Ford was trying to work out the situation from her answers. She was alright now, she'd been lightheaded. In his mind both of these seemed to be connected to the activity she had probably been engaged in a few moments ago, not standalone statements. She hadn't explicitly said that someone had taken advantage, but the clues still seemed like they could have pointed in that direction. His heart leapt to his throat when she said she needed some help. Of course he would help her, if she needed it — he couldn't imagine turning her down, in a situation like this, and if any of his sisters found themselves in a similar predicament he would want someone to help them — but helping meant becoming involved, which rather complicated his attempt to get himself a clean and simple alibi. If she wanted him to go fetch one of her family members, or go tell the hostess something, or help her contact the authorities, or anything — someone would eventually ask if he'd seen or heard anything before he'd discovered her in the coat room, and then he'd have to make up some very good reason that he'd been coming in through the floo.
But then she tapped on his shoulder. Ford tensed, unsure what she was asking for a moment, then eventually took a tentative peek over his shoulder. She had her back to him, and her dress falling around her like the cocoon of a half-emerged butterfly. He stared for a beat, not sure what was being asked of him — and admittedly a touch distracted by her bare shoulder blades emerging from the top of her corset. It wasn't desire so much as shock: he didn't think he'd ever seen a woman's bare back before, unless one counted his sisters when they'd been children.
When he finally caught up to what she wanted him to do he hastily cleared his throat and jumped (rather clumsily) into action. He had no practical experience with corsets, but Verity had lectured him once on the differences in the fastenings (while trying to justify the purchase of three new ones, which he'd told her was superfluous), so he knew at least academically what to do. He pulled one section so the slack was gone — but not tight, because he had no idea how women typically wore these and did not want to be in the position of needing to loosen them for her — then realized there were laces below and above the one he'd started with, and he'd have to start over. Did one tighten corsets from the bottom or the top? Where was the slack supposed to end up? Both answers seemed wrong. Ford was sure he'd seen women wearing dresses that fit snugly across their upper backs, which meant they couldn't have big knots of corset strings hiding there, but wouldn't the bustle and things make it inconvenient to deal with those at the bottom, too? Did they magic them away after the corset was tied?
"Uh, sorry," he mumbled. "Do you start from the top or —" Ford was not able to finish the question before he heard a noise. He froze, trying to identify it. Someone in the hallway — a hand on the doorknob? It half-turned, stopped, unwound.
"Did you lock it?" Ford whispered. It sounded like whoever had tried the door had found it locked. The door being locked was good for them, wasn't it? He certainly didn't want anyone to walk in while he was trying to figure out which direction was up on this corset.
But then she tapped on his shoulder. Ford tensed, unsure what she was asking for a moment, then eventually took a tentative peek over his shoulder. She had her back to him, and her dress falling around her like the cocoon of a half-emerged butterfly. He stared for a beat, not sure what was being asked of him — and admittedly a touch distracted by her bare shoulder blades emerging from the top of her corset. It wasn't desire so much as shock: he didn't think he'd ever seen a woman's bare back before, unless one counted his sisters when they'd been children.
When he finally caught up to what she wanted him to do he hastily cleared his throat and jumped (rather clumsily) into action. He had no practical experience with corsets, but Verity had lectured him once on the differences in the fastenings (while trying to justify the purchase of three new ones, which he'd told her was superfluous), so he knew at least academically what to do. He pulled one section so the slack was gone — but not tight, because he had no idea how women typically wore these and did not want to be in the position of needing to loosen them for her — then realized there were laces below and above the one he'd started with, and he'd have to start over. Did one tighten corsets from the bottom or the top? Where was the slack supposed to end up? Both answers seemed wrong. Ford was sure he'd seen women wearing dresses that fit snugly across their upper backs, which meant they couldn't have big knots of corset strings hiding there, but wouldn't the bustle and things make it inconvenient to deal with those at the bottom, too? Did they magic them away after the corset was tied?
"Uh, sorry," he mumbled. "Do you start from the top or —" Ford was not able to finish the question before he heard a noise. He froze, trying to identify it. Someone in the hallway — a hand on the doorknob? It half-turned, stopped, unwound.
"Did you lock it?" Ford whispered. It sounded like whoever had tried the door had found it locked. The door being locked was good for them, wasn't it? He certainly didn't want anyone to walk in while he was trying to figure out which direction was up on this corset.
Set by Lady!