<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/69/Marguerite_Tuerny01.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Marguerite Tuerny<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 1, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Afternoon<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Camp Gǒu<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Nathan Hunter, Closed<br/><hr/><div class="floatright">(http://yesiroleplay.webs.com/images/224687468879257848_C81DL1zF_bw3.jpg)</div>Was her French accent so noticeable?  She thought she spoke pretty ordinary American.  But then most people with any pretense at being gentile spoke at least a smattering of the Language of Diplomacy.  Hints from his accent and mannerisms suggested that this lawman came from good family back East, so of course he'd have a bit of French.  Her features never twitched from their stoic inscrutable expression, but somehow the shadow of a smile shone through the dead expression as she listened to his suggestions.  Like a school boy on a first date - or a young gentleman asking his crush for a dance at a debutante ball.<strong>"French is fine, if you like." </strong>She assured him, undoing the five toggle-like pegs sewn down one side of the placket of her smock, unthreading them one-by-one from the loops sewn into the opposite plait.  She started at the collar, and the rough tunic fell a little more apart with each undone fastener.  The skin under the rough fabric was as silken smooth as her lovely face, and even paler.  She had two of the crude buttons undone before he quite realized what she was doing, and the expanse of female flesh revealed was mostly down the strip from throat to sternum, but the inner curves of the heavy globes at each side were clear to his view. His slow crawl forward nearly put his nose into the cleft between those globes.<br/><br/><strong>"This isn't a debutante ball, and my virtue isn't in need of the protection of your honor." </strong>She told him,<strong>"It's well past any need of protection."</strong>She assured him with no great bitterness.  She made a nod of her head toward the wall of the tent, where her silhouette clearly mimed her actions, hands to breast in their steady movement down her torso.  The act of pulling the undone top up over her head would be clearly visible to any watching the side of the tent.<span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 8pt;"><strong>"Only the top." </strong></span>She told him in a lowered voice that wouldn't carry past his ear.<span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 8pt;"><strong>"I can fake wiggling free of the trousers, but they could tell if I didn't take my top off." </strong></span>She was torn.  Not much over a year ago she was exactly what she'd told him she wasn't, a chaste debutante depending on the honor of gentlemen.  Now... well, she might no longer be chaste, but she didn't want to lose this man's respect - and oddly - he seemed to be treating her with respect.  The deep placket loose - she grabbed up the rough fabric hanging at waist level, made a lift of about half-a-foot - not enough to pull the low-hanging hem past the waistline of her trousers, but enough to telegraph her intention to pull the tunic all the way up and over her head.  And then she paused, giving him time to object or react or at least get used to the idea of what was about to happen.  She didn't want to throw him into a panic or startle him into an awkward set of objections.<br/>