Chapter 3
“So this is the proper attire for an evening at Almack’s?” Walker stared at his image in the full-length mirror while his valet, Wilbur, fluttered around him tweaking here and straightening there. “Dammit, man, are we nearly done?”
Wilbur didn’t blink an eye at Walker’s impatient outburst but stood back and pressed his hands together, clearly assessing Walker’s appearance. As effeminate as the day was long, the slender middle-aged man hastened forward to make another adjustment to Walker’s dark blue coat. Then he stepped backward and gazed with admiration at his handiwork.
“Ah, my lord, you look magnificent. Truly magnificent!”
My lord. When would Walker ever grow accustomed to being so addressed?
Good God, when would he grow accustomed to someone assisting him to dress? He stared at his appearance from the snowy white cravat knotted so expertly by Wilbur to the snug fit of his coat, waistcoat, and fawn-colored breeches, all the way down to the ridiculous white stockings and black buckled shoes. He’d nearly drawn the line there, preferring instead to wear his riding boots, but Wilbur would not hear of it and had actually appeared affronted.
“My lord, you must trust me that I know how to dress a fine gentleman such as yourself!” Wilbur had sniffed, and Walker had relented because he’d simply wanted to be done with the whole blasted process.
Now he felt as trussed up as a turkey and as dandified as any preening cock of the walk that he’d ever seen in Boston or London, while Wilbur looked as pleased as punch. At the valet’s insistence, Walker had even agreed to a pat of cologne upon his freshly shaved face that smelled of sandalwood and citrus, though he’d never been one to indulge in the stuff.
He doubted his closest friend, Jared, would even recognize him tonight! Walker had always been a man with simple tastes when it came to clothing and for that matter, women, too, and the manner in which he’d lived his life.
No fussy cravats or expensive expertly tailored clothes for him, just a comfortable coat, shirt open at the collar, trousers, and his riding boots, thank you very much.
No romantic entanglements for him, just a comely lass eager and willing to share his bed for a night or two. With the nomadic life he’d led, he’d never allowed himself anything more.
And no abundance of possessions for him although the wealth he’d accumulated during wartime in Boston was enough to buy him anything he could have wanted.
Yet now everything had changed. Here he stood nearly unrecognizable—even to himself!—in princely attire as he readied himself for a ball where marriageable young damsels would flock around him like buzzing bees to honey!
“Damnation,” Walker muttered to himself, although he knew he’d agreed to such a life the moment he had set foot upon the ship that had carried him to England.
“My lord, your chapeau bras.” With a deferential bow, Wilbur held out the tricorne hat that was consideredde rigueurby Almack’s exacting lady patronesses. “You don’t have to wear it. Merely carry it under your arm.”
Sighing heavily, Walker accepted the hat and, with a last disgruntled look at himself in the mirror, strode from the room.
***
“Oh, Marguerite, you look like a princess! Have you ever seen a gown so fine? That green satin so brings out the color of your eyes! You must twirl around for us, again, oh, again!”
Marguerite felt dizzy from twirling in the foyer for Linette, who gazed at her with delight.
Dizzy and nearly ill to her stomach and so wretchedly apprehensive that she wanted to run up the grand staircase of the Gileses’ town house and flee to her bedchamber.
The place was so massive that she’d been granted her own room, which was only right and proper Lindsay had declared with unbridled excitement at seeing all of them again. Of course Marguerite must have her own room as she dressed for the nightly balls and assemblies that would surely, this year, bring her that much closer to marrying the man of her dreams!
“I think her face looks as green as her gown,” Estelle stated matter-of-factly, holding her little dog, Luther, in the crook of her arm. “Are you well, Marguerite?”
“Of course, she’s well,” came Corie’s voice behind her as she gently nudged Marguerite away from her younger sisters in a rustle of turquoise silk. “No more twirling, agreed?”
