Page 57 of The Scot Who Loved Me

“You must be majestic.” Aunt Flora dipped to check a seam.

Burnished amber silk rippled like watery flames fitted to his body, and this was the waistcoat turned inside out. If clothes made a man, Will would be a king resplendent in morning sun spilling through her windows, strong and tall, hair clubbed, a shadow of whiskers adding a rough, storied touch until one spied his old boots. Firmly on, they were. Clean, proud, the loose leather folded under knees and thighs prone to caber tossing.

Definitely not a cricket player’s legs.

“This needs to be the final fitting, ma’am. At least for today.” His voice was a respectful rumble.

“What? You have things tae do?” Aunt Flora asked. “You cannae dash off now. Aunt Maude is organizing a tray of tea and biscuits.”

“I have errands.”

Anne checked the direction of the kitchen. Breakfast was not but an hour ago. What were the sisters up to, orchestrating a cozy morning tea?

Aunt Flora hummed and pinched the waistcoat. “Ready tae be off, are you? Seems my unguent did the trick.”

“Your potions have always worked.”

“Will ye need more tonight?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Didna think you would,” she chuckled. “It’s near magic, though the unguent carries a wee essence of the bogs.” She nudged his elbow up. “Arms out.” She circled him, starched skirts rustling. “All the same, yer back will need checking. Every night.”

“No need to fuss over me, ma’am.”

She snorted loudly. “Ye need a bit of fussing, Will MacDonald.”

Anne pivoted in her seat, her mouth curving with commiseration. She’d been on the receiving end of Aunt Flora’s mother-hen nature. Will’s head tilted a message of acceptance over Aunt Flora’s head:She is who she is. Daylight spiked around him and one could almost believe summer would last forever until his gaze traveled to the letters.

Will’s brows arched.Aren’t you going to open them?

She bristled. Duty called, and for once, she chafed at its yoke. When it came to the league, everything was fair game, even quiet mornings in her salon.

Aunt Maude swept in, a tray rattling with unmatched Lambethware dishes. “Ye’ll have him looking like a prince, Flora.”

“I was thinking Hades,” Anne said dryly.

Three gazes speared her. Startled and confused from Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora while Will managed an amused smirk.All that lordly attire is sinking into his veins.She waved gracefully, a gesture to make her grandmother proud.

“It’s all the black and gold. I’m not sure of it.”

Aunt Maude set her burden on the table andturned to inspect Will. “He looks fine tae me, but goodness knows I don’t cavort in higher circles.”

“None of us do, except Cecelia,” Anne said. London’s lofty addresses had been her grandmother’s ambition for her, not hers.

“Well, Cecelia’s no’ here tae educate us.” Aunt Maude began setting the table as if the matter was done.

“I like the black and gold,” he said.

Anne eyed Will who eyed her boldly back. A silent skirmish was afoot.

“With his size, shouldn’t we consider something paler? A creamy yellow or a sky blue?” she suggested.

Creamy yellow?Will mouthed.

“And have him looking like a cake?” Aunt Maude huffed. The woman had stern opinions about London’s mincing fops. Tartans were dark, serious shades, which met with her approval. “What do ye think, Flora?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”