Esha was not quite locked in her room, but Daxton had to coax his way past three maids and a very very burly valet. Once there, he found her surrounded by three seamstresses and one milliner, all of them draping her in yards of lace and satin.
She was plucking at it helplessly. “This is… This is lovely. But it’s so expensive, and I don’t know how I’m going to move in any of it.” She hadn’t quite noticed Daxton yet. He stayed quiet and watched.
“You’re not supposed to move. You’re supposed to glide quietly down the center aisle and then stand, lovely, staring into your groom’s eyes.” The head dressmaker tch’d. “There are princesses that would kill for a dress like this.”
“The problem is that I’m not a princess. I’m a soldier.”
“I’m aware.” She squeezed Esha’s bicep rather more firmly than Daxton thought was necessary. “It’s making all sorts of difficulties in fitting you.”
“What if you tried to fit her?” Daxton stepped forward and took a sketch pad from an unresisting junior dressmaker.
“That’s what I just said. And what are you doing here?”
“No, no. Fit the dress to the bride. I’m not marrying her because she can glide nicely, after all.” He studied Esha for a moment, then sketched out a few lines on the paper. “Like this. A dress. Silk and lace. But a bit of white leather here, and then here, like a sword belt. She earned her title and her sword. Far more than I did, and there’s supposed to be one in my uniform. Let her carry them.”
He passed the sketch over to Esha before the dressmaker could snatch it, and was graced with a slow smile creeping across her face.
“Oh,” she said, pleased, “I’m keeping you.”
“That was the deal.” Daxton leaned against the wall and grinned. He was already managing to rescue her, and he’d just gotten here.
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