to wander on their own miles away."
He pauses, and the silence is sickening. A questions hits the air, soft and aimless but all the more polite— "How has the season been thus far?"
Louay took the criticism with more grace than Diana would have expected from any man over the age of twelve or so, even if it did seem to prick his pride. It showed an amount of respect for her opinion that was surprising, given that he’d made no attempt to ascertain her feelings before asking her uncle for her hand in marriage. Still, he hadn’t sneered at her instruction or dismissed her knowledge, so she pushed ahead when she might not have had she been more concerned about his good opinion. “Your apology is appreciated, but you should remember, appearances matter more than intentions here. Those who don’t know you will happily jump to the most salacious conclusions with more care for their own entertainment than the truth.”
Diana regretted her choice of the chairs as soon as they were both seated. The same things that made the chairs discreet made them intimate. They were simple side chairs set close together—if either Diana or Louay moved wrong, their knees would be touching. This was not what she’d wanted, to be sat so close to him, with nowhere to look but at his face as he spoke words that sent pinpricks of guilt through her conscience. His faith in their agreement was the very reason she’d avoided him in Whitby before her family came to London. She did not want this. Louay was a good man, that much was clear. If her circumstances were different, she might have been pleased to marry him. But Diana’s circumstances were what they were, and she found no use in what ifs.
She was relieved when he changed the subject, even though it was still a fraught one. She could hardly tell him the truth of her season, that it had been wholly and frustratingly unsuccessful in her most important goal of securing a more advantageous proposal. “The season has been quite lively. You'll remember Georgiana is now engaged, it has quite consumed the household.”
















