He stopped behind her, leaving a careful space. “Where?”
“The upper hooks.”
His hands lifted. For a moment, nothing happened. She felt only the nearness of him, the warmth that seemed to gather at her back before he even touched her. Then his fingers brushed the fabric between her shoulder blades.
Frances went utterly still. The first hook loosened. His knuckles grazed the back of her neck where the gown shifted. The touch was accidental, surely. It lasted less than a second. Still, everynerve in her body attended to it as though he had spoken her name against her skin.
She drew a quiet breath. Andrew’s hands paused.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
He continued. Each hook came free with maddening patience. Frances stood rigidly, aware of the fire’s warmth, the faint scent of starch and lavender from her gown, and the deeper scent of sandalwood that belonged to him.
His fingers never lingered. He was impeccably careful. That made it worse.
There was nothing improper in the assistance. Nothing at all. Husbands helped wives. Maids helped mistresses. Fabric required hands. Hooks required undoing. And yet the air changed with every small release.
The gown loosened by degrees. Cool air touched the line of her spine through the shift beneath. Andrew’s breathing was quiet behind her. Once, his fingers brushed a loose strand of hair aside so he might reach the next fastening, and Frances had to press her lips together.
The last hook came free.
“There,” he whispered.
He should have stepped back. She should have moved away. Neither did.
Andrew stood behind her, close enough that if she leaned back even slightly, she would touch him. His gaze was not on the undone gown. It was on her face in the mirror.
For one impossible moment, they simply looked at one another there, a man and a woman in a quiet room, with the whole house asleep around them and the pretense stripped away as surely as the hooks at her back.
Frances’ breath caught. Andrew’s hand shifted, as though he meant to touch her again, then stopped.
Frances stepped forward first. The movement was small, but it severed the moment cleanly. She gathered the loosened gown against herself and turned halfway.
“Thank you.”
His face had returned to calm, though not entirely. There was a tension along his jaw that had not been there before.
“You are welcome.”
She crossed to the screen near the corner of the room, carrying her night things with her. “I shall only be a moment.”
“Take all the time you need.”
Behind the screen, Frances changed with fingers that were not quite steady. She told herself it was the travel, the scrutiny, the absurdity of their sleeping arrangements… anything but his touch.
When she emerged, wrapped in a modest dressing gown, Andrew had turned down the lamp near the sofa and placed an extra blanket over one arm. He had changed as well, or nearly so, into shirtsleeves and dark trousers. He did not look at the bed. Frances did not either.
“I will face the wall,” he said, gesturing faintly toward the sofa. “You need not be uncomfortable.”
“I am not uncomfortable.”
The lie was so transparent that even she disliked it.
Andrew’s mouth softened, but he did not challenge her. “Good.”
Frances drew back the bedcovers. The bed was too large, too white, too obviously meant for two people. She climbed into it with as much dignity as possible and settled near the far edge, as though the empty side needed defending from suggestion.
