“The first step is admitting it,” comes his taunting voice. “Now we have something in common.”
“I’m not dressed.”
“There’s hardly anything indecent about being undressed. Although, I’d have thought you’d want to wear at leastsomethingto the opera.”
I grit my teeth, sorting through the clothing. I find silk stockings, a chemise, corset, petticoats, a dress, and a collection of ribbons that are probably meant for my hair. “Just…give me a moment.”
“Can I wait inside? We should talk.”
“What part ofI’m not dresseddid you not understand?” Heat courses through me as I slip my fresh chemise over my head. How could he possibly think it’s proper to wait in a lady’s room while she gets dressed?
He’s fae, I remind myself,and of the unseelie reign, at that.
Based on how he seems to look down upon humans, I doubt he’s had much experience with society’s rules of propriety. I wrap my corset around my waist and secure the closures. Luckily, the laces only require a slight adjustment to secure the fit.
He knocks again.
“Fine,” I say through my teeth. At least now I’m wearing what he’s already seen me in. Not that I’ll allow him to see me so underdressed ever again. Thank the breeze for the generous-sized dressing screen. I hear the door open and close, followed by his footsteps. “Don’t you dare come any closer.” Then, thinking better of it, I add, “Your Highness.”
His footsteps halt. “You can still call me Franco.”
I don my petticoats and take up the dress that’s been chosen for me, a confection of mauve silk damask patterned with seashells. I hardly need to look at it to know I’ve never worn anything so elegant in all my life. As I pull the gown over my head, I’m painfully aware of the sweat already pooling beneath my armpits.
“Can I still call you Em?” he asks. “Now that I know you aren’t the princess, I can’t call you Maisie. It’s akin to lying, should I state it like I believe it to be your name.”
“Yes, you can call me Em.” My voice comes out strained as I fight with the dress. Unlike the simple gown Gemma Bellefleur gifted to me, this one features laces in the back that require much tightening to secure the bodice. I wonder if my stepsisters chose it on purpose, knowing I’d regret dismissing their assistance.
“That’s why your energy spiked when I called you Maisie the first time, isn’t it?”
“An astute observation,” I say dryly as I try to tug the laces. They are far less wieldy than the corset had been.
He takes a few steps closer. “Are you all right back there?”
“Don’t!” I shout. “I’m still getting dressed.”
“It sounds more like you’re wrestling with a nine-tailed kitsune. Where are your lady’s maids?”
“I gave them the evening off.”
He huffs. “You can’t dismiss your maids, Em. You’re supposed to be a princess.”
I open my mouth to argue but snap it shut before I can get tangled in a lie. I must remember he thinks I’m a lady’s maid myself. “I’m not used to being waited upon. It makes me highly uncomfortable.” That, at least, is true.
“From now on, let them do their job,” he says with a note of annoyance. Then his tone softens. “In the meantime, can I help you?”
“I don’t need your help.”
“No, you don’twantmy help. I can feel your frustration from here. Are you sweating profusely yet?”
“How do you know it isn’t you I’m frustrated with?” But he’s right. My neck and forehead are now coated in a sheen of sweat in addition to my armpits, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t get the back of my dress tightened while ensuring the bust is properly situated as well.
“Either accept my help or let me call your lady’s maids.”
Neither option is palatable, but I suppose I’d rather accept his assistance than see my stepsisters’ smug satisfaction after I admit my struggle. “All right. You may help me.”
He lets out a low chuckle as he approaches the dressing screen. My heart drums a rapid tempo, several beats for every step he draws near, but I force my breaths to remain even. Not that it will do me much good. I’m sure he can already sense how flustered I am. Keeping my back to him, I refuse to so much as look his way as he comes up behind me. His footsteps pause. “What the hell are you wearing?”
My cheeks heat, and I whirl around, grasping the bust close to my chest. “What do you mean? My maids picked it out. Is it not appropriate for the opera?”
