Page 88 of Duke of Moonstone
“I shall remain outside briefly,” Alexander said. He stood beside the carriage, one hand on the door. “Instructions for the driver for our route tomorrow.”
“Of course.”
“The room is the third on the right. First floor. Miss Ripley should already be there. The innkeeper found space for the servants downstairs.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded. Frances turned and went inside.
Miss Ripley was waiting in the corridor, having arrived in the second carriage with the luggage. She fell into step beside Frances as they climbed the narrow staircase.
“Shall I help you undress, Your Grace?”
Frances looked at her maid. The woman’s eyes were shadowed. She had been traveling just as long, in considerably less comfort, and her cap was listing to one side in the way it only did when exhaustion had overtaken propriety.
“No. Go and rest. I can manage perfectly well.”
“Your Grace, the stays?—”
“I have managed stays before.”
“Not these stays, Your Grace. The laces are?—”
“Miss Ripley,” Frances stopped at the door and turned, “you have been traveling since dawn. Go to bed. That is not a suggestion.”
The maid pressed her lips together. “Yes, Your Grace. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
Frances let herself into the room. It was small with a bed, a washstand, a single window overlooking the yard, and a settee pushed against the far wall that appeared to have been designed for someone considerably shorter than a grown man. A fire burned low in the grate. Her trunk had been brought up already.
She took off her pelisse, her bonnet, and her gloves. She unpinned her hair and let it fall free, feeling almost physically relieved by the weight lifting from her temples and the cool air brushing against her scalp.
Then she reached for her stays.
The laces were at her back. She twisted her right arm over her shoulder. Her fingers found the top of the bow, tugged, and… nothing. The knot held. She tried the left hand. Same result. She bent forward, reached behind, and managed to graze the laces with the tips of her fingers without actually loosening anything.
Miss Ripley tied these with the strength of a sailor.
She twisted once more. Her shoulder ached. She arched her back, reached higher, and her fingers slipped completely off the silk.
“Oh, for heaven’s?—”
She did not hear the door opening or footsteps crossing the floor. Instead, she felt hands at her back—warm and confident, pressing against the fabric with such steadiness that her whole body froze.
“I cannot fathom,” Alexander said, close behind her, “why women insist on wearing such nonsense.”
Her breath caught. Every nerve along her spine came alive at once—a rush of heat that started where his fingers worked and spread outward in all directions. She gripped the bedpost.
“The stays lend a woman a fine form,” she explained. Her voice came out remarkably even, all things considered.
“Nonsense.” His fingers moved, pulling and loosening the laces. They gave way one by one, and with each freed inch, she felt the stays loosen their grip on her ribs. “Nothing that alters the feminine form does it any justice whatsoever.”
The last lace came free, the stays fell open, and Alexander turned her to face him.
He was nearly close. His hands gently rested on her shoulders, barely touching, and his gaze shifted downward. Not lingering or inappropriate—just a quick, subtle glance that moved from her collarbones to her waist and back to her face with such directness that it made her knees feel weak.
“Especially yours.”
