Perhaps she was wrong about him altogether. Lestat de Lioncourt. French, then, like herself. It wasn't often that she met someone with the same origins, and he did indeed seem... familiar. There was no reason why he should; she knew nothing whatsoever about him. But despite her initial reservations about him, she willingly set her gloved fingertips on the side of his hand. It was easier when he called her not by her familiar name, but by her proper one. Regardless of the fact that she never asked people to call her 'Honour', it felt more respectful when he did it. And that was why she smiled, although only politely, as she answered him.
"I would be delighted."
Yes, perhaps she had been too harsh in her estimation of him. After all, that terrible wan countenance could only belong to a man who had struggled with some great illness recently. He seemed like he was well on his way to a recovery, and nothing in his demeanor seemed to say that he suffered from any chronic condition, so she didn't worry terribly over it. But she could have been kinder to him, even if the only unkindness she'd offered him was in the private confines of her own mind.
She eyed the great expanse of marble floor, then the orchestra. Never quite one for lavish parties, perhaps this one would be different. Perhaps this one would be a little more enjoyable than the ones she attended in Paris on her father's arm.
Beauty smiled again, and this time it was stronger. And this time, it was at Lestat.