Page 69 of Dukes Do It Better
“Almost twenty years at sea documented on this skin.”
“What is the creature with the horn?” Simon asked.
Malachi’s smile slipped away. “Narwhal. It was Emma’s favorite. She called it a unicorn whale. Was absolutely fascinated by it, and so excited to tell Alton such a creature existed.” It felt like a layer of lead encapsulated his heart. The heaviness leeching humor and warmth from him day by day. Her absence made it clear exactly how much she’d become a part of his days and nights. It had been days since he’d seen her dimples or listened to her talk about whatever was crossing her mind at that exact second. Damn, he missed her.
“I truly am sorry for how that ended,” Simon said.
Without a good answer, Malachi grunted and changed the subject. “Mother played her part and delivered the book ashes. Could you keep your ear to the ground for any lingering issues in the situation? She assured me it’s taken care of, but it would be a relief to know you were on alert as well.”
“Of course. If I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know.”
Wilson entered the room again, this time with shears in hand and carrying a leather roll of shaving accoutrements. The valet motioned for Malachi to take a seat, then draped a cloth around his shoulders. “I can trim up the ends, Your Grace. A neat queue at the nape is still worn by some.”
“Cal wears his in a queue. Long hair can be fashionable if you don’t want a drastic change,” Simon said.
Fashion wasn’t the point here. Malachi shook his head. “All of it. Take it off.” The oval mirror in the corner reflected the truth of the matter. He didn’t look like an upstanding citizen of the ton. His skin was darkly tanned, with pale streaks fanning from his eyes from squinting into the sun from the deck of a ship for years. The ink on his body was a pictorial history of his life—a life he wasn’t allowed to return to. Dark waves of hair covered his shoulders, reaching down his back to his shoulder blades.
The admiral had advised him to show up to the court proceedings looking like a consummate gentleman, and he would. Of course, the only way to fully accomplish such a transformation would be to shed his entire skin. A haircut would have to do.
Malachi sighed. “Take it short. Extremely short. Clip the beard tight as well. As Simon said, I need to look respectable.”
A flicker of concern flitted across Simon’s face as Malachi repeated those earlier words in a tone lacking the original playfulness.
Like it or not, his best friend had the right of it. He needed to look like the opposite of a pirate. He had to walk into the offices of the Admiralty and pass for an officer who took orders and obeyed without searching for a loophole. To look like every other servant in His Majesty’s service.
Individuality wasn’t something the Admiralty or the king appreciated.
Wilson said, “Very well.” The cold presence of metal near Malachi’s ear made him flinch. At the involuntary movement, the valet froze. “Your Grace?”
He blew out a breath. “Apologies, Wilson. Carry on with your orders.”
Palpable waves of concern wafted off Simon; Malachi closed his eyes against them.
Snip, snip. “No going back now.” The valet tried to lighten the mood of the room, but from the draft hitting the back of Malachi’s neck, the statement was accurate. “Do you mind if I collect the hair? Know a good wig maker who will pay well for it,” Wilson said.
“Feel free. Keep whatever you can get for it.”
It took less time than one would think to be transformed into a gentleman. On the outside, anyway. Wilson used a straight blade to rein in the marauding borders of Malachi’s beard, then cropped the rest close to his skin before rubbing an herbal scented oil into the whole thing.
“To stave off the red bumps, Your Grace,” Wilson explained, dusting his nape of little hairs.
Malachi tugged on his shirt, then shrugged back into his coat and stood.
“You look great, Mal. But your glower will scare children if you’re not careful,” Simon said.
A stranger stared back from the looking glass. Until now, he hadn’t realized how distracting the hair had been or how often it had fallen in his face. In the reflection, he saw there was nothing to hide behind, or to take away from his sharp cheekbones and heavy brows—which were currently meeting over his nose on a scowl. Malachi shot Wilson a glance. “Thank you. It’s exactly what I asked for.”
“Are you going to debut your new look at the Claybourne soiree?” Simon asked.
Malachi continued to stare at his reflection. “I’ll go if you tell me your intentions toward Miss Martin.”
“Adelaide?” Simon’s eyebrows rose.
A smile tipped Malachi’s lips. “Yes. Adelaide. Are you going to offer for her?”
Wilson quietly withdrew from the room. Simon watched him go, then admitted, “I’m considering it.”
“I’ve never seen you so happy, and she seems to return your regard.” He wanted to shake his friend and tell him to marry the woman before Miss Martin walked away and Simon was cut to drift like Malachi had been. Instead, he said, “Hold fast to your happiness, friend.”
