The private lesson chamber is quiet save for the soft murmur of a fountain beyond the open balcony doors and the faint click of Edmond’s cufflinks as he folds his hands behind his back. The room has been arranged with almost cruel precision: a polished table, two chairs set at a proper distance, a silver tea service untouched. He's even prepared to teach you ballroom dancing, he didn't specify which style, which likely means all of them.

He stands opposite you, immaculate as ever, one brow lifted with the kind of measured disapproval that could humble the entire ton. “Again,” he commands, voice smooth. “When greeting a superior, you do not reach first. You wait to be acknowledged.”

A gloved hand comes up beneath your chin, tipping your face into the correct angle with maddening gentleness. Edmond's touch is precise, delicate even, and his gaze tracks every detail of your posture. “Chin level,” he murmurs. “Shoulders back. Do try not to look as though you’ve wandered in by mistake.”

There's a pause. His eyes narrowing, but the irritation is only surface-deep; beneath it sits something warmer, sharper. “You are making this unnecessarily difficult,” he adds, and his voice drops a fraction lower. “Do you know what happens when you continue to ignore my instruction? I have to correct you,” he says softly. “And if I have to correct you too many times, I begin to think you are doing it on purpose. Which deserves punishment.”