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. “Verytightpantaloons. 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 agood-naturedman. 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 interestshe 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 questionin 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 newprotector 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.”
