Chapter Eleven
Mr. Doddington was a tall, spare man with sharp eyes behind his round spectacles. He always had a smile for Penelope, and now he listened as she introduced him to Callum and explained what was required for her latest client. “I think he needs a complete transformation.”
Callum made a sound that suggested he disagreed.
“Hmm.” Doddington gave Callum a searching examination. “The marquess certainly has the right figure for the latest fashions.”
“I’m not a dandy,” Callum muttered.
Doddington’s mouth twitched. “No, you are not a dandy,” he agreed, “but you could be much admired if you put your mind to it, my lord. I see you in clothing that fits you without a wrinkle. Plain colors—none of those silly sparkly waistcoats. You would be the envy of the ton, and that is the point, isn’t it, Miss Armstrong? ”
“That is the point,” she agreed with a smile. “The marquess has come to London in search of a wife.”
Doddington clapped his hands. “I think with a little help from myself and Miss Armstrong, you will find one,” he said. “Now, let us get started.”
Penelope was more than happy to leave matters in the tailor’s hands, but she felt she had to stay in case there was a question of taste or style she needed to address.
Or if Callum refused to cooperate. To pass the time, she wandered about the premises, stopping to inspect some of the rolls of cloth on display and a tub of fancy buttons.
Now and again there was a murmur of voices from the inner room, but so far it sounded as if all was well.
“Miss Armstrong?” Eventually, Doddington’s call brought her to the door of the fitting room. “I wonder if you could give us your thoughts on a matter of color.”
Penelope blinked. Callum was standing there bare chested, in his drawers, and looking most uncomfortable. It was certainly a sight to see, but she kept her gaze on his face.
“I believe the forest green for the jacket, what do you think?” Doddington asked, seeming not to notice her discomfort or Callum’s.
“We could make that royal blue, but the marquess informs me he likes nothing better than to stroll in the forest on his estate. I thought the green may remind him of home.”
Callum gave her a pleading look but Penelope ignored him.
“Yes, I agree,” she went on. “But I also think we need more than one jacket. The marquess will be very busy socially in the next few weeks, and he can afford your excellent craftsmanship.” She raised her eyebrow at Callum and caught the flicker of a smile in his dark gaze.
“Miss Armstrong knows best,” he said gloomily.
The matter dealt with, she should have then left the room, and yet she lingered.
Her treacherous gaze refused to be checked.
And good God, the man was well built. Curved muscles in his arms and shoulders, and then there was the breadth of his chest. His thighs were also strongly built—all that striding around his estate, she supposed—and she experienced a wave of dizziness as she contemplated how he would look if he were completely naked.
The bulge beneath his drawers certainly hinted at something sizeable there.
Shocked, she came to her senses, and her gaze shot upward.
Amused brown eyes were observing her. She could not pretend she had not been openly ogling him, but Penelope did her best.
“The inexpressibles would suit him too, Mr. Doddington.”
“Indeed they would,” Doddington agreed as he carried on with his measurements.
“Inexpressibles?” Callum repeated with a frown.
“They are pantaloons, sir,” Doddington explained. “Very tight pantaloons. They do not suit everyone, although unfortunately some persons ignore the advice of their tailor and wear them anyway, but they would certainly suit you.”
He thought a moment and then shrugged. “As long as I can walk in them,” he decided.
Penelope felt her heart give a little jolt. He was such a good-natured man. He might complain a little, and sometimes sigh as if he was being put upon, but he had never outright refused to do as she told him. Well, not for long. If only there were some way . . .
But it was no use dreaming of the impossible, was it? She was being paid to make him palatable to the ladies of London—a veritable feast! Not to have him for herself.
Doddington and Penelope conferred, and he assured her that the garments they required would be finished in good time.
In fact, he would get his team started immediately.
“We cannot have the marquess looking anything other than the gentleman he is,” he said, beaming at them both. “My reputation is at stake.”
As was hers.
“Thank you, Mr. Doddington,” Penelope said, and it was heartfelt. “I can always rely on you.”
With Callum clothed once again, they retraced their steps to the street, where numerous shoppers lingered outside enticing establishments.
Penelope couldn’t help but notice the interest she and Callum attracted, but she ignored the glances and whispers as best she could.
Callum appeared a little flustered, tugging at his ill-fitting jacket like he had only just realized how unflattering it was on him.
That was a good lesson, she told herself.
Someone in his position needed to understand the importance of appearance.
And yet at the same time she felt a twinge of regret—there had been something touching about the naivety of the man who had first come to her for help.
She was not a devotee of peacocks who had to check their appearance in every shiny surface.
Lord Muir had been one such. Despite his years, he had been excessively proud of his looks, and Penelope had found it secretly amusing.
The way he had to stop at every mirror he came to or examine his features in a silver dessert spoon before eating.
Callum MacKenzie did not seem at all self-obsessed.
He was certainly confident, most of the time anyway.
She understood he must feel out of place here in London, but she imagined that when he was in familiar surroundings, he would be very much at ease.
“Your evening wear will be ready in time for the practice ball,” she declared, suddenly aware of the silence stretching between them.
He nodded. Ahead of them stood a line of hackneys, and she lifted her hand to summon one. Callum hurried to open the door for her before settling in beside her.
Two ladies who were passing paused with avid gazes and whispered together behind their gloved hands.
Penelope sighed and reminded herself again that while there was nothing she could do about the gossips, she could still help Callum to reach his goal.
Of that she was more determined than ever, and bedamned to all those who wished her ill.
She turned to make some inconsequential comment about the weather and found him watching her. There was a question in his eyes and a quirk to his brows. “You seem distracted, Miss Armstrong,” he said quietly. “Is your brother causing you more distress?”
It was a personal question, and Penelope really should remind him that personal questions should be reserved for those one knew intimately.
“Not since you knocked him down,” she heard herself say drolly.
He grimaced. “Apologies. It was impulsive, and—and excessive, but I couldn’t help myself.”
She hesitated and then nodded. “He was rude. Although perhaps a sharp warning might have been a better choice than physical violence.”
“What if I had challenged him to a duel?”
She laughed. “Mortimer would have refused. He is no expert when it comes to pistol or sword.” Then, in an attempt to move on to less fraught subjects, “What of you, MacKenzie? Are you proficient in either?”
“In my own rough way, I am considered an expert shot,” he said with a grin.
“The sword . . .” He paused. “I do not play with that weapon—it is for serious battle. I know there are gentlemen who believe it is a game, but not me. I would only pick up a sword if it was to protect my family, my home, or my country.”
He was a proud man. Penelope asked herself when the last time was that she had believed in something as strongly.
Her sole reason for living seemed to be to protect Mortimer and make enough money to keep food on the table.
What did the future hold for her? She had longed to escape the life of a kept woman, and so she had, but her current situation was tenuous at best. No clients were booked for future lessons, and once Callum was gone, she faced a bleak future.
The awful thing was that she was beginning to wonder if Mortimer was right. Perhaps she should seek out a new protector before it was too late. But living that life again, beholden to a man who might finish with her from one day to the next . . . The idea made her feel quite ill.
“You are lost in thought again,” said a deep voice in her ear. “And your expression suggests they are not pleasant thoughts.”
His warm breath brought tingles to her skin. Penelope turned her head and found him very close. His light-brown eyes were flecked with a darker color, and as she gazed into them, she admitted to herself that she found him very attractive. Almost irresistibly so.
Selina’s words popped into her mind. Why not enjoy herself while she could?
Was it possible for her to put aside her rules and do that?
If she had no more clients and her career in tutoring was over, then what would it matter?
Callum would still find his wife and return to Scotland, she would make sure of that.
But right now he was here and so was she.
She wasn’t sure who moved first, but she was suddenly aware of the brush of his lips on hers. Soft. Restrained. Another tingle went through her, this time accompanied by a hot wave of desire, and with a soft moan she leaned into him, her arm sliding around his neck and drawing him close.
In a heartbeat, they were kissing passionately, almost fighting for supremacy, his tongue inside her mouth and hers tangling with his.
Her fingers tangled in his long hair, and his jacket buttons dug into her soft breasts.
It was wondrous. So wondrous that her banked desire threatened to overwhelm any restraint she still had on it.
She was lost in the moment, forgetting everything but the taste and sensation of Callum MacKenzie.
Outside the hackney, a child wailed. The sound was enough to shock her out of the moment, and she drew back, eyes wide, a hand pressed to her swollen lips.
Callum looked like he was in a dream, eyes blinking.
It took him another few seconds to return to the hackney and the busy street, and then she saw the flush of color rise in his cheeks.
“I feel like I should apologize,” he said, his voice husky, “but I don’t want to.
Should I say I am sorry, Miss Armstrong? ”
She searched for the appropriate words but none came to her. For a moment she teetered on a precipice, knowing she should pull back and yet struggling to do so.
“No,” she said at last. “I don’t want you to say sorry, MacKenzie.”
He smiled then and reached out to tuck a strand of fair hair behind her ear. “Then I won’t,” he said.