"How old are you?"
I jerked upright to find Lord Fashire redirecting his attention from the window to focus on me. His eyes sized me up.
Clutching my hands tightly in my lap, I instinctively avoided his penetrating stare, unable to hold eye contact with him for long. "Twenty-four, my Lord," I managed to utter in a hoarse whisper, suddenly aware of the dryness in my throat and how thirsty I was.
A raised eyebrow and a look of surprise danced across Lord Fashire's face. "Really? You appear far younger than that."
A rush of embarrassment flooded over me, mingled with an indescribable pang of shame. My self-consciousness resurfaced. Unlike the voluptuous women I had seen, my own figure was lacking, almost non-existent. I possessed none of the curves and contours that defined femininity. My feminine features barely hinted at womanhood, I was in my undergarments. I had believed I had conquered my insecurities, only to have them brutally exposed in this vulnerable situation.
