//CLARA//
I woke to the kind of silence you only get when there are no sirens blaring outside or the none stop notifications blowing up your lock screen.
Not even an alarm, or with Lola barging to flip the lights just to get my ass moving.
For a second, I thought everything was just a nightmare starring a beautiful man called Casimir. That I wasn't stuck in a time glitch two centuries ago.
Then I felt the mattress. It had the structural integrity of a potato sack, which brought me back to reality.
Right. Gilded age. Gnarled Oak.
Thinking where I am right now, my body moved before my mind could process anything, practically levitating off the mattress in a panicked, ungraceful leap.
The second my feet hit the floor, my skin started to crawl, feeling the thousands of microbial legs marching across my limbs.
"Ew…ew…ew… get off, get off!"
I went into a one woman exorcism, desperately brushing my arms, thighs, and my neck with my palms like I was covered in invisible fire ants. While I was halfway through a mental breakdown, my hands frozen mid-scrub.
There at the washstand was a basin of fresh water, and draped over the chair, next to a slate-blue dress, was a clean cloth. I was no longer thinking, I lunged for for the cloth and dunked it into the basin, gasping from the freezing water, but I don't care.
I started scrubbing every inch of my exposed skin with vengeance. I rubbed vigorously until my shoulders, arms, and thighs turned raw, angry pink. My entire body stinging from the friction-burn, and when I look entirely like a cooked lobster only did I finally stop.
The crawling feeling on my skin somehow vanished, but the freezing air made me shiver. I look at the garment hanging on the chair. It was simple day dress. The kind of thing a commoner would wear. I picked it up, bracing myself for the smell of wet dog, but I was floored.
It was surprisingly clean. Though, not gel-po-spring-meadow clean, but a crisp, unscented kind of fresh. Just the smell of cold-air and sun-dried fabric.
Now, I'm not asking where on earth he found this, but I am more than glad that he manage the bare minimum of providing me clothes. The real struggle began when I actually tried putting it on. How I wish I'd paid more attention when Hattie was navigating me through this labyrinth of laces.
I was a far cry from wrestling my way into the dress, figuring out where-to-put-what when the door opened.
Casimir walked in carrying a wooden tray, stopping dead in his tracks the second he saw me. He looked at me with pure absurdity, probably wondering what I'm supposed to be doing. That a grown woman of my status didn't know how to dress herself.
I stood there, tangled in trailing laces I can't put on together. I can feel his silent judgement from a miles away. He didn't say anything at first, but his eyebrows did enough talking for the both of us. And the message is clear enough.
"What are you staring at?" I snapped, trying to tuck a stray lace behind my back while maintaining some semblance of dignity.
He looked unfairly handsome for a man who had just slept in a dirt-floor inn after a carriage accident. His white shirt was crisp, and his hair was just disheveled enough to make any woman's panties drop on sight, not that I was wearing any.
God, did we really slept together semi-naked?
The memory of us in that god-forsaken bed was suddenly was suddenly too much. It was a good thing I was already flushed from the aggressive scrubbing I'd done. Otherwise, I definitely would've turned a much deeper shade of scarlet.
"The coachman has arrived with a fresh carriage," he said monotonously, acting as if he hadn't a single concern in the world. "No broken axle this time. We depart in an hour."
I eyed the tray and the food. There was a bowl of what looked like an oatmeal, topped with some sliced fruit. My brain immediately went into a tailspin.
Was the water boiled? Were the oats stored on a bug-free shelf? I was basically running a mental diagnostic for E.coli while staring at the steam.
"Is this…safe to eat?" I asked, poking a piece of fruit with a rather clean spoon.
Casimir didn't answer. Instead, he took the spoon from my hand, scooped a mouthful of oats, and ate it. I gaped at him, waiting for something, anything, to happen. I didn't know, maybe he would start choking? Or foaming at the mouth? But he looked perfectly fine.
Using the same spoon, he took another mouthful then handed it back, gesturing for me to try it. I eyed him incredulously, but then my stomach chose that exact moment to let out a roar that echoed through the tiny room.
Traitor!
I gave him an awkward smile and conceded, leaning into the spoon as I took a tiny, skeptical bite. I rolled it around with my tongue, testing for grit, dirt, or any unwanted flavors, but it was just oats. And surprisingly sweet berries. I took the spoon from his hand and started eating for real, my hunger finally winning the war against my scrutiny.
I was so focused on the food that I completely forgot I was only halfway through lacing the back of my dress. The bodice was gaping, and the laces were like trailing loose wires.
Casimir moved behind me and suddenly started untangling the mess I'd made.
"Be still."
I felt his large fingers working the laces with a precision that was honestly a little suspicious. He didn't struggle the way I had with the intricate criss-cross pattern. He just threaded them through the eyelets with ease.
"For a wealthy man like you, you sure know how to lace a woman too well," I commented, taking a final spoonful of oats. I was starting to feel a bit more like myself, though I was silently wishing for a toothbrush to magically appear.
He finished the knot, tightening it against my back. His knuckles grazed the skin between my shoulder blades, a touch that felt way more intentional than it needed to be. I turned around, adjusting the bodice so I could breathe more easily, and gave him a look that was more than a little accusatory.
"How many women did you undress to get that good, Mr. Guggenheim?" I teased, tilting my head.
He didn't answer. He just leaned in, bracing both arms on the side table and caging me in. His storm-gray eyes dropped to my lips before locking onto mine, a move that made me way too conscious of my morning breath rather than our actual proximity.
"Just enough to know how intricate your wardrobes are," he murmured, moving an inch closer. "And just enough to know exactly how much work it takes to get you out of them."