Serin’s lips twitched as if he had much to say, but he wisely held his tongue. Muttering under his breath, he turned and made his way back to the side desk, occupying himself with some documents.
Knock, knock.
The sound broke the tension, and Lassino reentered, bowing politely. “Your Grace, someone has arrived from the salon.”
Kennard’s brow lifted in mild surprise. “Where are they?”
“I’ve shown them to the drawing room.”
“Very well.” Kennard rose from his desk, smoothing the front of his frock coat with a practiced hand.
Serin, watching him with growing skepticism, stood abruptly and took a step closer. “The salon? Why the salon?” he asked, incredulous.
“I’m getting Elena a new dress.”
Serin’s mouth fell open. “But didn’t you buy dozens of dresses just a few months ago? And now you’re having one custom-made?”
Kennard shot him an exasperated look. “The season has changed.”
With that, he turned and followed Lassino out of the office, his stride purposeful as they moved down the corridor.
“And where is Elena?” Kennard asked as they walked.
“She should already be waiting in the drawing room, Your Grace,” Lassino replied with a slight bow. Lassino had personally handled Elena’s torn dress. He’d never consider delegating such a task, and when Kennard had instructed him to summon someone from the salon, the butler had given a subtle, knowing smile—as if he had anticipated it all along.
“Didn’t she say no?” Kennard asked, raising an eyebrow.
“She did indeed,” Lassino replied, his face bearing a serene smile.
Kennard smirked, amused. “Well done persuading her.”
Lassino inclined his head modestly. “I merely mentioned that if she didn’t have a fitting today, Your Grace might end up purchasing dozens more dresses. That, it seems, convinced her to reluctantly make her way to the drawing room.”
Kennard stifled a chuckle, impressed by Lassino’s gentle but effective persuasion. “Perhaps I should entrust you with convincing Elena next time.”
“If Your Grace trusts me, I will do my utmost,” Lassino said, crossing a hand over his chest and bowing slightly.
Behind them, Serin muttered under his breath, sounding distinctly disgruntled. “She was just in her chambers for the first time in days, and of course, it’s for Elena again, isn’t it?”
Kennard halted mid-stride, turning a cold, warning gaze on him. Serin, who had been trailing behind with a frown, quickly stopped as well, his eyes darting away.
“Title,” Kennard intoned sharply.
“Lady… Elena, Your Grace,” Serin corrected himself, his lips pressed in reluctant obedience.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Kennard warned before resuming his brisk pace down the corridor.
When they entered the drawing room on the first floor, they found Elena exactly as Lassino had described. She stood near a large mirror, which had been positioned beside the tea table, examining herself with a quiet expression. The tailor hovered beside her, holding up fabric swatches and gesturing toward different cuts and styles. The sunlight streaming through the window cast a warm glow, illuminating Elena’s delicate features as she glanced between her reflection and the tailor’s suggestions.
Elena had already turned toward the door before Kennard entered, her gaze instinctively finding his. “Your Grace,” she greeted softly, her cheeks tinged with a delicate blush.
“I greet Your Grace,” Cura murmured, bowing alongside the tailor, who had begun unpacking his measuring tape and notebook.
Kennard crossed the room to Elena, ignoring the others momentarily as he brushed a kiss against her lips and let his hand linger on her cheek. Her face flushed even deeper, as if a fire had sparked beneath her skin, and she quickly lowered her gaze, avoiding his eyes. Kennard felt an urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her more deeply right then and there.
“Ahem,” Serin cleared his throat from behind, reminding Kennard of their audience.
Elena, still unable to meet his gaze, whispered, “Your Grace, I already have enough dresses.”
Kennard placed his hand gently on her shoulder, pressing a brief kiss to the top of her head. “One of them is now unwearable,” he murmured just for her ears, his voice warm. At his words, the blush spread to the back of her neck, and a satisfied smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Kennard turned his attention to the tailor, who stood a few steps away, shifting awkwardly with the measuring tape in hand. The man’s round face resembled a full moon, and his portly figure gave him multiple folds along his chin. His small glasses were nearly lost in his broad face, and his clothes stretched over his belly as though they might give way. Kennard noted with faint amusement that the man seemed to have gained even more weight since they last met.
Despite his outward appearance, the tailor’s creations were impeccable, one reason Kennard entrusted his own attire to him. His wife, renowned for her delicate and intricate dressmaking, was equally skilled; together, they formed a team that had garnered admiration even before following Kennard from Montefiano to Terra Demorte.
Kennard raised an eyebrow. “But why are you here? I called for your wife to fit a dress for this lady here.” He gestured toward Elena with a subtle nod.
The tailor, startled by the unexpected shift in attention, quickly turned to face Kennard. “I—I only came because I received a summons from Your Grace, and I assumed it was for your own fitting…” His words trailed off uncertainly.
Kennard’s frown deepened, his gaze flicking toward Lassino, who stood nearby, a slight, almost imperceptible tension in his stance.
