Page 18 of Let Me Be Your Hero
His parents had been thrilled by the news that Cecilia Chenoweth had refused him. They would much prefer that he marry someone with the wordLadyin front of her name and had despaired at the news that he intended to propose to a mere vicar’s daughter.
Isabella Astley’s face flashed across his mind, the way she’d looked last night, eyes hazy with… pleasure? Confusion? Distress?
Hell, he didn’t know. But he wasn’t about to mention her to his parents. They would fly into a frenzy at the thought of him marrying the likes of Isabella Astley.
But that was never going to happen.
“Not yet,” he lied. “It will probably have to wait for next year. This is the last event of the Season, so most of thetonwill be heading to their country homes soon.”
“Oh.” His mother did not bother to conceal her disappointment.
“Well, aim a little higher next time, son,” his father said with an exaggerated wink.
Archibald thought Cecilia Chenoweth was a fine lady, an opinion that would seem to have been borne out by the fact that she was now a duchess. But he gave a slight bow. “I’ll try, Father.”
He went to his room, a huge space that had been decorated by his mother in the Gothic style. In Archibald’s opinion, it looked like the lair of the villain in some medieval melodrama. Its vaulted ceiling was supported by elaborately carved columns made of stone. Red velvet curtains framed tall, arched windows. The room was dominated by the bed, which was raised upon a dais. As if there was any danger of missing it—it was black and hulking, with a canopy carved into pointed arches and spires on each corner. It weighed close to a ton and even had a scarlet silk counterpane.
His valet, Jack, was brushing a coat of black superfine. Jack used to be employed by Nettlethorpe Iron, but he had injured his shoulder lifting a cannon. It never healed well enough for him to return to the heavy work required at the forge. But Archibald had happened to be in need of a valet, so he had offered the job to Jack so he wouldn’t find himself out on the street.
After all, how hard could being a valet possibly be?
Archibald cast a dubious look at the set of clothes Jack had laid out. He preferred to dress quite plainly. The coat was dark, but the trousers were cream, and the waistcoat was garnet silk brocaded with gold thread.
“Couldn’t I wear this waistcoat?” he asked, pulling one in grey tweed from his wardrobe.
“Don’t go touching nothing ’til you’ve washed up!” Jack snarled, snatching the grey waistcoat from his grasp.
Archibald sighed, but headed for the bathing tub, which was laid out before the fire. He had constructed it himself, and unlike the tiny hipbaths most members of even the upper classes made do with, Archibald fit inside this one with ease.
When you did the sort of work Archibald performed, it became imperative to have proper facilities for washing up. He knew hauling cans of hot water up the stairs for his daily bath was a lot of work for the servants. He had an idea to install a tank of water on the roof with a set of pipes that would enable him to fill the tub himself. He could even add a gas heater to warm the water. The design wouldn’t be all that complex; it was just a matter of finding the time to build anything other than cannons.
Once he had undressed and stepped in, he took up a bar of plain white soap and a scrub brush and went to work. As he lathered up his chest, he eyed the waistcoat askance. “Don’t you think that one’s a bit garish?”
Jack crossed his arms. His expression was mulish. “Bastian says you have to wear this one and all this other shit to go with it.”
Bastian was the Duke of Trevissick’s valet. One week ago, he had arrived uninvited and swept through Archibald’s closet like a tornado, upending everything and even forcing him to submit to a haircut.
It was probably a good thing. Isabella’s older sister, Caroline, was one of theton’sleading tastemakers, and she had assuredhim that both the haircut and Bastian’s wardrobe choices werede rigueur. She would certainly know better than he would. But Bastian had apparently come to coach Jack on the art of being a valet every day since, and now everything wasBastian says thisandBastian says that.
Archibald couldn’t help but note that Bastian’s tastes ran toward clothing that was extremely… fitted. He’d always preferred something a bit looser, to draw emphasis away from his brawny frame. A gentleman was supposed to be athletic, to be sure, but athletic in therightway. It was one thing to have strong legs from days spent in the saddle, like Lord Thetford, or the subtle musculature the Duke of Trevissick had developed through hours of practice at fencing.
But Archibald’s body was all wrong. His muscles were huge and bulky from lifting cannons. They served as a constant reminder to everyone who looked at him that, for all his wealth, he spent his days performing heavy manual labor. For all of Bastian’s assurances that his new style was the height of fashion, Archibald could not help but feel self-conscious wearing such tight-fitting clothes.
Groaning, he sank beneath the water to dampen his hair. Once he was satisfied that he no longer smelled like he’d been working in a forge all day, he toweled off and padded over to the mirror so Jack could help him dress.
When it came time to do his cravat, Jack yanked his collar points all the way up to his ears. “Do you have to pull those up so high?” Archibald grumbled, twisting his neck in an effort to force them back down.
Jack glowered at him, jerking them even higher. “I do. Bastian says—”
“Bastian says, right, right. I hope I don’t have to suddenly turn my head. You’ve put so much starch in these things, I’m liable to stab myself in the eye.”
Jack gave one final yank on his cravat, then stepped back, giving a grunt of approval. “Well, if that’s the thing that kills you, at least you’ll look good at your funeral.”
“That will be a great comfort to my mother,” Archibald grumbled as he strode out the door.
CHAPTER 9
Izzie spotted Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy as soon as she arrived at Lady Waldegrave’s house.
