Too Wilde to Wed (The Wildes of Lindow Castle, #2)(14)
The breeches were tighter than they used to be, but still comfortable. Even better, they weren’t saffron-colored nor silk.
“Shall I tear the lace off the cuffs?” North asked, nodding at the shirt.
“No!” His valet gathered the garment to his chest with the protectiveness of a mother bear. “Don’t touch it! The cuffs are removable and I shall unpick the stitching tomorrow.” He picked up a sturdy shirt that North had worn under his uniform. “You can wear this, I suppose,” he said sourly. “It’s not as if anyone in the castle matters.”
North gave him a chilly glance before he pulled on the shirt. Lady Knowe might not travel to London and attend society’s events, but she definitely mattered. Diana . . . Diana mattered too.
“You’ll never fit into the saffron coat,” Boodle said with all the heartbreak of King Lear facing death on the heath. “You’ll split it across the shoulders.”
“I suspect you’re right.”
“If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I believe His Grace left some coats in his wardrobe.”
“Good idea,” North said, dropping into a seat and picking up the book he was currently reading. He had never been a reader as a young man, but since leaving England he’d spent hour upon hour lost in a book.
It was better than playing cards, which he detested, or arguing with his superiors, which was even worse. Long days at sea had been tolerable only because of a tattered collection of plays by the Roman playwrights Plautus and Terence. When he couldn’t sleep at night, he stayed up reading by candlelight.
After docking in London and being told by his superiors that no one—not even an American man fighting for independence—could show as much courage as a British soldier, he walked out of the Ministry, stopped by a bookseller, and left for Cheshire the same evening.
The book he’d purchased offered a depiction of hell, which felt bitterly appropriate after his experience of war. Dante Alighieri described hell as a series of circles, each containing sinners organized by their sins and punished in appropriate ways.
It was all very tidy and satisfactory. North would have put unthinking military commanders in one circle, doomed to run ceaselessly through battlefields full of dead and dying bodies, the air bitter with smoke from cannon fire.
He was considering a circle reserved for spies and intelligencers when his valet swung back into the room, a black coat over his arm.
After that, Boodle scampered about the room, pulling garments from two wardrobes that held North’s clothing, most of which had been acquired during his courtship of Diana. Everything ended up in a huge pile on the bed, since North shook his head over and over.
No, he had no intention of returning to court in the near future, so he didn’t need a coat embroidered with gaudy silver thread, with rubies for buttons.
“You may be right,” Boodle agreed. “The newest coats are embroidered only on the skirts, the pockets, and the buttonholes.”
No, he wouldn’t wear that primrose silk again. Or azure satin with violet trim. Or striped stockings or stockings with clocks. Shoes with red heels? No.
“High heels have lost their acclaim,” Boodle conceded, adding two pairs to the pile. “I won’t even ask about this wig, so full-bodied, so fashionable,” he mourned, holding up a wig that North’s brother Alaric had described as a cross between a parrot and a fancy chicken.
No, no, and no.
“I have come to a decision,” Boodle announced, after the stack grew to shoulder height. “I cannot serve a man who would countenance wearing those breeches to the dinner table, let alone one who shows disdain for lace cuffs. Forgive me, my lord, but I think we will both be more comfortable if I take leave of your service.”
North put his book down. “I’m sorry to hear it, Boodle. I will hire my father’s new valet, if you’d like to serve the duke instead.”
“No,” he said, with tragic emphasis. “I must express my talents for shaping perfection, sartorial perfection. Caring for His Grace was a trying experience, but I consoled myself with thoughts of the triumphs to come once you returned. I shall find a gentleman more appreciative of my genius.”
North stood up and clapped him on the back. “I owe you great thanks, Boodle. You turned me into a paragon. I will happily give you a reference.”
“I took a man who scarcely knew how to put on a wig and made him into a courtier who could have graced the court of Marie Antoinette herself,” Boodle said, nodding.
“Without your help, I would not have caught the eye of Miss Belgrave.”
That wasn’t entirely true. Because of North’s rank and fortune, every young lady began fluttering her eyelashes and giggling the moment he strolled into the ballroom.
He had enjoyed the fact that Diana hadn’t gushed, but he’d had no idea that she was happier in the nursery than the ballroom, in a muslin cap than a wig. She had been as much an impostor as he, in his wigs and ribbons.
Impostor? He’d been a fool.
“It is hard to believe that she was a leader in fashion,” Boodle said, shaking his head. “Lady Artemisia is never dressed to her station, never seen in a properly elegant frock. I have personally delivered illustrations of French children’s garments to the nursery, but no. Miss Belgrave dresses the children as if they were beggars.”
North had nothing to say about that; he hadn’t paid any attention to what either child was wearing.