The thing is, he isn't bad at this. If he were, all the determination and intellect in the world wouldn't have sustained whatever scrap of Hennessey's attention he'd first captured as a boy. If he were still on a ship (and the odds are high, given his father's profession and that of his grandfather before him, but most especially the Navy's compulsive need to press any man at liberty), he might either spend his scant time ashore in one of the taverns nearest the water or, given a particularly tyrannical captain especially worried about deserters in a familiar port, he might find himself only in observation of London's lights. If he was so incapable of playing this game, there would be no stiff uniform collars, shined brass buttons and buckles; there would be no dances like this one, populated almost entirely by naval officers, unmarried feckless second or third sons, and young ladies of skeptical eligibility. There would have been no commission and he could have never met--
"The Hamiltons. My god," exclaims Lieutenant Maplestone, late of the Woolwich. It's shouted almost directly into James's ear and maybe that's why every part of him goes sharp as a knife's edge and he finds himself choking on a mouthful of wine. The conversation in this small knot of officers dies and every eye of the group pivots to the doorway where, indeed, Lord and Lady Hamilton have appeared as a pair of brilliant gems transported here entirely by accident. Miranda is undeniably stunning, her dark hair turned up high off her long, slender neck and the rich color of her gown in sharp contrast to her pale breast. Her husband beside her is equally vibrant - from this distance, he seems fresh face and delighted in a way that's difficult to miss having become strangely familiar with it in the book-lined study of the Hamilton house (--and over dinner, and long into the night at the demand of conversation that had once been about the Nassau problem and then morphed into a frank argument over Sophocles).
By contrast, if he's as pale as he feels then James McGraw must look like a ghost when viewed across the length of the dance hall among the ruddy, suntanned naval men whose company he's among tonight.
And then, naturally, the attention of the men around him shifts directly from the couple at the doorway to the Lieutenant in their midst who a moment ago had simply been a broad shape lingering at the edge of polite conversation. "Well," --that's the Second Lieutenant of the Defiant, something that sounds very like smugness to James's ear-- "I can't say I'm shocked."
Walking into a party - be it a grand ball or something modest in the countryside - and causing half the heads in the room to turn is an ordinary occurrence. Scandalized pockets of quiet scattered in the colorful tapestry of socializing, equally familiar. Lord Hamilton on more than one occasion has confided in private to his wife that it always feels like they're slacking off when their arrival somewhere doesn't get at least a ripple; tonight he knows one stone thrown into the pond is Lieutenant McGraw somewhere, but larger is simply how radiant Lady Hamilton looks, perfectly polished and adorned, her beaming smile the most beautiful of all. (I don't know why ya'll gagging when they bring it to you everyyyy tiiiiiime.)
They mean well. There are no boundaries for persons of their station, every door opened with shuffling obedience, even ones set lower than certain peers would prefer. Thomas had thought to work on correspondence tonight, but the idea of doing so drifted further and further away from his willpower after Miranda had put the idea in his head-- James complained in passing about these sorts of things (dryly) (once), and Miranda, too vibrant to suffer being cooped up away from the world, wouldn't be able to attend on her own, it would be miserable of Thomas to deny her, and James as well!, and it's supportive of their dear friend.
And anyway, it's not the worst place they've ever shown up.
There are so many people in this dance hall, so many men in identical dark blue, and yet Thomas finds (his) the one he's looking for in the space of a heartbeat. Like a needle pointing north, he thinks, before setting aside that absurd notion not only because he's told himself every notion of that kind is being buried, but because of-- Oh, dear, he thinks.
Idealistic and occasionally accidentally thoughtless, Thomas isn't stupid, and assumed the lieutenant would have a poor reaction at first, as he does to so many things. But Miranda is so good at coaxing him into sweet capitulation, and Thomas - Thomas has made sure they needn't immediately walk towards the officer who looks like he's swallowed his own tongue. Best to give him a few minutes to become a trifle less agitated, and very nearly on cue, Lieutenant Commander Davis greets them with brightly animated pleasure.
It's with a brightly animated pleasure she returns the greeting, as the Lieutenant Commander speaks to Thomas and then herself. The usual bow and scrape of humility of one rank to another. She lends a hand to be kissed, laughs appreciatively to the merry words of a good evening that is wished to them and she chimes it in returned volley.
Because the form begets the purpose, of a well intentioned jaunt on her and Thomas' behalf. He had thrown himself behind the cause, should they not do the same?
To that no, she doesn't lead - of course not, a woman of her position never leads, she politely inquires that when was the last time they spoke with the Commander Phillips? A effort to make the rounds, like perhaps to rally their own soldiers, she knows as many as Thomas to that end. It would be as good a time as any to make returns on those friendships before great undertakings.
Not just because James looks, rather... out of sorts. Like he'd swallowed bilge water, not wine, and was forcing himself to drink it anyway. Oh dear, it would be an effort to cheer him on that humour but she would do it regardless. But she tries keep the gaze only breifly lingering, as they make pleasant with another acquaintance, even if it's done with a casual distraction to the topic. Her hand loosening on Thomas, some for the tug of impatience she does her best to ignore as she waits for James to settle at least some from the surprise. It could surely be no more than that. He was a set man, at times.
His first, most base instinct is to pretend like he hasn't seen them at all. As if the room didn't inhale collectively over their presence (the feeling of it still lodged there under his second rib, stabbing at something so vulnerable from the sight of them that it has him uneasy, certain that someone beside him must have seen some trace of it on her face in some split second before he thought to conceal it). But it's so beyond imagination, particularly given Maplestone's outburst, that he dismisses it and instead faces their tortuously slow approach head on:
"Say, I'm reminded. Mister McGraw, aren't you acquainted with--" the Defiant's man is saying and James interrupts him with a clipped, "Excuse me," and shears off from his apathetically chosen companions to make headway toward the Hamiltons. It's only when he's a few paces away that he realizes his glass is still in hand (and empty), but then it's too late to do away with it on some sideboard so he's left standing there with some new line of curious officers with his bloody hands full as the two of them make pleasant conversation with Phillips and Kearns and Penhale in turns until finally they must turn and find him there next in line to say their hellos to.
In the time it takes, his expression has drawn so utterly flat and featureless that it's like looking into the face of a particularly bland portrait of an otherwise familiar figure. The man beside him - Silcox, of the Chestnut - greets Thomas like an old friend: a happy hand for the Lord Hamilton's elbow and some bright remark about Eton that James only half hears in the moment but will recall with perfect clarity later. James--
nods to the pair of them. "Lord Hamilton. Your wife looks lovely this evening, as ever."
Maybe the stars will align and some fool will strike a match too close to the powder stock on one of the great ships in the harbor. He can imagine then that no one will remember this evening and they can go on their way, happily forgotten.
Thomas gives (privately laughing) consideration to catching the hem of Miranda's skirt under his heel when he feels her hand take a desultory turn. Only lightly. Instead he adjusts and the flat of his own hand at her back says Darling, I know, but-- getting through a deluge of introductions is the price they're going to pay for showing up anywhere, no matter how tedious, no matter how distracting the thought of going to cheer up Lieutenant McGraw is.
Speaking of. ('Oh, dear' for a third time between the two of them.)
"Lieutenant," is warm, the showy edges of his smiled dimmed just-so into something a little more familiar. Thomas reaches out and curls long fingers over the top of his empty glass, pulling it out of his grip and - well, Bennet Silcox is there, whose presence Thomas is actually quite relieved over, "Make yourself useful," he chides, and the dark-haired man laughs and takes the glass to set somewhere convenient while Thomas reaches back to shake James's hand properly. "She knows, I've made absolutely certain. I'm so happy to have caught you tonight, we weren't sure you'd be here."
That dour expression is somewhat concerning. No so un-agitated yet, it seems.
Is it impatience or frustration that returns him to them? ( Them like he was only ever going to love them both, theirs like between them he took new form under moulders hands, it is something, in the coming weeks to think on.) but returns he does. Different to coming back from sea. If only one made of people. Affection wants to believe the former, the look on his face says to the latter.
James, is the breathed implied affection. "Lieutenant McGraw." is what comes out of her mouth. Though she takes no step to him, with Thomas' hand on her back, she does not so much lift a finger. Let it be said they were each other's better influence, always. "It is a pleasure to see you again at last."
Like it was not her that offered a gateway for him to step through, like half the room wasn't listening with baited breath.
The glass is surrendered, swept out of his hand so easily that he could almost resent it. Oh, they are the picture of dignity and politeness aren't they? Upended entirely by the fact that this is the theater they've chosen to play in. There's a young lady at the center of the dance hall being traded off between two midshipman, the three of them laughing loud enough to be heard over the music and even then James is certain he can feel the whole room tipped faintly in this direction. Surely the murmur of conversation has shifted tack to remark on the Hamilton's presence and soon what will follow is 'Isn't Mister McGraw Lord Hamilton's liason with the Admiralty?' from those most familiar with either the naval or political end of things. Then someone else will say 'That's not the liason I've heard so much about--'.
What a stupid thing - handing yourself so directly into the wolf's mouth. In any other conceivable circumstance, it might be charming. Invigorating. What a strange, liberated pair they are (and isn't that appealing?) But this isn't their drawing room in the company of poets, educated wives and liberally minded young men. He's intimately familiar with how this place works, what these young men will say. The reality of it drains the pleasure of their presence from the room.
He manages a smile, mistaken for easily done if only it reached past his mouth. "To what do we owe it?" What the fuck are you two doing here?
That flat delivery is one Thomas knows to be attached to James being genuinely displeased about something, though he hasn't heard it in a while, and never before with such a tangible undercurrent of real tension. It is a little bit attractive - the way his menace can be so cold and even when most men would be shaking and flush-faced. Steady under any pressure.
But this wasn't meant to be particularly crushing pressure, and in the heartbeat of fractionally taken aback silence that meets the blunt knife of his question (Silcox beside him as a strange look on his face), Thomas looks at the situation and accepts that this may have been a bad call. In that same heartbeat is also: too late to do anything about it now.
"The occasion, certainly," is gentle, but in no way placating. James is a grown man who's seen battle, for heaven's sake, he can pull himself together. "It's the off season for things like this, and I'm lucky to have old friends and new present. And, I must say, you have kindled a true interest in our Navy."
It would be easy to take his displeasure personally, some little needle of worry over being present beside Miranda and showing off the bond James can never have with her in public. And maybe it's so, maybe Thomas's presence is what he resents; he doesn't have time for it. Privately lonely as he's been. It'll be a fine evening, Miranda getting to see her lover in his element, and Thomas-- can be happy for her, and catch up with like-minded old friends.
Just as soon as the lieutenant remembers people will talk one way or the other, and looking like he'd rather everyone in the room drop dead won't help. Come now, McGraw, you're the tactician.
She blinks, her smile staying fixed, wide and brilliant. A gaze sliding back across to her husband when he speaks, like James knew his swords and Thomas knows his speeches, she knows her steps, her roles. No souring note would let anything affect that so quickly. Keeping her pace and her presence steady. To the volatile others of life had a habit of inflicting, it seemed a necessity, especially in moments like this. "Just so. After all, you have diligently attended my husband's days in parliament, should we not do the same and pay you a visit in turn?"
Her arm slides fixed, warm, to Thomas, sliding to brace against his wrist. Warm, held, comfortable. As a husband and wife should be. "Besides, it seemed a good excuse as any to revisit acquaintances in this corner that we have not paid respects too for some time." Not so solely him, as they might gossip. There would be men in the navy before James McGraw, and there would be men in the navy afterwards.
The chime of Silcox to his part for the over arching task master that was propriety and a need to smooth along a stilted conversation. ( - And we have been dimmer for it, madam! Good man. )
His smile solidifies, and this time it is sure enough that surely even Silcox mustn't sense anything is amiss. Only of course Silcox hasn't spent long hours in James McGraw's company - among books, in debate, over late dinners, and quiet conversations in corners, in carriages and... elsewhere. "Of course," he says. The season and old friends. Obviously.
He is so staunchly, preemptively angry (for absolutely everything that will come of this) that he can feel it in his hands, his fingers tingling. He needs something to hold - another glass of wine, one of the young ladies being turned around and around on the dance floor. Instead he tucks them behind himself and pinches the skin between his thumb and forefinger.
"I wasn't aware you were so well acquainted with the Lord and Lady Hamilton, Mister Silcox." Which is, mercifully, exactly the thing to say to encourage the other man to jump toward leading the conversation.
Thomas's hand moves to his opposite side, over his wife's, automatic affection. (Sometimes, it makes the rumors worse. How can she, when Lord Hamilton is so docile with her? He hasn't taken up with so much as a maid - maybe he can't? But doesn't she know how lucky she is that he won't raise a hand--) Beside them, Silcox launches into an old yarn about more formative years, prompting Thomas to roll his eyes and threaten, entirely without teeth and all fond exasperation, to never speak to him again if he details any youthful exploits.
"Come now, you never got into any real trouble," the man is saying, "just arguing with instructors."
"I should have tried real trouble, it turns out being in the habit of arguing persists in aggravating people long outside school years."
Silcox laughs brightly and without a trace of reproach; not everyone in London thinks Thomas Hamilton is mad, after all, and not everyone who visits his salon lies about it in the daylight. Bennet hasn't attended in a while, being busy with his career (and trying to find an appropriately uninvested girl to marry) as well as not stunningly intelligent. But he isn't stupid, and he isn't unkind, and he spent at least one summer nursing a broken heart over Thomas. In that respect it's a little classless to court his attentions, but he'll be delighted and Thomas-- Thomas will feel less inert. He just doesn't have the free time Miranda does, these days. Nor the options.
One of which is currently in control of his glower. Thank God. Thomas tries to catch James's gaze and communicate - what? Calm? Something curious? He knows the man well, but not well enough, it seems. Does Miranda? She may well have the key to soothing him, ironing out the edges of his temper, some intimate thing Thomas has no grasp on.
"Are you acquainted with any of the young women out on fishing expeditions tonight?" he asks her, and then at Silcox's faux-scandalized "Thomas!", adds: "Is that not a navy term?"
"Oh certainly," the smile is guileless, as out of turn as her husband with the same lack of venom, taking the conversation in an easy direction. Like knocking over houses of cards, it falls into an easy step by step crumble.
"Young Lady Wyatt is looking quite handsome tonight, isn't she, Silcox?" That chimes to the tune, of the same sort of pattern, "Yes, madam, she does."
It's the same practiced turn of hand that doesn't miss the excuse to entangle her fingers with Thomas as she does direct the conversation away from themselves. It does not matter that Silcox doesn't care for that company, or that she knows that Lady Wyatt has only an interest in books and not so much in husbands, but that it isn't so strictly themselves and so the purpose is served.
Look somewhere else, there is plenty of looking to be done if that is what you worry about. She shouldn't be teaching military men about misdirection, for heaven's sake. "Perhaps you will both like to be introduced, Lieutenant, Silcox?" Her husband, after all, was a happily married man and had the only introduction that served him, despite no one in society understanding the forms that could take. There is a hundred fictions to be composed, and enough to throw society off a scent, as full of themselves as they liked to be.
Of course they aren't the only people of note in attendance - nearly every man of the Navy's officers has some degree of respectable parentage -, but surely they're among the most talked about, the best placed (to do themselves and him some degree of harm). Yes, there are indeed plenty of other places to look but none require such immediate attention.
He can't very well bloody ignore them, now can he?
So Silcox talks and Thomas brandishes his wit and James adopts the most cool expression he's capable of as he ignores Miranda threading her fingers easily with her husband's. It isn't so difficult to do - not thinking as he is of some point ahead of this moment where Miranda and her husband can successfully be bundled away back into whatever carriage they came in and sent home, and how best to arrive there without injury. They'll have to stay long enough to warrant coming in the first place, he thinks. Miranda will likely care to dance, god willing with her husband.
--A thought immediately dashed by Silcox saying, "As a matter of fact, the lovely Lady Wyatt and I are already acquainted. But I'm sure Lieutenant McGraw would be most happy for your introduction." The man clearly intends to keep Thomas in conversation.
James releases his hands from behind his back. He offers her his arm. "Of course. I'd be grateful for it." Maybe they can find something so riveting to talk about that the conversation will last the evening.
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"The Hamiltons. My god," exclaims Lieutenant Maplestone, late of the Woolwich. It's shouted almost directly into James's ear and maybe that's why every part of him goes sharp as a knife's edge and he finds himself choking on a mouthful of wine. The conversation in this small knot of officers dies and every eye of the group pivots to the doorway where, indeed, Lord and Lady Hamilton have appeared as a pair of brilliant gems transported here entirely by accident. Miranda is undeniably stunning, her dark hair turned up high off her long, slender neck and the rich color of her gown in sharp contrast to her pale breast. Her husband beside her is equally vibrant - from this distance, he seems fresh face and delighted in a way that's difficult to miss having become strangely familiar with it in the book-lined study of the Hamilton house (--and over dinner, and long into the night at the demand of conversation that had once been about the Nassau problem and then morphed into a frank argument over Sophocles).
By contrast, if he's as pale as he feels then James McGraw must look like a ghost when viewed across the length of the dance hall among the ruddy, suntanned naval men whose company he's among tonight.
And then, naturally, the attention of the men around him shifts directly from the couple at the doorway to the Lieutenant in their midst who a moment ago had simply been a broad shape lingering at the edge of polite conversation. "Well," --that's the Second Lieutenant of the Defiant, something that sounds very like smugness to James's ear-- "I can't say I'm shocked."
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They mean well. There are no boundaries for persons of their station, every door opened with shuffling obedience, even ones set lower than certain peers would prefer. Thomas had thought to work on correspondence tonight, but the idea of doing so drifted further and further away from his willpower after Miranda had put the idea in his head-- James complained in passing about these sorts of things (dryly) (once), and Miranda, too vibrant to suffer being cooped up away from the world, wouldn't be able to attend on her own, it would be miserable of Thomas to deny her, and James as well!, and it's supportive of their dear friend.
And anyway, it's not the worst place they've ever shown up.
There are so many people in this dance hall, so many men in identical dark blue, and yet Thomas finds (his) the one he's looking for in the space of a heartbeat. Like a needle pointing north, he thinks, before setting aside that absurd notion not only because he's told himself every notion of that kind is being buried, but because of-- Oh, dear, he thinks.
Idealistic and occasionally accidentally thoughtless, Thomas isn't stupid, and assumed the lieutenant would have a poor reaction at first, as he does to so many things. But Miranda is so good at coaxing him into sweet capitulation, and Thomas - Thomas has made sure they needn't immediately walk towards the officer who looks like he's swallowed his own tongue. Best to give him a few minutes to become a trifle less agitated, and very nearly on cue, Lieutenant Commander Davis greets them with brightly animated pleasure.
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Because the form begets the purpose, of a well intentioned jaunt on her and Thomas' behalf. He had thrown himself behind the cause, should they not do the same?
To that no, she doesn't lead - of course not, a woman of her position never leads, she politely inquires that when was the last time they spoke with the Commander Phillips? A effort to make the rounds, like perhaps to rally their own soldiers, she knows as many as Thomas to that end. It would be as good a time as any to make returns on those friendships before great undertakings.
Not just because James looks, rather... out of sorts. Like he'd swallowed bilge water, not wine, and was forcing himself to drink it anyway. Oh dear, it would be an effort to cheer him on that humour but she would do it regardless. But she tries keep the gaze only breifly lingering, as they make pleasant with another acquaintance, even if it's done with a casual distraction to the topic. Her hand loosening on Thomas, some for the tug of impatience she does her best to ignore as she waits for James to settle at least some from the surprise. It could surely be no more than that. He was a set man, at times.
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"Say, I'm reminded. Mister McGraw, aren't you acquainted with--" the Defiant's man is saying and James interrupts him with a clipped, "Excuse me," and shears off from his apathetically chosen companions to make headway toward the Hamiltons. It's only when he's a few paces away that he realizes his glass is still in hand (and empty), but then it's too late to do away with it on some sideboard so he's left standing there with some new line of curious officers with his bloody hands full as the two of them make pleasant conversation with Phillips and Kearns and Penhale in turns until finally they must turn and find him there next in line to say their hellos to.
In the time it takes, his expression has drawn so utterly flat and featureless that it's like looking into the face of a particularly bland portrait of an otherwise familiar figure. The man beside him - Silcox, of the Chestnut - greets Thomas like an old friend: a happy hand for the Lord Hamilton's elbow and some bright remark about Eton that James only half hears in the moment but will recall with perfect clarity later. James--
nods to the pair of them. "Lord Hamilton. Your wife looks lovely this evening, as ever."
Maybe the stars will align and some fool will strike a match too close to the powder stock on one of the great ships in the harbor. He can imagine then that no one will remember this evening and they can go on their way, happily forgotten.
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Speaking of. ('Oh, dear' for a third time between the two of them.)
"Lieutenant," is warm, the showy edges of his smiled dimmed just-so into something a little more familiar. Thomas reaches out and curls long fingers over the top of his empty glass, pulling it out of his grip and - well, Bennet Silcox is there, whose presence Thomas is actually quite relieved over, "Make yourself useful," he chides, and the dark-haired man laughs and takes the glass to set somewhere convenient while Thomas reaches back to shake James's hand properly. "She knows, I've made absolutely certain. I'm so happy to have caught you tonight, we weren't sure you'd be here."
That dour expression is somewhat concerning. No so un-agitated yet, it seems.
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James, is the breathed implied affection. "Lieutenant McGraw." is what comes out of her mouth. Though she takes no step to him, with Thomas' hand on her back, she does not so much lift a finger. Let it be said they were each other's better influence, always. "It is a pleasure to see you again at last."
Like it was not her that offered a gateway for him to step through, like half the room wasn't listening with baited breath.
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What a stupid thing - handing yourself so directly into the wolf's mouth. In any other conceivable circumstance, it might be charming. Invigorating. What a strange, liberated pair they are (and isn't that appealing?) But this isn't their drawing room in the company of poets, educated wives and liberally minded young men. He's intimately familiar with how this place works, what these young men will say. The reality of it drains the pleasure of their presence from the room.
He manages a smile, mistaken for easily done if only it reached past his mouth. "To what do we owe it?" What the fuck are you two doing here?
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But this wasn't meant to be particularly crushing pressure, and in the heartbeat of fractionally taken aback silence that meets the blunt knife of his question (Silcox beside him as a strange look on his face), Thomas looks at the situation and accepts that this may have been a bad call. In that same heartbeat is also: too late to do anything about it now.
"The occasion, certainly," is gentle, but in no way placating. James is a grown man who's seen battle, for heaven's sake, he can pull himself together. "It's the off season for things like this, and I'm lucky to have old friends and new present. And, I must say, you have kindled a true interest in our Navy."
It would be easy to take his displeasure personally, some little needle of worry over being present beside Miranda and showing off the bond James can never have with her in public. And maybe it's so, maybe Thomas's presence is what he resents; he doesn't have time for it. Privately lonely as he's been. It'll be a fine evening, Miranda getting to see her lover in his element, and Thomas-- can be happy for her, and catch up with like-minded old friends.
Just as soon as the lieutenant remembers people will talk one way or the other, and looking like he'd rather everyone in the room drop dead won't help. Come now, McGraw, you're the tactician.
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She blinks, her smile staying fixed, wide and brilliant. A gaze sliding back across to her husband when he speaks, like James knew his swords and Thomas knows his speeches, she knows her steps, her roles. No souring note would let anything affect that so quickly. Keeping her pace and her presence steady. To the volatile others of life had a habit of inflicting, it seemed a necessity, especially in moments like this. "Just so. After all, you have diligently attended my husband's days in parliament, should we not do the same and pay you a visit in turn?"
Her arm slides fixed, warm, to Thomas, sliding to brace against his wrist. Warm, held, comfortable. As a husband and wife should be. "Besides, it seemed a good excuse as any to revisit acquaintances in this corner that we have not paid respects too for some time." Not so solely him, as they might gossip. There would be men in the navy before James McGraw, and there would be men in the navy afterwards.
The chime of Silcox to his part for the over arching task master that was propriety and a need to smooth along a stilted conversation. ( - And we have been dimmer for it, madam! Good man. )
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He is so staunchly, preemptively angry (for absolutely everything that will come of this) that he can feel it in his hands, his fingers tingling. He needs something to hold - another glass of wine, one of the young ladies being turned around and around on the dance floor. Instead he tucks them behind himself and pinches the skin between his thumb and forefinger.
"I wasn't aware you were so well acquainted with the Lord and Lady Hamilton, Mister Silcox." Which is, mercifully, exactly the thing to say to encourage the other man to jump toward leading the conversation.
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"Come now, you never got into any real trouble," the man is saying, "just arguing with instructors."
"I should have tried real trouble, it turns out being in the habit of arguing persists in aggravating people long outside school years."
Silcox laughs brightly and without a trace of reproach; not everyone in London thinks Thomas Hamilton is mad, after all, and not everyone who visits his salon lies about it in the daylight. Bennet hasn't attended in a while, being busy with his career (and trying to find an appropriately uninvested girl to marry) as well as not stunningly intelligent. But he isn't stupid, and he isn't unkind, and he spent at least one summer nursing a broken heart over Thomas. In that respect it's a little classless to court his attentions, but he'll be delighted and Thomas-- Thomas will feel less inert. He just doesn't have the free time Miranda does, these days. Nor the options.
One of which is currently in control of his glower. Thank God. Thomas tries to catch James's gaze and communicate - what? Calm? Something curious? He knows the man well, but not well enough, it seems. Does Miranda? She may well have the key to soothing him, ironing out the edges of his temper, some intimate thing Thomas has no grasp on.
"Are you acquainted with any of the young women out on fishing expeditions tonight?" he asks her, and then at Silcox's faux-scandalized "Thomas!", adds: "Is that not a navy term?"
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"Young Lady Wyatt is looking quite handsome tonight, isn't she, Silcox?" That chimes to the tune, of the same sort of pattern, "Yes, madam, she does."
It's the same practiced turn of hand that doesn't miss the excuse to entangle her fingers with Thomas as she does direct the conversation away from themselves. It does not matter that Silcox doesn't care for that company, or that she knows that Lady Wyatt has only an interest in books and not so much in husbands, but that it isn't so strictly themselves and so the purpose is served.
Look somewhere else, there is plenty of looking to be done if that is what you worry about. She shouldn't be teaching military men about misdirection, for heaven's sake. "Perhaps you will both like to be introduced, Lieutenant, Silcox?" Her husband, after all, was a happily married man and had the only introduction that served him, despite no one in society understanding the forms that could take. There is a hundred fictions to be composed, and enough to throw society off a scent, as full of themselves as they liked to be.
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He can't very well bloody ignore them, now can he?
So Silcox talks and Thomas brandishes his wit and James adopts the most cool expression he's capable of as he ignores Miranda threading her fingers easily with her husband's. It isn't so difficult to do - not thinking as he is of some point ahead of this moment where Miranda and her husband can successfully be bundled away back into whatever carriage they came in and sent home, and how best to arrive there without injury. They'll have to stay long enough to warrant coming in the first place, he thinks. Miranda will likely care to dance, god willing with her husband.
--A thought immediately dashed by Silcox saying, "As a matter of fact, the lovely Lady Wyatt and I are already acquainted. But I'm sure Lieutenant McGraw would be most happy for your introduction." The man clearly intends to keep Thomas in conversation.
James releases his hands from behind his back. He offers her his arm. "Of course. I'd be grateful for it." Maybe they can find something so riveting to talk about that the conversation will last the evening.