Cordelia fixed her gaze in the middle distance, though that didn’t quite work—she found she was staring directly at the hollow at the base of his throat, usually covered by a shirt button. He had a strong, slender neck, and the hollow was really very fascinating, but she couldn’t allow herself to go to pieces over parts of James Herondale right now. She set her jaw and said, “You are going to need to help me with my dress.”

He blinked, his long eyelashes flickering against his cheekbones. “What?”

“I cannot get the dress off without the help of a maid,” she said, “and I cannot call for Risa, or she will know we are not spending the night together, in the marital sense, and she will tell my mother, who will tell everyone else.”

He stared.

“There are buttons,” she said evenly. “Many buttons. You need not help with my corset. I can manage that. You will not need to touch my bare skin. You will be touching only fabric.”

There was a long, painful pause, during which Cordelia wondered whether it was possible to die of humiliation.

Then he swung the door wide. “All right,” he said. “Come in.”

She came into the room, trying to focus her attention on the decor. Books, of course, everywhere. This was where he had put his beloved poetry books—Wordsworth and Byron and Shelley and Pope, next to Homer and Wilde.

The room was decorated in shades of warm ochre and red. She gazed down at the dark crimson carpet as James said, “I suppose you had better turn around.”

Turning around was a relief, actually. It was much worse to have to look at him and know that he could see her blushing. She felt him come up behind her, felt his hands touch her shoulders lightly.

“Where should I start?” he said.

“Let me move my hair out of the way,” she answered, reaching up to sweep the heavy mass of it over her shoulder. James made a funny sort of sound. Probably stunned by the sheer number of buttons on the dress.

“Just start at the top,” she said, “and if you need to tear the fabric a bit, it’s all right. I won’t be wearing this again.”

She had tried for a bit of humor, but he was utterly silent. She felt his hands move to brush the back of her neck. She closed her eyes. His fingers were light, gentle. He was close enough for her to feel him there, feel his breath against her skin, raising all the tiny hairs along her arms.

His fingers moved down. The dress was loosening, beginning to sag. His palm slid across her shoulder blade. She felt her eyelids flutter. She still thought she might die, but not of humiliation now.