There was no other option, truly. Leaning down, Lucien adjusts the needle onto the spinning vinyl, the smooth jazz pouring out of the gramophone. With another eye at the complicated diagram of loops and swirls on the blackboard, he calls out for his housekeeper.
"Jean? Can you come in here for a moment, please?"
A moment later, she's there: a smudge of flour on her cheek and her eyes bright, eyebrow arched. "Yes?"
Lucien offers a hand to her, outstretched and fingers wiggling, "Dance with me, Jean?" She wrings her hands in front of her, nervous and unsure.
"What on Earth-"
He grins, his hand drops back to his side and points at the blackboard, "It's for the case Charlie and I are working on! The one at the Ballarat Gala? Somehow the killer managed to waltz their way through the ballroom unseen. I just need," he trails off, hand characteristically coming up to rub at his temple in frustration. "I just need to work it out; to visualize, yes?"
Jean eyes the indecipherable scribbles on the blackboard before rolling her eyes, wondering not for the first time how this became her life. "Oh, alright. But just because it's for a case."
She steps closer to him, accepting his once again outstretched hand, trying to calm the fast beating of her heart and hoping his keen eyes don't pick up on the pulse pounding in her neck.
Things had changed between them-shifted. Boundaries had blurred and Jean was finding it harder and harder to keep her feelings (and hands) to herself.
Lucien curls his fingers around her hand, tugging her to him, and leads them through a farce of a waltz. The music is reaching its crescendo now and Lucien knows he should be focusing on the timing of the their steps and applying it to the movement of the hypothetical killer, but he cannot stop thinking about the way their hands entwine.
He cannot stop thinking about his hand on the curve of her hip and the way she fits against him just so-head tucked beneath his head and the scent of her wafting up, intoxicating.
Jean's hand absentmindedly creeps its way across his shoulder around to the back of his neck, nails scratching lightly at the slicked-down curls. It's a bolder touch than she meant to make and yet she's certain Lucien sighs at the touch.
They sway and shuffle and suddenly they're much, much closer than propriety dictates and it's all too much for Jean. The vinyl itself skips a beat and with that stutter, Jean remembers her place: housekeeper. And housekeepers don't dance with their employers-no matter how disgustingly smug and clever and handsome they are.
Jean steps away from their embrace and she thinks for a split second she sees something in his eyes-bewilderment? Longing?
Shaking her head, frightened and unsure, she smooths her hands over her apron, nervously. "Well, Lucien, I hope that was helpful."
Lucien stares at her, mouth slightly open, and hand flexing at his side. She bites her lip, unsure. "Lucien?"
Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he stoops down and picks up his glass of whiskey, taking a long sip, before clearing his throat. "Yes, yes, very helpful. Thank you, Jean."
He watches her return to the kitchen, mouth dry and trying very hard to not linger on the memory of her in his arms or the way her body felt pressed against his. Another long drag of whiskey, then.
As he turns back to face the blackboard, his own chalk notes more unclear than ever, Jean's head pops out from around the corner.
"Lucien, if you ever need help with another case, just," she swallows, gathers her courage, and meets his eyes. "Well, you know where to find me."
She disappears back behind the wall and Lucien smiles, suddenly eager to complete this case and move onto the next. Who knows what else he may need with, after all.