"The hunter green?"
Edmund gave him a hostile stare. "We're not going hunting, Lionel, are we?"
"No, my lord. Certainly not." Lionel hastily tucked the offending garment away. "Er. May I ask, my lord, what you intend to do today?"
"What day is today, Lionel?" Edmund drawled.
"Wednesday."
"And what do I usually do on Wednesday?" He looked at Lionel through half-closed eyes.
Lionel blushed. He'd been his valet for almost two months now, so he should be able to rattle off his schedule without a hitch.
"After breakfast, you get dressed."
"That goes without saying," Edmund muttered, suppressing a sigh.
"Then you go to the club and fence until teatime. Then you take a walk. Then you go to the laboratory in Jermyn Street. And then to the club in St James's for dinner."
"Wrong. First, I go to the laboratory, then I go for a walk. What else?"
Lionel looked at him, taken aback. Then his eyes brightened. "And since today is Wednesday, you will go to the opera afterwards." Lionel thought a moment before adding, "You will also change clothes before the walk, the laboratory and before going to the opera."
"Indeed."
Somewhere between the club and the opera he would have to find a wife, but of course Lionel wouldn't know that.
"Very well, Lionel. Given my schedule, you can clearly see that hunter green is a poor choice for my morning visit to the club. What other greens do we have?"
Lionel scratched the back of his head. "Spinach green? Cucumber green? Parsley green?" He thought for a moment. "Mud green, moss green, mould green. What else is there? The kind of green your face gets just before you throw up your—" He caught Edmund's scathing look and interrupted himself. "I suppose not," he added hastily. "Then we have celery green, apple green and pistachio green." Lionel had reached the end of his list and was exhausted.
Edmund lifted a finger. "Pistachio it is."
"Very well, sir." Lionel went to fetch him the pistachio-green tailcoat. "May I suggest a beige striped waistcoat?"
Edmund considered the matter. "Along with the beige trousers." It would be a smart ensemble. It would match perfectly. "But no. It won't do. Bring me the orange-and-yellow-striped waistcoat, the pink polka-dot waistcoat and the royal-purple waistcoat."
"Yes, sir." Lionel scrambled to get the waistcoats and laid them out.
After another half hour of trying on all three waistcoats, prancing around in front of the full-length mirror, taking them all off again, and complaining that he didn't have enough waistcoats, he settled on the orange-striped one.
The last outfit was garish, flashy, and eccentric.
A diamond brooch and fob completed the ensemble. His cravat was tied in the oriental style, and his shirt points were as high as ever.
He took a kohl stick and drew a fine black line under his lower lashes. The effect was immediate. Instead of giving him an effeminate look, it made his hazel eyes appear smoky and slightly dangerous.
"Perfect," Edmund murmured happily. His shoulders were broad, and the corset cinched his waist in just the right way. His powerful thighs needed no padding from all that fencing, and neither did his arms, but he preferred to add padding just for the fun of it.
"I need a scarlet primrose, Lionel. For my buttonhole. I shall need several of them, so that when one wilts it can be replaced with a fresh one. Can you get that, please?"
Lionel could.
Edmund had always complained that the era of macaroni was long gone. Modern fashion was more sober, and he was bored by the simpler style in which men dressed, with the dominant colours being black, blue, brown or beige.
"Why stick to four colours when there is a whole palette of colours that the universe has given us?" he was forevermore complaining to his companions at the club. They were a group of beaus who went against the grain. The more colourful, the flashier, the brighter, the better. And Edmund was the leader of them all. Elegance was not so much his main motivation as the attention it brought. He'd flick an imaginary piece of lint from the lapel of his coat and strut down the street, nose in the air, to be admired. Baron Tewkbury certainly turned heads wherever he went, followed by whispers, giggles, and laughter.
Except, if he was really honest, it wasn't really attention that Edmund was looking for; it was something else entirely that he couldn't pinpoint. Whenever he entered a room, everyone looked at him. He would pose and smile and walk around the room, aware that all eyes were on him. He did not necessarily enjoy the moment.
