She walked step by step toward the Duke, her pace leisurely and alluring, as if dancing a silent dance.
Caitlin bit her lip and struggled to stand up as well, bowing her head and following behind her sister, her white stocking-clad legs trembling slightly under the loose black robe.
The two stopped simultaneously in front of the Duke, one on the left and one on the right.
Lucia extended her hand, her fingertips gently resting on the arm-guard of the Duke's dark gold armor, her fingertips softly tracing the patterns on the metallic surface, her movements tender and lingering, like caressing a precious work of art.
"My Lord's armor is indeed splendid," she said softly, "though I dare suggest that as majestic as the armor is, it must be uncomfortable to wear. My sister's chambers are right behind, with warm springs and soft beds. Though our skills are not refined, we will ensure my Lord's comfort."
