“My dear friend.” His languid voice came from somewhere back.
Pen turned and espied a door that led to an anteroom. Alworth’s dressing room. Here was the man himself, in bare feet and linen shirt and trousers, looking for all that was worth as if he’d just risen from bed.
Pen felt a hot flush spread all over her body.
“Ah, Pen. I see you are here.” He yawned. “Do you have any idea what the time is?”
Pen looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s nearly noontime, sir.”
“Precisely. The middle of the night, child.”
“I-I’m sorry,” Pen stuttered.
She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. Alworth’s hair stuck out in all directions, making him look boyish and somehow vulnerable, yet he had a definitive stubble on his chin, which was so very manly. Lawks! She ought not to stare at him like that. He sat down in a chair and closed his eyes. Was he falling asleep right there and then?
The valet entered with a bowl and towel and proceeded to sharpen the razor on a leather strap.
Pen stepped from one foot to another. Was she supposed to watch this procedure? It was rather interesting, given the fact she’d never seen a man do his toiletry before.
The valet dried his face, patted cologne on it—Pen inhaled it; it smelled divine—a mixture of bergamot and lemon, and something else—a masculine smell that assaulted her senses, simultaneously decadent and refreshing.
Then the valet handed him an apricot-coloured waistcoat.
Alworth waved it away. “Not this.”
“The blue one, sir?”
“No. Methinks the cream. Or the red.” Alworth sighed. “What a confounding decision to have to make at the crack of dawn. What do you think, Pen? Cream or red? Since you were the one who dragged me out of my slumber, it seems only appropriate that you help me solve this dilemma.”
“I’m very sorry, sir. If you like, you can continue sleeping, and I’ll return later.”
Who slept until nearly noontime, anyway? Pen rose regularly at six.
“Nonsense. Well? Which one?”
Pen tipped her head to the side. “It depends on which coat to match it with, I suppose?”
“Excellent point, my dear Pen. I will wear the dark blue coat today. Together with the cream waistcoat. No. Wait. The red striped one it shall be. Or will that clash with the tapestry of the coffee room at White’s?”
Pen gaped at him.
“What a dilemma, Pen,” he moaned. “Thirty-nine waistcoats and nothing to wear.”
“Forty-three,” the valet grumbled.
Alworth popped an eye open. “Did you say something, Walker?”
“I said forty-three, sir. Forty-three waistcoats.” He pulled out the red striped one and held it up. “And an equal number of coats. That is in addition to twenty-three pairs of pantaloons, thirty-three cosack trousers, and nearly fifty-three shirts,” he said aside, so that only Pen heard him. “Not to count the cravats.”
Pen snickered.
Alworth stared at the red striped waistcoat pensively. Then he waved it away. “It does remind me of the wallpaper at White’s. I shall wear the pink one today.”
“An embroidered one, or a striped one?”
“Pen?” Alworth massaged his temples.
“Depends on the embroidery.” Pen choked.
