Page 43 of The Language of Love

That was another thing he was sick of: dressing in the clothing of a clerk. He’d worked damned hard to afford the finest, and he was tired of wearing cheap rags.

And whose fault is that?

Henry rolled his eyes at his imaginary friend, refusing to be baited.

He left his moldering chambers behind and made his way to the dining room, where he found Colin examining himself in the mirror over the fireplace.

When Colin turned to him, Henry goggled. “Good Lord! What is that?”

Colin tried to look down at himself without spoiling the confection around his neck—which looked like it was made from twenty yards of linen. “You mean my waistcoat?”

Henry wouldn’t have called it that; he wasn’t sure what he would have called it other than an abomination. It was patterned with puce with coquelicot diamonds and made him look like Harlequin.

“Where the devil did you get that?” he demanded.

“It’s Nugee, old chap! Do you like it?”

“No.”

“Oh.” A bruised, hurt expression replaced Colin’s perennial grin, making Henry feel like he’d just swatted an ebullient puppy with a newspaper.

He relented. “It is certainly… unusual.” That was the best he could do. The truth was that Colin looked exactly like the fool he was with his ludicrously high collar points and fussy neckcloth on top of the appalling waistcoat.

Let him have his fun. It will all be over in a few weeks.

For once, Henry listened to the voice without arguing.

“Drink?” Henry asked Colin, who was back to staring at his reflection in the mirror, his brow deeply furrowed.

He couldn’t turn his head, so he shifted his entire torso toward Henry. “Hmm?”

Henry held up a decanter.

Colin’s face lightened, his troubles sliding away like water off a duck’s back. “Ah yes, jolly good. Whatever you’re having.”

“So,” Henry said as he poured, “How was your visit home?” Henry had insisted that Colin pay a visit to his family today. They lived only an hour outside London, yet the man had not gone to see them even though he’d been away almost five years.

Colin strutted toward him and took his glass, causing Henry to notice the enormous cuffs jutting from the skin-tight sleeves of his coat.

He bit his tongue. After all, what could he do? Send him up to his room to change? Likely he would come down in something even worse—although what could be worse boggled the imagination. The bloody tailor who’d done this to him deserved to be horse-whipped. Henry had half a mind to march over to the man’s shop tomorrow and call him out.

“All is well back at the vicarage,” Colin said, employing a pompous tone that set Henry’s teeth on edge. “My youngest sister married the local quack and none too soon, as there will be a brat before you know it. My elder sister still keeps house for my father, who has it in mind to step down after this year.”

“And what does a vicar do when he is no longer a vicar?”

“He’ll no doubt spend his time surrounded by piles of moldering old tomes.”

“Your father is a man of letters?” Henry asked, unable to mask his surprise. The poor bastard must look at Colin and wonder what had gone wrong.

“Can’t think how I missed out on his brains,” Colin said, unknowingly echoing Henry’s thoughts. “I’d blame my mother’s rackety ways if I didn’t look so much like old pater.”

Henry could only stare in wonder and not a little awe: the man had absolutely no filter between his brain and mouth.

“So, when did you get back?”

“Oh, just past three.”

“You went and came back by three o’clock?”