“Likely no better than she should be,” Tobias concluded. “Aren’t you tired of sitting in all that dirty water?”
The truth was that he was used to Finchley handing him a towel. He stood up and plucked it off the back of a chair. “It’s not dirty water. It’s clean bathwater.”
“Once you’re in it, it’s dirty. Better get in and out quick.” He said it with the tone of a boy who had never bathed more than once a month before coming to Villiers’s house and had taken to the practice only reluctantly.
Finchley slipped back through the door with the wounded look of someone barred from the family home on Christmas morning. “It is time to dress, Your Grace. The pale rose or the black velvet?”
“The rose,” Villiers said at the same moment Tobias said, “The black.”
“Why the black?” Villiers asked.
“Because you look a proper fright in those fancy coats,” Tobias said. “Even if you decided on Lisette—and I’m not saying you should—she’d never take you looking like that.”
“Like what?”
“A posy. You look like a blooming posy. Like you don’t care for your bag.”
“My what?”
“Your potato-finger. Your holy thistle!”
Villiers was aware that Finchley had stopped feeling insulted and was trying to suppress a smile. Finchley never smiled. “If I understand you, you’re saying that my pizzle doesn’t show to best advantage in the rose coat.”
“Not if you’re talking about that pink one, no.” Tobias pointed at the offending garment. “Only a man who had a withered pear would wear that.”
Finchley snorted, and Villiers cast him a glance. “There’s nothing withered about me,” he said, pulling on the rose-colored coat over his sleek, skintight breeches.
“I’m not the one you need to convince of that,” Tobias said, plopping down into his chair again. “It’s your wife who’s going to wonder if you’re a molly or not.” He turned back to his book.
Villiers felt his lips twitch. No one had ever called him a molly. Or implied he had a limp potato-finger.
Finchley looked at him sympathetically and, quite wisely, kept his mouth shut.
Chapter Ten
“You look exquisite,” Anne said, popping into Eleanor’s bedchamber. “The color suits you better than it does me. The woven silk is beautiful. And the lace accents…” She kissed her fingers. “Exquisite!”
Eleanor looked down at her skirts. The fabric was rose-red silk, with trails of white flowers woven throughout. The bodice and sleeves were edged with a splash of rose lace sewn with tiny spangles. “The bodice doesn’t fit properly.” She gave it an irritable pull.
“Don’t touch it,” Anne gasped. “You’ll tear the lace. Look, there are gold threads among the silk. Father swore I bankrupted him with that one gown alone. You shouldn’t do more than breathe on it.”
“My breasts are almost entirely exposed. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but the only thing between the open air and my nipple is a mere inch of lace!”
“I did notice,” Anne said happily, “and more to the point, so will every man in the room.”
“I’m thinking about Mother.”
“She ordered you to wear my clothing.”
“Yes, but what looks merely saucy on you looks utterly debauched on me,” Eleanor pointed out.
“Are you implying that’s a disadvantage? Believe me, you should thank God for every inch you have. Where’s the dog?” Anne said, cautiously dusting off a chair before she sat in it.
“Willa took him to the kitchen for the evening. She’ll bring him up the back stairs later.”