David’s heart kicked. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be,” he said. He’d intended it to come out as a refusal, but somehow he found himself glancing at the tailor questioningly.
Mr. Riddell paused for a moment, then held out his hand to his wide-eyed assistant. The boy seemed to understand what he wanted. He put his notebook in the tailor’s hand and waited while the older man scanned the scribbled measurements.
“Is your gentleman having the blue and white?” Mr. Riddell asked the boy quietly.
“Yes sir.”
He turned to face Balfour. “We won’t be above another ten minutes, if that’s acceptable to your lordship.”
If it was acceptable to his lordship? David bristled and glared at the tailor, but Balfour rewarded him with a condescending smile.
“That sounds ideal,” Balfour said. “May I wait here while you finish?”
“Of course, my lord,” Mr. Riddell replied, bowing obsequiously. “Please take a seat.”
Balfour did so, settling his big, elegantly clad body into a chair at the side of the room.
David opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He had no doubt Balfour would find David objecting to his presence in the room like a virginal maiden protecting her modesty highly amusing. And surely there would only be one or two more measurements? Perhaps a few garments to try on? It was scarcely worth arguing over, so, pressing his lips together, he nodded at the tailor’s assistant.
The lad stepped forward and proceeded to take the rest of David’s measurements, calling them out to Mr. Riddell who scratched them onto the notebook. Despite his awareness of the man sitting not ten feet away, David gave his attention determinedly to the tailor, keeping his gaze averted from Balfour even after Mr. Riddell bustled through to the back of the shop. When the tailor returned, he had a loosely tacked blue coat and a white waistcoat that looked to be all but finished draped over his arm.
“I know you’re in a hurry, sir,” the tailor said as he displayed the garments to David. “This waistcoat should fit you, barring a stitch here and there. I made it up for another gentleman last week, but he wasn’t able to pay for it. As for the coat, the pieces were cut for a much larger gentleman who died before I could make it up, God rest his soul. If you’re willing to take these, I can have them made up for you with whatever else you’re needing by Monday, Tuesday at the latest. If you want new ones made from scratch, it’ll be a fortnight.”
When David tried on the garments, he was pleased to discover that Mr. Riddell was right about the waistcoat. It was a perfect fit. The coat felt huge, but within a few minutes, Mr. Riddell had marked the necessary alterations with chalk and fixed a few pins in place. Once he was satisfied, he eased the garment carefully from David’s body and handed it to his assistant, who bore it gently through to the back shop.
“I’ll make a note of your order at the desk, sir,” the tailor said, his gaze flickering to Balfour, then away again. “When you’re ready.”
David had felt the weight of Balfour’s gaze on him all through his dealings with the tailor, and sure enough, when he turned his head it was to find Balfour watching him attentively, his dark eyes glittering and his wide mouth unsmiling, for once. For an instant, their gazes locked and held and, for that instant, David couldn’t breathe. He was reminded of Balfour’s tendency to flout certain social rules. Especially the small, silent rules; the ones that weren’t written down anywhere but were nevertheless known.
Like the rule that a man should not look at another man the way Balfour was looking at him now. Watchful. Appreciative.
The rattle of a drawer reminded David where he was, and heat flooded his cheeks again. He could imagine the rush of colour, livid against his pale complexion. The curse of the redhead. David’s propensity for blushing was a source of constant consternation to him, his embarrassment over the pinkening of his cheeks only making them burn more.
Tearing his gaze from Balfour, he began to search the floor for his boots. His heart was thudding as he pulled them on, then donned his black waistcoat and coat. He almost always wore black: black trousers, black boots, even black gloves and hat. He knew he would feel odd in the blue and white of his new clothes.
The whole time David was dressing, he ignored Balfour, but he could feel the other man’s attention, a prickle of awareness rippling over his skin like a caress. It was a familiar feeling, transporting him back to that time two years before, when they’d first met in the dining room of a backwater inn. To his shame, the memory made his cock stiffen in his breeches, and he had to turn away from Balfour to hide his physical reaction, spending far longer than was necessary buttoning up his coat.
Once his erection had subsided, he turned towards Mr. Riddell. The tailor stood behind the desk waiting for him, his dour face expressionless. His order book was already open, David’s name and the date written there in a painstaking copperplate hand. David ordered the coat and waistcoat. Offered the choice of white or nankeen trousers, he chose one of each. He shook his head when the man offered new shirts, stockings, a low-crowned hat, all of which items he already had, thankfully. He took a cockade, though, in the requisite blue and white. The saltire colours, as prescribed by Sir Walter. He felt silly ordering such a patriotic thing in front of Balfour, but the Dean had let him know in no uncertain terms what was expected of him.
“Will that be all, sir?” Mr. Riddell asked at last.
“Yes, thank you,” David replied, trying not to wince when the total was read—just shy of seven pounds of hard-earned fees. Daylight robbery! Thrown away on a suit of clothes he didn’t even want.
He paid a deposit of two pounds and arranged to call in again on Monday afternoon. It occurred to him that the King might even have arrived in Scotland by then—he’d have his patriotic clothes just in time.
When he turned back to Balfour, the other man was standing and donning his hat.
“Are you ready for ale now?”
“I’d rather have a dram.”
Balfour quirked a brow at him. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”
Chapter Two
For a heavy man, the innkeeper of the Tolbooth Tavern had a dainty touch.
He came out from behind the bar when they entered and ushered them to a table in one of the windowed alcoves with a graceful sweep of his meaty arm. When Balfour requested whisky—inviting the man to take a dram for himself—he brought them a jug of the good stuff and three tiny pewter dram cups. Placing the cups in a neat, precise line on the table, he poured a measure of whisky into each, before picking up his own between a sausagey finger and thumb.
“To yer very good health, sirs,” he toasted them. With a flick of his hand, he threw back his dram in one gulp, then, with a polite nod, left them to their business.
David watched Balfour raise one of the other cups to his lips, his eyes closing with pleasure as he took a sip. When he opened them, he smiled and admitted, “That’s my first taste of whisky in a long while.”
“I remember you saying you only drink whisky in Scotland,” David replied. “And that the first dram is always the best.”
Balfour gave a laugh. “You have a good memory. And yes, there’s nothing quite like the first taste of something, is there? Though seasoned pleasures have their place too.”
Balfour always had been able to make the most innocent phrases sound rich with promise. David lifted his own dram to hide his sudden discomfiture and swallowed the contents. The taste of metal from the cup was sharp on his tongue. Then the fire of the whisky bit, and its smoke unfurled more slowly in his mouth.
“You were surprised to see me,” Balfour observed. “At the tailor’s.”
“Of course,” David replied. “Weren’t you? To see me?”
Balfour’s cheek dimpled as his smile curved deeply. David remembered that smile. It made Balfour’s very masculine, darkly handsome face appear suddenly and disarmingly boyish.
“Well, I had the benefit of prior warning,” Balfour said. “Obv
iously I knew when I came to Edinburgh there was a chance I’d see you. Even so, when the boy at the tailor’s interrupted my fitting with the news that a Mr. Lauriston was rapping at the window demanding to be seen and wouldn’t go away, I was a little taken aback. Riddell told him to ignore you, but I couldn’t let you slip through my fingers, so I bade him let you in.”
David’s chest felt suddenly tight. He was amazed at how calm his voice sounded when he replied, “Just as well, or I’d’ve missed my appointment.”
Balfour gave another soft laugh. “Riddell was very accommodating.”
“To you,” David supplied dryly.
“You can’t blame him. It’s good business sense. Now he can boast an aristocrat as a customer.”
“He’s probably had aristocrats beating down his door all week. I’ve never seen so many people in the city,” David replied. “They’re sleeping in tents on the Calton Hill.”
“So I heard.” Balfour shook his head in wonderment. “I’d never have thought my fellow Scots would’ve been so excited by a visit from a Hanoverian king. It’s not that long since the ’45.”
“It’s very odd,” David agreed. “But somehow the people have been convinced that we Scots are the most loyal subjects the King has in all the British Isles.”
Balfour shook his head again and leaned back in his chair, his dram cup sitting patiently in front of him, barely sipped. When David glanced at his own cup, he found it empty. He couldn’t even remember drinking it all. He found he wanted another and clenched his hands under the table to stop himself reaching for the jug.
“So why have you come back here?” he asked after a brief silence. “Are you playing a part in the festivities?”
“A bit part. I’m representing the family—excuse me, the clan. One must observe Sir Walter’s Celtifications. To pass muster as acting head of the clan, I’ve had to be fitted out in the finest highland dress—I’ve spent a fortune on tartan and eagle feathers over the last few weeks.”
David chuckled, then asked, “Why isn’t your father here?”
“Oh, Father’s far too busy with the Verona business to come up—that’s exactly what the government wants the King to keep his nose out of. It had to be me or my brother, and since the King’s not too fond of my brother, it fell to me.”
David recalled Balfour speaking of his dislike of his father’s manipulations. “I’m surprised to find you doing your father’s bidding so willingly,” he remarked.
Balfour just shrugged. “I was planning to come up to Scotland anyway. Once this fiasco’s over with, I’m going up to Perthshire to my own estate. I’ve not managed up since I bought it, and I plan to stay for a couple of months at least.”
“I remember you talking about buying an estate in Perthshire—is it the same one? The one with the beautiful views?”
“The very same. And the views are wonderful, but I’ve a thousand and one problems to resolve. The previous owner seems to have had disputes with every man within fifty miles, every one with a history as long as your arm. It was bad enough when I first bought the place—then, a few months ago, the estate manager took another position and it’s become ten times worse. I need to spend a good while up there to get it turned about.”
David laughed softly. “Mr. Chalmers told you to beware beautiful views.”
“Yes, but I still think they’re worth it. The best things in life invariably require the most effort, don’t you think?” Balfour lounged in his chair, his long legs stretched out before him, the very picture of confident masculinity. “Wasn’t it you who once told me that life isn’t all about pleasure?”
David swallowed. “I don’t remember,” he said, looking away.
That was a lie. He remembered every part of that particular conversation—that last conversation—as though each word had been branded on his flesh.
“If life isn’t about pleasure or happiness, what is it about? Tell me, Lauriston, so I can learn from your great wisdom.”
“I think it’s about being true to yourself...”
This time, David did reach for the jug, sloppily topping Balfour’s cup to the brim, then his own, and lifting it to his lips to take a gulp of the spirit.
“I see you still like to drink,” Balfour remarked dryly, adding, “and you look as though you still forget to eat. I take it you ignored the last bit of advice I gave you?”
“What advice?”
“To get yourself a wife to take care of you. Specifically, that young woman who was so enamoured of you. Miss Chalmers, wasn’t it?”
David realised that Balfour couldn’t know how sensitive a subject that was, but he couldn’t stop himself snapping, “Of course I ignored you. What did you expect?”
Balfour took another small sip from his cup before he replied. “Just that. You were very clear in that last conversation, when you told me you would never marry.”
“It was more of an argument than a conversation, if I remember correctly,” David replied tightly.
For a while, Balfour didn’t say anything. Then he sighed and said, “Later—when I returned to London—I came to regret the way we parted. My anger especially.”
That admission took David by surprise. “Why were you so angry?”
Balfour fixed his gaze on the scarred wooden table, one hand idly playing with his dram cup. “You took a huge risk that night when you stepped in front of MacLennan’s pistol. I was angry at you for risking your life—especially to save my worthless cousin.”
“Euan would never have shot me,” David said.
Balfour gave a bark of humourless laughter. “He was this close,” he said, holding his thumb and finger half an inch apart.
David just shook his head. Impossible to explain that his decision to step in front of that pistol had been to save Euan, not Hugh Swinburne. And that when Euan had run away rather than shoot David, David’s faith in the lad had, thankfully, been vindicated.
“That wasn’t the only reason you were angry,” he said.
Balfour glanced at him, then gave a defeated sigh. “No,” he admitted. “I found you...provoking. Your views were so earnest, so uncompromising. All or nothing. I could tell you despised me for saying I intended to marry at some stage.”
“I didn’t despise you,” David protested. “In fact, I made a point of saying that I could only speak for me and my conscience.”
“It wasn’t just that,” Balfour said with a wry look. “Yes, I was shocked by your reckless act that night. And yes, it bothered me to feel judged by you. But when I thought about why I was so angry, I realised it was...fear for you.”
“Fear?”
“I could see how easily it could destroy you—this passion you have, this commitment to your principles. You can’t seem to walk away from it, even when it endangers you. I couldn’t believe anyone could have so little instinct for self-preservation. It made me angry.” He paused. “But as I said, I regretted that, later. Wished we could have parted on better terms. The time we spent together before that was—interesting.”
David didn’t know what to say. His throat felt as if it had closed up entirely. He’d felt regret too. Regret for allowing Balfour to seduce him. Regret for opening himself up to the desolation that had swamped him in the months that followed that last, bitter conversation.
“Was Miss Chalmers disappointed?” Balfour asked, changing the subject abruptly. “I rather had the impression she had set her cap at you.”
He was right—Elizabeth had set her cap at him, and David hadn’t even realised. Oh, he’d known she liked him, but it was months after Balfour went back to London that David had finally, far too slowly, caught on. And then there was that awful day, the day David asked to speak to her in private. He’d wanted to tell her, gently, that he intended never to marry. Only she’d misunderstood and thought he meant to propose. That had been a painful conversation, and when he’d left her, he’d been weighed down by a burden of guilt that had only begun to ease when she’d married, quite suddenly, a few
months later.
“Miss Chalmers is now Lady Kinnell,” he told Balfour calmly. “She lives in Galloway on her new husband’s estate. So she has done far better for herself than if she’d married me.”
“She is married to Sir Alasdair Kinnell?” Balfour replied. An expression of dislike arrested his handsome face. “Surely not? She’s much too sweet for the likes of him. His first wife was an unhappy girl. I wondered if she did away with herself to get away from the brute.”
David felt himself pale. “You know him?”
“I went to school with him. He liked to terrorise the younger boys, of whom I, unfortunately, was one. For a time anyway.”
The thought that Elizabeth may have married a man who would mistreat her made David feel sick. Made the old feelings of guilt stir in him again. He’d been so relieved when he’d heard of her engagement to Kinnell, pleased that she’d found a husband so obviously more eligible than himself.
He realised Balfour was watching him and shoved his disturbing thoughts aside to be examined later.
“What about you?” he said to deflect Balfour’s attention. “Have you taken your own advice?”
“Have I married, do you mean? No, not yet.”
Not yet.
“But you intend to.”
Balfour stared at David for a long moment. Was he remembering their last conversation again? When Balfour had confirmed his intention to eventually marry, while continuing to enjoy male lovers at his whim.
“I intend to wed at some stage, yes,” Balfour said finally.
An entirely predictable statement, that. David felt suddenly flat.
Why was he sitting here? Why had he agreed to come here with Balfour in the first place? He should’ve declined the man’s invitation and gone home to tackle the work sitting on his desk.
Throwing back the rest of his whisky, he set his cup down on the table, very quietly and precisely, then glanced up and smiled pleasantly. “Well,” he said. “It was good to see you, Balfour, but I really must be going. I’ve a lot of work to do this evening.”
Beguiled Page 2
