“Apologies. It seems the attendant delivering the message made a mistake,” Lassino said, bowing his head deeply.
The tailor fumbled, hurriedly shoving a measuring tape and notebook into his bag. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his movements jerky. “I’ll send for my wife immediately.”
Elena gazed at him sympathetically, her soft expression a stark contrast to Kennard’s growing impatience. Kennard’s unease simmered beneath his composed demeanor.
“Fine, forget it,” he said brusquely. “Just do it yourself.”
“Me?” The tailor’s eyes widened in alarm.
Kennard folded his arms, his gaze unwavering. “Your wife can make it as long as you take the measurements, can’t she?”
“Well, yes, but…” The tailor hesitated, glancing nervously at Elena. “The lady likely has specific preferences for fabric and color. I believe my wife would be more suitable for that.”
Kennard hesitated, his resolve wavering. He wanted the dress to be perfect—something that matched Elena’s elegance and taste. The tailor’s wife, with her experience, was undoubtedly the better choice. But Kennard knew the risk. If they waited, Elena might change her mind entirely.
“It doesn’t need to be too extravagant,” Kennard said finally, his tone softening. His gaze flicked to Elena briefly before settling back on the tailor. “Elena’s skin is so fair it’s almost translucent; any color will suit her. But try to enhance the vibrancy of her red hair and gray eyes. Now that the seasons have turned, use silk or fabrics woven with golden threads instead of velvet.”
The tailor nodded quickly, his hand darting over his notebook as he jotted down the details. He paused every few seconds to wipe the sweat beading on his forehead, the tension in his shoulders never quite easing.
“For today, just take the measurements,” Kennard instructed, his tone brisk. “Bring back fabric samples and designs that suit her later.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the tailor replied, bowing slightly before preparing his tools.
Kennard cast a glance at the man before turning to Elena. “Your Grace, the things I already have are more than enough,” she said softly, her voice laced with hesitation.
“Shh,” Kennard interjected, his tone firm but not unkind.
As he anticipated, Elena tried to dissuade him. Kennard, undeterred, took her hand and guided her toward the round pedestal in front of the mirror.
Reluctantly, Elena stepped up onto the pedestal, alternating her gaze between Kennard and the tailor. Kennard’s expression hardened, his usual humor replaced with stern resolve as he met her gaze.
A small sigh escaped Elena’s lips, signaling her quiet surrender. She straightened, accepting her place on the pedestal.
Leaving her there, Kennard moved to the sofa and settled into its plush cushions. Serin, standing a few steps back, approached and leaned in close to him.
“Are you planning to stay here?” Serin asked, his voice low and tinged with incredulity.
“Yes,” Kennard replied curtly, his attention still fixed on Elena.
“Wouldn’t it be better to return to your office? There’s still a backlog of administrative work,” Serin murmured, his gaze flickering briefly toward Elena before returning to Kennard.
“Wait,” Kennard said firmly, cutting off Serin’s suggestion.
“Your Grace—”
“If it’s so urgent, you handle it,” Kennard shot back, his tone unyielding.
“I’ve been taking care of it while you’ve been away,” Serin countered, his voice tight with restrained frustration.
“Then finish the rest, too,” Kennard said without missing a beat.
“Am I the duke now?” Serin snapped, gripping the back of the sofa as he leaned in closer, his irritation finally bubbling to the surface.
Kennard’s gaze was locked on the tailor, who was carefully measuring Elena’s height with the tape. Despite Serin’s persistent murmurs at his side, Kennard couldn’t bring himself to look away.
The sight of the tailor’s thick fingers brushing against the delicate curve of Elena’s shoulder set his nerves on edge. No—it wasn’t just irritation. Each fleeting contact stirred an unsettling, simmering annoyance deep in his chest.
Without warning, Kennard rose to his feet. The abrupt motion caused Serin, who had been leaning over, to straighten sharply in alarm.
“Give that to me,” Kennard said, his voice cold and commanding as he strode toward the tailor, hand outstretched.
“Pardon?” The tailor blinked, his confusion evident.
“The measuring tape,” Kennard repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Hand it over.”
“This?” The tailor hesitated, holding up the tape.
“Yes, that.”
Kennard clicked his tongue impatiently and snatched the tape from the tailor’s hand. A tense silence blanketed the room as everyone froze, eyes wide in disbelief.
Elena, standing before the mirror, spun around, her dress swishing softly. She stared at Kennard with a mixture of surprise and apprehension. Even Lassino, usually unshakable, looked stunned, his mouth slightly agape.
“I’ll take the measurements myself,” Kennard declared, his voice firm. He turned to the tailor and added, “You just write them down.”
“Your Grace… you’re going to take the measurements yourself?” the tailor stammered, his pen trembling as he dipped it into the ink.
“Yes,” Kennard said without hesitation.
“But, Your Grace, this is improper. How could you possibly—”
“Quiet.” Kennard silenced him with a sharp wave of his hand, his patience visibly fraying.
Elena instinctively stepped back, her brows knitting in uncertainty. But before she could protest, Kennard placed a steadying hand on her shoulder and gently turned her back toward the mirror.
