Page 66 of The Thirteenth Count

“Good enough,” she declared before she could keep picking at it.

She snatched up her coat, squared her shoulders, and headed back into the sitting room.

“Who was that?” Fern asked, eyeing the breakfast spread out on the sitting room table.

“Willem brought provisions.”

Cassius finally looked up from pouring tea—and stopped.

For one bewildering moment, he said nothing at all. Then a sharp, sudden laugh escaped him.

Cassius pressed the side of his hand briefly against his mouth as though catching himself too late, but another low laugh slipped free anyway, quieter this time, threaded with genuine amusement she had never heard from him before.

“You can’t leave this room like that,” he said.

Heat rushed into Fern’s face. “I dressed myself.”

“You most certainly did.”

She glared at him. “You said thirty minutes.”

“And in those thirty minutes,” he replied, still visibly fighting amusement, “you appear to have lost a war against your own clothing.”

Fern folded her arms tightly across her chest. “The lacing is backwards.”

“That is generally how back-lacing works.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you’re frustrated.” His mouth twitched again as he set his teacup aside and rose from the chair. “Turn around, Miss Silverbell.”

Fern blinked. “What?”

“The lacing,” he said patiently. “Turn around before you embarrass us both.”

“I can fix it.”

“I’m sure you can,” Cassius replied. “Eventually.”

Her glare sharpened. “You are insufferable.”

“So I’ve been told.” He made a spinning motion with his hand. “Now turn around.”

Fern debated refusing purely out of spite. Unfortunately, the back of her trousers felt as though they’d been secured by a drunkard. With an aggravated sound under her breath, she turned.

A shiver prickled across her arms as he drew closer. The humor faded from her irritation almost immediately.

Cassius gathered the loose cords, pulling the uneven tension from the lacing one section at a time. The leather tightened properly against her back, snug but no longer threatening to twist sideways every time she moved. Fern was suddenly aware of ridiculous things she should not have been aware of at all—how quiet the suite had become, the warmth of his hands through the fabric of her tunic, the faint scent of cedar and smoke clinging to his coat.

“You tied this like you were mad at it.”

“I was mad.”

“Apparently.”

Another firm tug, and finally the lacing settled correctly against her spine.

“There,” he said.