She eyed the parcel questioningly, before raising one 'brow up as she accepted it. She had very little choice not to do so; such was the manner in which he held it out before allowing himself in through the door. It was not his usual manner of entrance by any means, but she presumed that he would not have done so if he had thought that there was even the slightest chance of being seen. His lips quirked up slightly into a shadow of a crooked smile as she considered it as though it might have held live, fuse-lit powder within.
"It really is not going to harm you, you know." She frowned faintly then, and some of her discomfort was readily seen in the subtle nuances of her body language. But she set it down on top of the table, pushing aside a scroll that she had been pondering over before retrieving a knife - more like a rather too-sharp letter opener - from within one of the drawers nearby. She undid it with a swift efficiency that spoke of some unnatural skill with a blade. Unnatural at least by the standards of society that she was supposed to act within. He leant against the back rim of the high chairs as he watched her, while casually removing his frockcoat and placing it atop the pin on the nearby wall for such a purpose. The box was undone at last, and she then blinked at what was inside.
The shoes were delicate, finely-embroidered things all in black, with the finest coiling flowers and vines visible in marginally lighter threads. The heel was perhaps two inches, enough to raise her height but not so much as to cause her gait to be uneven or the angle at which her foot was put, uncomfortable. The surprise lingered for a moment more before, after a sidelong glance that was part-appreciative and part-disapproving, she moved to put them on. He, naturally, took the chance to regard what was wearing. An uncommonly dark burgundy day-dress, a morning garment often worn in the privacy of one's own home. As much as she would not ordinarily entertain guests in such attire, he was no regular guest, nor she the class of woman that he called on formally during the day. One of the lower orders, by birth even if not by known occupation. The marks from their last liaison had faded thankfully, although he still kept the cravat secured high without comment.
No sooner had she gotten the shoes on and secured, did he decide to turn the tables. There had never been anything in the rules about not doing so, only that there existed one word that would cease everything. Fervently did he hope that he would not misgauge how she would react. His hand went for her slim throat, enough to put pressure there without any hurt or lasting mark, before he used both his height and body weight to his advantage. His hand then sharply moved up to stifle any outcry of protest, not that he reasoned much of one was coming. With his chest against her back, he used one hand to securely raise both of her wrists, easily snaring them within one of his hands. The other snaked down her fine-layered garment before tugging it up with a sense of viperish urgency, letting the material fall over his forearm again once his fingertips brushed the soft bare flesh of her thighs underneath the light muslin shift worn underneath.
