Page 119 of Reign

“Help me,” I pleaded. “I cannot work out what goes where, and I don’t want to look foolish.”

“You can fit chain mail, but not a corset?” he teased, snorting at my lack of ladylike refinement.

“I’m sure you’re well versed in removing women’s garments,” I snapped back. “Surely you can advise me on how to put them on.”

Fitzroy chuckled, unoffended by my gibe. “I’ve never met a woman like you,” he murmured as he sorted through the fabric. “Start with your stockings and shoes.” He passed me the woolen hose.

“You’re not going to put them on for me?” I quipped with a smirk, pulling a stocking up my shin and securing it with garters made of ribbon.

Fitzroy shook his head. “I would never get on my knees for you,” he said, holding my gaze.

His captivating eyes were stern, brows raised as if he was serious. But the corners of his mouth crept into a coy smile, and his cheeks pinkened—impossible to read, yet I kept thumbing through his pages, hoping that one day I might understand him.

I eased on the square-toed slippers as Fitzroy picked up a frilly skirt. “Petticoat next,” he instructed.

I gripped his steady shoulders for balance as he helped me step into the waistband.

“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to a cone-shaped garment with sewn-in hoops.

Fitzroy sighed. “It’s an underskirt.”

“It looks ridiculous—”

“Put it on,” he demanded. No nonsense was the port of call today.

He gave me his best steely gaze—unnerving, yet sultry—and I complied.

Once the hooped skirt was secured, I twirled, swaying my arms like a dancing troubadour.

Fitzroy’s stone-faced expression cracked into laughter as he reached for the next item.

“Corset,” he announced as he wrapped the stiff structure around my torso, lacing it tightly at the back.

As he tugged firmly on the ribbons, cinching in my waist, I gasped for air. His breathy chuckles brushed against my neck; he was clearly amused by my discomfort.

I wheezed. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“I’m trying to give you the feminine silhouette you sorely lack,” he retorted, yanking the ribbons even harder.

I huffed a laugh. “Do men not feel deceived when a lady undresses and her waist isn’t the width of a thimble?”

“I can only speak for myself, but when a woman undresses in front of me, her waistline is the last thing on my mind.”

My thoughts wandered, imagining what Fitzroy might think if I were to stand before him entirely nude.

He sharply cleared his throat, snapping me out of my lewd musings.

“The kirtle’s next,” he said, helping me pull the violet underdress over my head. The skirt puffed out, making me resemble a giant bluebell.

“Now the gown.”

Fitzroy held up the weighty overgown; golden embroidery embellished the square neckline, wide sleeves, and flared hem. I slipped my arms through the openings as he turned me around, fastening the back with a generous number of golden pins. Around my waist, he secured a girdle belt—its long chain bore a pomander filled with perfumed herbs.

Once he’d stacked my fingers with jewel-encrusted rings and draped luminous pearls around my neck, he gestured toward the headpieces.

“Which do you wish to wear?”

I shrugged. “Which do you prefer?” I asked, finding both options equally ostentatious.