“Yes, it is. I quite like it. Other women will like it, too.”

He glanced down at her in the course of his reply, and realized that from his vantage he had a prime view of her breasts.

“Where is the damned tailor’s?” he growled, frustrated beyond measure.

“You do need a woman,” she said, shaking her head. “Here we are. This is the establishment you listed in your old schedule, is it not?”

The door opened inward with a soft ring of bells, and within moments they were in a private fitting room. He was divested of his clothing, which Pel ordered away with a toss of her hand and a wrinkling of her nose. Gerard stood there in his smalls, and laughed. Until she turned to face him. Then the way she looked at him tightened his throat and choked off his merriment.

“Good heavens,” she breathed, while circling him. Her fingertips brushed lightly across the ridges of his abdomen. He bit back a groan. The entire room smelled like her. Now she was touching him intimately.

The tailor entered, and gaped a moment in surprise. “I believe I will have to take new measurements, my lord.”

Isabel stepped back quickly at the intrusion, her cheeks flushed. The tailor began to work, and she recovered quickly, directing her attention to talking the tradesman into parting with finished garments ordered by another customer.

“Surely, you would not wish His Lordship to leave your establishment in any manner other than suitably attired?” she asked.

“Of course not, Lady Grayson,” came the ready reply. “But these are the closest to finished that I have, and they will not fit His Lordship. But perhaps I could add some extra material here.”

“Yes, and let it out a little more there,” she said, when the tailor pinned the material at his shoulder. “Look how broad he is. You can remove the padding. First and foremost, he must be comfortable.”

Her hand drifted down his back, and Gerard clenched his fists to fight off a shudder. He was anything but comfortable.