Page 14 of A Duke Reformed (Icy Dukes #3)
CHAPTER NINE
T he bell above the door jingled as Solomon stepped into the tailor's shop.
He momentarily paused, slightly taken aback by the bell's announcement of his presence.
The scent of wool and starch were the first things to hit him as he stood by the door, taken in the space.
Bolts of fine fabric lined the walls, and.
.. practically every corner of the room was covered in one fabric of the other.
The tailor, a wiry man with spectacles perched on his nose, looked up from the fabric he was assessing and blinked in surprise.
"Your Grace," the man said, bowing slightly. "What an honor."
"You know who I am?" Solomon asked the man, surprised.
"Everyone in London knows who you are, Your Grace," the man answered.
Solomon cleared his throat and took another step into the room. "I seek Sir Bolton. Andrew... a good friend, referred me to him. Said he was the best tailor in all of London."
The man smiled. "His Grace is far too kind with his words," he said and placed both hands behind him. "I am Marcus Bolton, Your Grace and I would be glad to be of service. To what do I owe this visit?"
Solomon withdrew a folded sheet of paper from his coat and slid it across the counter. "I need these items made. Exactly as written."
Bolton adjusted his spectacles and scanned the list. His eyebrows climbed higher with each line."There is a lot on here, Your Grace."
Solomon straightened his back, his expression hardening as he studied the tailor's poorly concealed amusement.
He wondered what possible humor could be found in a simple list of requirements.
He had merely transcribed Emma's exacting instructions, word for word.
.. as best as he could recall. Yet the tailor acted as though he'd been handed some scandalous confession rather than a straightforward order for clothing.
The tailor cleared his throat, smoothing the list between his fingers. "So, you need a complete wardrobe change, Your Grace."
Solomon tilted his head slightly. "How could you tell that from a list of coats and gloves?"
Bolton kept smoothening the list between his fingers. "I suppose the person who wrote this meant you to overhaul your entire wardrobe, Your Grace."
Solomon stilled. "What makes you think someone else wrote it?"
The tailor gave a knowing tap to the paper. "Well, Your Grace, the gentlemen I service rarely specify the exact shade of lilac for spring evenings or that silver buttons better complement evening wear."
A beat of silence fell on the room. The shop's tall clock ticked like a muffled heartbeat.
"May I take your measurements now, Your Grace?" Bolton asked, gesturing to the fitting platform.
Solomon exhaled sharply through his nose before removing his coat with restrained efficiency.
He followed Bolton into the fitting alcove, stepping onto the polished mahogany fitting platform and placed both hands behind him.
The tall looking-glass captured his familiar, unyielding figure, all sharp lines and somber broadcloth.
Bolton selected a fresh length of measuring tape from his worktable, and he began taking measurements.
"If I may advise, Your Grace..." he said carefully, ".
..the transition need not be abrupt. We might retain some elements of your current style while incorporating the new requirements.
" He paused at Solomon's shoulders, assessing the drape of his linen shirt.
"A gradual evolution often appears more. .. natural to observers."
Solomon said nothing, but his posture eased slightly.
After what seemed like an eternity of silence, Solomon finally turned to the man.
"The wardrobe change..." he started by saying but then paused.
"I need different wardrobes for different things.
Separate ensembles for balls. For soirees.
For morning calls and promenades in the park. "
Bolton's pencil froze above his ledger as he peered over his spectacles. "Your Grace is requesting entirely distinct wardrobes for each function?"
"Yes."
Bolton set down his ledger with deliberate care.
"If I may suggest, Your Grace, with quality woolens and proper care, one set of morning clothes could serve for both calls and promenades.
The cut would be nearly identical, and we might simply vary the waistcoats for distinction.
A different wardrobe for different functions is quite costly, Your Grace. "
Solomon leaned back slightly, folding his arms across his chest. "I don't care how much it costs," he said flatly. "I want whatever is needed, Bolton. If a different wardrobe for different functions would be the best option, then that is what I want."
"Of course, Your Grace," Bolton answered, offering a small smile. "But may I suggest we begin with the essentials first. Your daily wear, outfit for riding, and ball attire. The rest can follow as needed."
Solomon paused for a moment before giving a curt nod, somewhat mollified, though not entirely satisfied.
Emma had mentioned that the tailor would know best, hence he did not want to argue with the man.
"Just see that it is done properly. I wouldn't want to be under. .. or overdressed for any function."
"Of course, Your Grace," Bolton said and bowed slightly.
His visit to the tailor had taken longer than expected.
It had taken nearly two hours of standing stiffly while Bolton took his measurements, and also laid out the choice of fabrics, and colors.
Solomon had not objected to any of the suggestions recalling that Emma had mentioned the tailor was in the best place to advise him on his wardrobe choices.
But when the shop bell's final chime rang behind him as he stepped onto Bond Street, Solomon exhaled through his nose and a smile of relief crossed his lips. He was glad to be done with it.
The tailor's shop had now joined the ranks of places Solomon wanted to avoid whenever possible.
.. a short but vehement list that included the overcrowded bustle of Bond Street, the stifling politeness of Almack's, the relentless gossip of White's.
Each location demanded something he refused to give and for the tailor shop, it was the unnecessary familiarity of it all.
He disliked being touched by strangers, even professionally.
A necessary evil, perhaps, but one he wanted to endure as infrequently as possible.
For a moment, he lingered on the pavement, absently flexing his shoulders as he contemplated his next move.
Going back to the estatemeant returning to the mountain of estate ledgers piled on his study desk, each one brimming with tenant disputes, crop reports, and the endless petty grievances that came with dukedom.
The thought of squinting at another column of numbers made his temples throb.
So he turned left instead of right, settling for a nice walk instead.
London in the late afternoon offered distractions enough.
The clatter of carriages, the cries of street vendors hawking their goods.
.. the occasional glimpse of the greenery in the private garden squares beyond the iron gates of homes.
Anything to delay the inevitable and clear the chaos in his mind.
The walk did little to clear his head. London's jostling crowds and busy streets only reinforced his preference for the open northern countryside, where a man could breathe without someone accidentally stepping on his heels or hawkers shouting in the streets.
With a sigh, he was about to turn back toward his carriage when movement in a shop window caught his eye.
.. a flash of emerald silk fluttering as a shopgirl adjusted the display.
He shouldn't have paused. He certainly shouldn't have looked closer. But before he could stop himself, his gaze landed on the gown and Emma came to mind in that instant.
Solomon paused and stared at the gown with his head slightly tilted to the side.
It would fit Emma perfectly. The emerald silk would drape perfectly over Emma's slender frame, the high waistline accentuating her height rather than fighting against it.
The color would make her blue eyes go dark and stormy.
.. the way they did when she was trying not to lose an argument.
Solomon clenched his jaw and forced his attention elsewhere. Emma would never wear such a thing. She favored those dull, high-necked dresses that hid every possible curve. There was no way...
The thought dissolved mid-rebellion. His feet were already moving, carrying him toward the shop door with a determination that overrode all objections.
The contradiction burned like bad brandy.
He, who had just stood rigid in Bolton's shop, teeth gritted against the man's measuring tape and tedious chatter, was now willingly stepping into the same nonsense all over again.
Another clerk's prying eyes, another round of chatter.
All for a woman who was likely to scold him for the extravagance.
But the decision was made, though he told himself it was merely practical. Emma had endured his stubbornness through countless lessons, after all. Not that he owed her anything. He was merely... appreciative.
Appreciative. Of course. That's what it is.
"Why are you smiling like that, Emma?" Cecilia whispered, nudging her sister's elbow as they stood near the ballroom's entrance.
The smile had already begun to fade from Emma's lips before she noticed it had been there at all... a fleeting, traitorous smile, gone the moment she recognized its source. She turned back to look at what she had been staring at, her attention snapping into focus across the crowded ballroom.
Solomon .