Sarah’s stomach growled fiercely and she gave him a sheepish grin. Seemed sheepish grins were quickly becoming her specialty around this man. “Yes, please.” She frowned. “But I should dress first.”
“There is no one here to report it if you don’t.” He crouched down and added two more small logs to the fire. Yes, his backside was definitely noteworthy. “And I certainly won’t tell.” He stood again and dusted off his hands. Sarah shook her head and willed herself to stop thinking about his backside.
She gave him a half grin. Eating breakfast with a bachelor in her dressing gown? This was positively scandalous, but it was so tempting to just sit at the table and gobble down bacon in her dressing gown the same way she would at home if she were served a tray in bed.
“Very well,” she said, warming to the idea.
Fergus II came back in the front door and Mr. Forester shut it behind him. Then he walked over to the kitchen and served them each a plate of biscuits and bacon.
The snow fell steadily outside the window, and the wind whipped along the eaves. The sky turned progressively more gray, and soon wind and snow were battering the small house—so much snow that they could see only pure white out the windows.
“What did you say you were going to teach me today?” Mr. Forester asked with a wide grin when Sarah finished clearing away the breakfast dishes.
“I want to take a look at your clothing,” she announced.
“Ah, that’s right. But I’m hardly dressed for a London ball while rusticating in Scotland. What would be the point?”
“I understand completely, but as you know, in London, clothing is quite important. All the best-outfitted gentlemen buy their hats at Yardley’s, their coats at Weston’s, their shirts at Martin’s, and their boots at Hoby’s. And yes, I do see the irony in the fact that I’m lecturing you about clothing while I myself am in my dressing gown.”
He returned her smile. “By all means, lecture away. I’m quite fond of you in your dressing gown already.”
Sarah’s face heated while Mr. Forester took another drink of his coffee, obviously unrepentant over his remark.
“As for Yardley’s and Weston’s,” he continued, “I believe I’ve heard Owen Monroe mention those places a time or two.”
“You’re acquainted with Lord Owen?”
Mr. Forester nodded.
“Well, Lord Owen would certainly know. The man rivals Brummel himself for well dressed.”
“You remember Monroe?”
“Yes, of course, he…” She trailed off, realizing how rude it sounded that she remembered the earl’s son and not Mr. Forester himself. “The point is that Lord Owen knows how to dress.”
“I’ve always thought the simpler the better,” Mr. Forester said.
“Simple, yes. But quality counts, and there is nothing more attractive than a man outfitted well in fine black evening attire and a perfectly tied white cravat.”
“And here I thought ladies liked wit and charm.”
“We like those things, too.” She grinned at him.
“Very well. I’ll go fetch my clothing. What little there is of it. And you may examine it at your leisure.”
He was back in the span of a few minutes, his arms loaded with garments. He dumped the pile on the sofa and turned back to Sarah, gesturing toward the mound of clothes. “I await your advice, my lady.” He bowed to her.
Sarah stood and dusted her hands on her dressing gown. She was entirely improper at the moment. Not only was she indecently dressed, she was about to go pawing through a man’s clothing. Positively unthinkable in London. Scotland was an odd place. It was as if none of the rules and strictures of Society mattered up here. It was a bit freeing, actually. She felt positively wicked.
She folded her arms across her chest, walked over to the pile of clothing, and stared down at it. It all seemed perfectly clean, if rumpled. Her father’s valet would faint if he saw such poor treatment of clothing. She picked up a dark blue woolen coat and shook it out. “This is… adequate.”
“Adequate?” Mr. Forester frowned.
“Yes, I mean, the cut seems fine, but—”
“What about this?” He pulled a shirt from the pile and held it in front of her in his fist.
“I’d have to see it on before I could properly judge.”
