“You can always sell the clothes when this is over,” she suggested. “One could buy quite a lot of books from the sale of a waistcoat alone.”
Several moments passed. And then Sebastian let out a long, rough breath.
“All right,” he muttered.
The duke clapped his hands together once. “A decision you won’t regret. I’ll take you to my personal tailor this afternoon.”
“But,” Sebastian continued, “consider it a loan I intend to repay.”
Grace opened her lips to argue, but Rotherby shot her a quick look that advised her to remain silent.
Men were ridiculous sometimes.
“You’re ridiculous,” Seb grumbled.
“Common knowledge dictates that a man needs no fewer than seven waistcoats,” Rotherby fired back. His reflection appeared beside Seb’s in the floor-length mirror. “Wouldn’t you agree, Ruis?”
A measuring tape draped around his neck, the tailor spoke around his mouthful of pins. “Indeed, Your Grace. Appearing in the same waistcoat twice in one week is gauche.”
“It’s excessive,” Seb said. He shifted as Mr. Ruis held the measuring tape up to his back. “Calculated display to create a societal impression of wealth and prosperity—which is a fallacy because everyone knows that wealth doesn’t equate with happiness.”
“We aren’t talking about happiness.” Rotherby folded his arms over his chest. “We’re trying to impress London Society, and it doesn’t care about whether or not you feel any sense of personal fulfillment. It merely wants to know if you’ve got a carriage and a country estate. Sod happiness.”
Surely volumes could be written about the inherent delusions and problematic values of the British elite.
“And in the case of capturing Mason Fredericks’s attention,” Rotherby continued, “you need to appear at your finest. Consider your book: you can’t analyze the courting customs of the ton if you’re excluded on the basis of your garments. If not on behalf of your work, then on Grace’s behalf,” he said, just as Seb was about to voice another objection.
Damn, but Rotherby didn’t play fair.
“All right,” Seb said, his words grudging. “For her sake. And the sake of my book,” he remembered to add.
“Maravilhoso,” Mr. Ruis said, somehow managing to smile without swallowing a pin. He patted Seb on the shoulder. “You’ll have no cause for complaint when you see what I make for you. And may I say, senhor, it shall be a pleasure to dress you. A man as tall and vigoroso such as yourself will show marvelously well in my garments. I seldom have such fine customers.”
Rotherby coughed loudly into his fist while glaring at the tailor.
“With the exception of Your Grace, of course,” Mr. Ruis added hastily. He busied himself with a bolt of muslin, holding it to Seb’s torso.
A moment passed, while Seb observed in the mirror the activity in the tailor’s shop. Men who radiated privilege and affluence strolled in and out of the elegantly appointed business, striking poses as they conversed with each other. They paid almost no attention to the shop assistants that hovered around them like hummingbirds, as if it was the height of indelicacy to acknowledge the labor involved in maintaining their appearance.
“You and Grace danced well together,” Rotherby said lightly.
Too lightly.
Seb narrowed his eyes. “We both received an education in dancing. Expected that we’d perform the movements with a degree of aptitude.”
“Aptitude. That’s what you’re calling it.”
“What else is there?” Seb moved to accommodate Mr. Ruis as the tailor took the measure of his leg.
“I’m no man of the sciences,” Rotherby said with a smirk, “but I believe in the parlance one might say you and Lady Grace wanted to take bites out of each other. Metaphorically speaking.”
“Senhor,” Mr. Ruis said with admonition, “please do not tense your body. You must be relaxed as I get your measurements.”
Seb forced himself to exhale, trying to loosen his muscles. “Whatever you believed you saw, it wasn’t there.”
“I thought you academic types put faith only in what you perceive,” his friend noted. “The veracity of observation, and all that.”