Like the rule that a man should not look at another man the way Balfour was looking at him now. Watchful. Appreciative.
The rattle of a drawer reminded David where he was, and heat flooded his cheeks again. He could imagine the rush of colour, livid against his pale complexion. The curse of the redhead. David’s propensity for blushing was a source of constant consternation to him, his embarrassment over the pinkening of his cheeks only making them burn more.
Tearing his gaze from Balfour, he began to search the floor for his boots. His heart was thudding as he pulled them on, then donned his black waistcoat and coat. He almost always wore black: black trousers, black boots, even black gloves and hat. He knew he would feel odd in the blue and white of his new clothes.
The whole time David was dressing, he ignored Balfour, but he could feel the other man’s attention, a prickle of awareness rippling over his skin like a caress. It was a familiar feeling, transporting him back to that time two years before, when they’d first met in the dining room of a backwater inn. To his shame, the memory made his cock stiffen in his breeches, and he had to turn away from Balfour to hide his physical reaction, spending far longer than was necessary buttoning up his coat.
Once his erection had subsided, he turned towards Mr. Riddell. The tailor stood behind the desk waiting for him, his dour face expressionless. His order book was already open, David’s name and the date written there in a painstaking copperplate hand. David ordered the coat and waistcoat. Offered the choice of white or nankeen trousers, he chose one of each. He shook his head when the man offered new shirts, stockings, a low-crowned hat, all of which items he already had, thankfully. He took a cockade, though, in the requisite blue and white. The saltire colours, as prescribed by Sir Walter. He felt silly ordering such a patriotic thing in front of Balfour, but the Dean had let him know in no uncertain terms what was expected of him.
“Will that be all, sir?” Mr. Riddell asked at last.
“Yes, thank you,” David replied, trying not to wince when the total was read—just shy of seven pounds of hard-earned fees. Daylight robbery! Thrown away on a suit of clothes he didn’t even want.
He paid a deposit of two pounds and arranged to call in again on Monday afternoon. It occurred to him that the King might even have arrived in Scotland by then—he’d have his patriotic clothes just in time.
When he turned back to Balfour, the other man was standing and donning his hat.
“Are you ready for ale now?”
“I’d rather have a dram.”
Balfour quirked a brow at him. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”
Chapter Two
For a heavy man, the innkeeper of the Tolbooth Tavern had a dainty touch.
He came out from behind the bar when they entered and ushered them to a table in one of the windowed alcoves with a graceful sweep of his meaty arm. When Balfour requested whisky—inviting the man to take a dram for himself—he brought them a jug of the good stuff and three tiny pewter dram cups. Placing the cups in a neat, precise line on the table, he poured a measure of whisky into each, before picking up his own between a sausagey finger and thumb.
“To yer very good health, sirs,” he toasted them. With a flick of his hand, he threw back his dram in one gulp, then, with a polite nod, left them to their business.
David watched Balfour raise one of the other cups to his lips, his eyes closing with pleasure as he took a sip. When he opened them, he smiled and admitted, “That’s my first taste of whisky in a long while.”
“I remember you saying you only drink whisky in Scotland,” David replied. “And that the first dram is always the best.”
Balfour gave a laugh. “You have a good memory. And yes, there’s nothing quite like the first taste of something, is there? Though seasoned pleasures have their place too.”
Balfour always had been able to make the most innocent phrases sound rich with promise. David lifted his own dram to hide his sudden discomfiture and swallowed the contents. The taste of metal from the cup was sharp on his tongue. Then the fire of the whisky bit, and its smoke unfurled more slowly in his mouth.
“You were surprised to see me,” Balfour observed. “At the tailor’s.”
“Of course,” David replied. “Weren’t you? To see me?”
Balfour’s cheek dimpled as his smile curved deeply. David remembered that smile. It made Balfour’s very masculine, darkly handsome face appear suddenly and disarmingly boyish.
“Well, I had the benefit of prior warning,” Balfour said. “Obviously I knew when I came to Edinburgh there was a chance I’d see you. Even so, when the boy at the tailor’s interrupted my fitting with the news that a Mr. Lauriston was rapping at the window demanding to be seen and wouldn’t go away, I was a little taken aback. Riddell told him to ignore you, but I couldn’t let you slip through my fingers, so I bade him let you in.”
David’s chest felt suddenly tight. He was amazed at how calm his voice sounded when he replied, “Just as well, or I’d’ve missed my appointment.”
Balfour gave another soft laugh. “Riddell was very accommodating.”
“To you,” David supplied dryly.
“You can’t blame him. It’s good business sense. Now he can boast an aristocrat as a customer.”
“He’s probably had aristocrats beating down his door all week. I’ve never seen so many people in the city,” David replied. “They’re sleeping in tents on the Calton Hill.”
“So I heard.” Balfour shook his head in wonderment. “I’d never have thought my fellow Scots would’ve been so excited by a visit from a Hanoverian king. It’s notthatlong since the ’45.”
