To Undo A Lady. Christine Merrill

that led to the boxes, and higher still to a set of apartments that must be almost on a level with the cloud-painted ceiling.

      He produced a key to the plain door, so she assumed the rooms were his. They were small, clean and serviceable, and quite clearly empty. Though he did not have a servant, at least he did not seem to share them with anyone. And it was good to be out of the weather. Resting on the thick rug, her feet felt much better than they had on the wet cobbles.

      He lit several candles, chasing away the last of the shadows in the room, and returned to her, standing back to observe her and placing his hand thoughtfully upon his chin. “Strip, to your shift.”

      She hesitated.

      “If you please,” he added. “And put this on.” There was an ornate gown hanging over the back of a nearby couch, and he thrust it in her direction. “We must see if it fits you, before we go any further.”

      It was a strange request. But he did not seem aroused by the idea of her nakedness. He was staring at her expectantly, as though the change in garments was some obstacle to be overcome before they got to whatever truly interested him.

      What right did she have to pretend modesty, after what had just happened between them? She dropped her shawl and pulled awkwardly at her gown, letting it fall to the floor and standing before him in stays and stockings. She took the one he had indicated and dropped it over her head. “If you would help me with the lacings?” She turned her back to him.

      He did them up efficiently, and then turned and admired the results. “Can you read?” he asked. And then said more to himself than to her, “I should have asked that first. For if she cannot…” He closed his eyes for a moment, as though praying that she would not disappoint him.

      “Of course,” she interrupted, slightly offended that he would doubt her literacy. “What language do you wish me to read in? I can manage three, at least.”

      “English will do,” he said, chastened. “And your memory. How is it?”

      “I can remember that you promised me dinner,” she said, glancing around her. There was a little space in the corner of the room that he seemed to treat as kitchen, but she saw no sign of a meal laid for company.

      He went to it and rummaged in a cupboard, removed an apple and a dry bit of cheese, and placed them on a plate along with a half loaf of bread and a boiled egg. “It is not much, but it will hold you until we can finish this discussion. Can you recite, from memory, if I give you the words?”

      She grabbed the plate and ripped off a bite of bread. “I can manage well enough,” she said, around a mouthful. It felt as though she’d not eaten in ages and was extraordinarily good for something so simple.

      “Do you dance? Sing? Juggle?” He was pouring her a glass of wine.