When she thoughtlessly reached out to touch the sleeve of his jacket – a symptom of nerves or uncertainty, he assumed – he had to fight to keep the corners of his lips from curling upwards. It was a perfectly innocent gesture, no doubt about that, but for Léon it served as a rather amusing and endearing ice-breaker.
"Oh?" he remarked, nonchalance colouring his tone but a hint of a smile on his face, looking down at what he had donned for the occasion. "Thank you very much. It was a gift, but one of my favourites."
He neglected to mention that it had been a gift from his previous wife.
The Rousseau chain of hotels were world renowned, as well known and wide-reaching as Marriot or Hilton; and if Rosemary made the connection in her head between his name and the company, then she had probably already realised that he was one of the eponymous heirs to his father's multinational corporation. Had she realised that, she probably would have researched history and she might have known everything there was to know about him without needing ask him about it at all.
Of course, Rosemary may also have assumed that his was just another typical French surname and thought nothing of it. News and rumours of his transgressions had been widely circulated around mainland Europe during his wilder days with great fanfare – after all, his entire family were predominantly based in France and Italy - but not so much in other parts of the world. God only knew that the woman he was marrying deserved to know the truth about his past, and he had no intention of hiding anything from her. However, it would be strange and difficult to bombard her with all of this information right away, so he decided against any startling declarations for the time being. If she had any questions for him – which, judging by her journal entries, he was fairly sure of - he would answer them honestly and they could work their way onwards from there.
"It's lovely to finally meet you in person, Rosemary," he responded to her greeting, with a genuine smile, as they shook hands – what an odd way to greet a woman to whom he would presently be married, and with whom he would eventually be procreating. What a stiff and formal way to begin a relationship that was going to become so intimate so uncomfortably quickly.
Well, more uncomfortable for her, he imagined. Sex wasn't exactly a massive thing for Leo – it was enjoyable and it was fun and it was something that he could readily assent to without needing to form an emotional connection with the woman in question, although even he could admit that it was a lot nicer when the connection was there – but he knew that women, or some women, at least, had a slightly different opinion regarding the whole thing.
"Yes, yes we are getting married," he agreed, with a laugh – not a cruel one by any means, but in appreciation of what he felt to be yet another very endearing random act on her part, in needlessly announcing their upcoming nuptials. "Although, in the interest in breeding familiarity quickly I think you should probably just call me Leo. It's not that I have any problem with 'Mr Rousseau' but it sounds so horribly French, and I've been desperately trying to pretend that I'm not," he added, his lips quirking upwards yet again. While he may have been born in Nantes, he had spent so much time in London as a child, and such heavy emphasis had been placed on his learning English – to the point where all of his lessons had been learned in it – that his accent was rather difficult to place and people often had trouble figuring out where he hailed from. "And you can rest assured that there will be nothing but free desserts from now on. Your hair is very beautiful, by the way."
She certainly did have beautiful hair, one couldn't help but notice. It was sleek and shiny and fell fluidly over her shoulders like something from a shampoo advertisement, and in a way, it was really quite mesmerising. She clearly took a lot of pride in keeping it pretty – so why not point it out to her?