He grabs for her wrist before she can pull away--but not too well before; she's gone too quickly for him to hold to. With a sigh, Darras shrugs off the coat.

"Yes, m'lady," he says, as he drapes it over a near-by chair, "anything you say, m'lady--"

But a careful eye might note that he's careful with it, more careful than he might be with his own things. Though of course this is his own thing, now. He glances at himself in the mirror a moment, trying to reconcile the images. A repertoire, is it. Well.