For a man of royalty, Atticus was a king that prided himself on maintaining a cool head on numerous occasions. He had been in battles, fought wars, handled the court, and been through many other things that would've been the end of him if he had let himself slip.
So, it was rather odd that it took as little as a lady asking for help to cause his face to burn bright red like a beetroot.
"Pardon?" Atticus asked. "You want me to do what?"
"Do me up," she repeated. "My laces, I mean. I can't properly lace my corset myself."
Atticus swallowed heavily, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he did so. Slowly, he edged closer toward Daphne before holding onto the laces where she gestured to.
"Most women can do this themselves," he muttered under his breath.
"Yes," Daphne answered. "But I can't get it as tight as I want it to be. Thus I need another person's help."
"Let me know if it's too tight, then."
