“Oliver. I’d like you to help me dress.”
There’s a pause, long enough for me to take another long look at him. But then: “Yes, sir,” he says, in a breathy, almostgigglytone.
I shall need to stamp that out quickly. I’m in no mood for flirting. “Is that an enthusiastic, green-for-go yes? Because I am in rather a hurry, now.”
He grins at that. “Yes, sir. Green. I just… It’s my first day here. So I’m not entirely sure how to help you dress?” His voice goes up at the end, a question instead of a statement.
Oh, Lord.Whatis Niklaus doing to me?
“Very well,” I say with a sigh. I take off my robe and sit on the bed in my underwear. “Let’s start with the socks, shall we?”
The leather of his brand-new shoes creaks as he kneels down, and I’m surprised to find myself moved by the submissive bend of his back. I fight the urge to stroke his hair as he works. He’s very good with the clothes, despite needing detailed instruction. He gets me into everything quickly, with minimal crushing of the fabrics, and ties up my shoes for me without hesitation.
“Very good,” I say as we both inspect my person in the full-length mirror in the corner. “Dr. Dubois’s maid works wonders. These trousers look freshly laundered.”
In the mirror, I see him bite that full, fleshy lower lip again.
“You ironed my clothes yourself,” I say. It’s not a question.
Oliver flushes. “I—I thought it would be faster. I couldn’t find Amelie, and—”
“You disobeyed.”
The flush deepens. “Sorry, sir. I just thought—”
“Yes,” I say. “In this case, the ends did justify the means.” And, though I don’t say it, I’m impressed with his attention to detail in the ironing. He shows promise.
And his mouth isverytempting.
How does it match up to the rest of his face, I wonder?
I’m still staring at him in the mirror, and pull my gaze back to my clothes instead. “But you should be aware, Oliver,” I continue, “that even well-meaning infractions are still infractions.” I head over to the nightstand to bring out one of the small cards kept in there, writeOliveron the front with the tiny attached pencil, and mark down one infraction inside.
“Come here.” He comes warily, but holds up his hand quickly enough when I ask him to. I tie the card onto his wrist with the red ribbon threaded through one corner. From the other end of the ribbon hangs the miniature pencil. Oliver regards it with interest.
“I know there’s a ball coming up, but it’s a little early for a dance card, right?” His smirk dies immediately as I glance at him.
“A dance card,” I repeat. “Yes. In a manner of speaking, that’s what this is. Keep it on you at all times. This will be where I record your infractions during the weekend. I have a feeling your dance card will fill up rather quickly.”
I catch his eyes in the mirror as I turn to it to straighten my already-straight bowtie. He doesn’t seem to realize that I’m joking, his face solemn.
“I get it,” he says. “I’ll keep it on me, sir.”
“It’s ‘my lord,’ Oliver. Not ‘sir.’”
“Oh? Okay. Uh, my lord.” The words sound awkward on his tongue, as they tend to with most Americans at first.
“Off you go, now,” I tell him. “I’ll be down shortly.
But again, he hesitates. “Sir—my lord—I…”
“Yes?”
“I’m kinda…”
“Yes?” I’m losing patience now.
“Lost.”
