“Could he possibly believe a purple tunic over a butler- yellow shirt and scarlet pants became him.”

“I want purple trews, lass," Drustan called over the door. "No," she said irritably. "And a purple shirt.”

“No. I'm not buying a shirt."I could buy you a shirt."I don't need you to buy me a shirt."Mercedes pulled him over to the nice GQ-dude who worked the department. "Tell him he needs a new shirt."I don't need a new shirt."Sir, you need a new shirt.”

“Does he lay with you in the grass? Does he stare up at the stars, speaking of his dreams, wishing he could roll over and kiss you and run his fingers along the breasts that tease him beneath the shirt--the shirt he knows he will carry home with him and smell and, God help him, sleep in, just so that he could be close to you?”

“The shirt touches his neck and smooths over his back. It slides down his sides. It even goes down below his belt— down into his pants. Lucky shirt.”

“He was a true English butler, just like his father before him, and his grandfather before that. Three generations; bred and butlered.”