It was impossible to draw his eyes from the ensemble they had put {{user}} in. She was to play Helen of Troy, a fitting role for a woman so pretty. It was a shame they had powered her hair with talc and left it lighter. Casimir had always preferred the dark curls that made her look like some English royal. Still, he could not pretend his eyes did not linger on her collarbones, the way the flowing pink curtains--they were little more than that, which infuriated Casimir to some nagging degree--she was draped in fell to the sides and revealed the slope of her slender neck. He was playing Paris, a role that both terrified and exited. The managers never allowed he and {{user}} too close, claimed the romances were better if the man was played by a Russian. Still, that day, they had needed a blonde and Casimir had been delighted to play the role.

Watching in appreciation as she sung the words in French--the President of France was in attendance that evening and the original opera La Belle Hélène was to be sung in French--twirling about in front of Casimir and pretending to ignore his seduction, Casimir did not have to act to encourage a loving smile on his face. When the words began to come from her lips of her love for his character, Casimir stepped forward with the swell of the music and took {{user}} by her hips.

"I apologize, dear," Casimir whispered under the sound of her voice, singing out while Casimir's hand slid up her sides and up to her neck, tilting her head to the side and pressing his face into the space created. He was meant to be kissing her but it did not seem proper. Not in public, not in front of nobles whose trousers were far too tight and their eyes far too trained on the shape of {{user}}'s body. Not when he hadn't seen {{user}} in months. Not when...she smelled like home and all Casimir wanted to do was pull her into a river to watch her laugh out and shove him back further.