He felt his face burn a little. He tightened his jaw. “Thanks. It’s all a bit tight.”
“It looks perfect,” she insisted.
“I don’t think I can go out like this.” He wasn’t cut out for this kind of fashion. His trousers were too tight on his thighs and crotch. The fit was almost indecent. If not for the knee-length coat, he wouldn’t have kept it on.
“There is an off-white justaucorps hanging in that wardrobe,” she said. “I think you should try that one on next. Just to see.” Her eyes widened along with her smile.
He felt something in him—deep inside him—like a flutter, or a flicker. He didn’t know. He only knew it burned a little. And it scared the hell out of him. Why was she making him feel this…this warmth? How could he stop it?
“Is there anything black?” he asked John.
Miss Whimsey looked Michael over, as if she hadn’t considered black.
John disappeared into another alcove and fidgeted around for a minute. He reappeared with a different black coat in each hand. One was heavily embroidered with bright reds and forest greens. The other had dark blue stitching and nothing else. He chose that one. It fit closely to his chest and waist and then flared out just a little, with a cut up the back for riding a horse.
“There are trousers to match,” John let him know.
Michael held out his hand.
When he turned, ready to head back to the screen, he beheld a sight that branded itself into his head, his heart. Miss Whimsey was standing near her chair, wearing his leather jacket. She could have fit three more of herself in there with her. She smiled when she looked up and held her droopy sleeve to her cheek.
“’Tis very soft,” she practically purred.
He nodded and disappeared behind the screen before he told her how much he liked looking at her in it. He was sure he smiled at her like a fool at some point. He changed quickly and stood before her again—she had taken off his jacket—in black breeches and a black coat to match. His jacket underneath was dark blue. Much more his style.
He looked at her from beneath his dark brows. Did she still approve? What did he care? He hadn’t changed much from his own clothes. At least, not the color, or the lack of it. Of course, before, he didn’t wear hose or shoes with heels on them that pinched and rubbed with every second that passed.
She was smiling. Was it genuine? With her, it was almost impossible to tell. No, that wasn’t true. He knew her laughter with him earlier was authentic.
His was, too. His. He’d laughed. He was still trying to get over it in his mind. He hadn’t laughed in three years. He hadn’t found anything humorous enough to make him laugh out loud in that long. What had she done? It was as if she pushed a button and exposed his soul to the sun.
It felt wonderful. He wanted more, but he realized everything could change again in the blink of an eye. And even if he did stay here, if he gave her his heart, he would likely lose her as he lost the others.
He couldn’t go through it again—or even take the chance of going through it. But, oh, looking at her was like looking at a summer sunrise over Manhattan. She was beautiful and mysterious, with a pulse all her own.
“Detective, I fear that you are going to suffer the demands for attention from many different women tonight.”
“What’s tonight?”
“Wednesday,” Miss Whimsey informed him as she slipped out of his jacket. “All the judges of the different districts gather together here for dinner. I do not usually attend but I wouldn’t want to miss my father explaining you to his haughty friends…and their wives and daughters.”
“So you wish to be amused at my expense,” he quipped, slipping his foot out of his shoe to find some relief in stretching his toes.
She graced him with a confident, slightly provocative smile that made his blood judder in his veins and his legs feel weak. “I must confess, I do.”
“John,” he said as he turned to the old man. “Are there any shoes that might be bigger?”
“I will check, Detective.”
“Thank you.”
He watched the butler set about his task. His gaze slowly swung back to her. She was no longer smiling at him. She had gone to the window and was looking out.
“I should be going,” she said softly, without turning to him.
He wanted to ask her what she was thinking about at that moment when her gaze seemed so distant, so set for the unattainable.
“Are you planning to run away again while I’m at this gathering with your father?”
