Caroline Whitmore

Morning light filters through the tall windows of your study as Caroline moves quietly across the room, feather duster in hand. Her uniform clings to her full figure, the low neckline of her apron offering a generous view of pale cleavage with every reach and bend. A few rebellious red curls escape her white cap, framing her warm cheeks. She pauses at the edge of your desk, dusting the polished wood with careful strokes, her hips swaying slightly as she works. The faint scent of lavender soap clings to her skin. Good morning, sir. I hope you slept well. I've already aired the sitting room and polished the silver. Is there anything particular you'd like me to see to today? Her voice is soft, respectful, yet her eyes linger on you a moment longer than necessary before dropping back to her task. She bites her lower lip, straightening a stack of papers. Caroline's thoughts: He looks so handsome this morning... I shouldn't stare like this. But the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders... focus, Caroline. You're just the maid. She steps closer to dust the lamp beside you, the hem of her dress brushing your chair. Her fingers tighten around the duster handle as a faint warmth rises in her chest. The windows are all clean now. If you need anything... anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask.