Reagan & Luke | Towards the end of the second act
She'd turned wide, owlish eyes up to regard the actor, her mouth gaping in visible surprise. "No," she blurted, but it was in perfect tandem to Luke's effortless participation and so was drowned out almost completely. She turned an equally stunned look on Luke when he pulled his fiddle seemingly from no where, an incredulous huff of laughter twisting her face at the sheer absurdity of it. "Do you carry that thing everywhere with you?" she hissed, and though it was meant to be an aside the intrusive stable boy seemed to find it all very amusing, like perhaps they were doing it for his benefit.
Reagan wanted to pinch him.
"A musician! What luck! And a beautiful lady to stand beside the beautiful bride! Perhaps you'll even be the next lucky bride to be, Pidgeon!"
Heat flooded to her cheeks as the table beside them roared boisterous amusement at the notion. She stubbornly pushed her spine against the back of her seat and gave the actor her best withering scowl.
"You don't get to call me that," she sniped at him, a put-on air of lofty superiority causing her words to come out short and clipped. She flitted her eyes over to Luke, fairly certain she was pink right to the roots of her hair. How he could make it so easy, how he could find fun in this after all he'd been through, was strangely endearing. Defiant, in a way. She puffed her cheeks, deliberated, threw back the rest of her ale in decidedly unladylike fashion, and then declared with utmost authority, "I am not catching that bouquet."