The valet emerged from the closet, his normally impassive face showing distinct signs of misery. In his hands, he clutched one of Damien’s pristine white shirts—except it was no longer pristine nor precisely white. Instead, it had taken on a distinct rosy hue that no gentleman of quality would ever consider wearing.
“I regret to inform you, Your Grace,” Graves announced with the gravity of one delivering news of a death, “that there appears to have been an… incident with your linens. Every single white garment has been compromised.”
Damien stared at the pink shirt for a moment before a burst of laughter escaped him. “I see Her Grace has been busy in the night.”
“This is no laughing matter, Your Grace,” Graves protested, looking genuinely offended. “Every single shirt, cravat, and collar has been subjected to this… this desecration.” He brandished the garment as evidence. “Your reputation. Your dignity. Both compromised by this… pinkness.”
Damien’s shoulders shook with barely suppressed mirth. “Come now, Graves. You must admire the execution, the thoroughness.”
“With all due respect, Your Grace, I do not admire any aspect of this sabotage.” Graves began pacing, still clutching the offending shirt. “We must remedy this situation immediately. Weston’s establishment would be able to provide suitable replacements, though they won’t officially open until ten. However, I am acquainted with Mr. Weston’s assistant, Mr. Thurley, who could perhaps be persuaded to open early for a duke.”
The valet continued without pausing for breath. “Or perhaps Lord Hartington’s man, Jenkins. We served together in the Archdale household before I entered your employ. He might intercede with the proprietor of Savile’s. Their quality isn’t quite what you’re accustomed to, but in an emergency—”
“Graves,” Damien interrupted the escalating emergency measures, “stop.”
The valet halted his pacing, looking at Damien with an expression that suggested his master might have taken leave of his senses.
“I have no intention of replacing anything,” Damien announced.
“But Your Grace—”
“In fact,” Damien continued, signaling the valet to follow him to the water closet, “I want you to dress me in the pinkest of the pink shirts. And find me the most hideous jacket to clash with it. Perhaps the moss green superfine? And those ghastly yellow breeches my aunt sent from Paris that we agreed should never see the light of day.”
Graves actually staggered backward. “Your Grace cannot be serious. The combination would be visible from Brighton.”
“Precisely.” Damien’s grin widened. “If my duchess wishes for a duke resembling a pink rose, then I shall give her an entire rose garden. I intend to wear her sabotage like a badge of honor.”
“Your Grace,” Graves’s voice dropped to a horrified whisper, “I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to appear in public in such a manner. My professional reputation—”
“Will remain intact, as anyone who knows you would understand this could only be done under extreme duress.” Damien clapped his valet on the shoulder. “Come now, Graves. Enter into the spirit of the thing.”
The valet’s expression suggested he would rather enter into an early grave. “The pink with the moss green would create an optical assault. And the yellow breeches—” He broke off, seemingly unable to complete the thought.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Damien seated himself in a chair, still chuckling. “Oh, and Graves? See if you can find that paisley waistcoat my brother purchased for me in India. The one with the peacock embroidery.”
Graves closed his eyes briefly, no doubt saying a silent prayer for strength. “The peacock waistcoat. With the pink shirt. And the moss green jacket. And the yellow breeches.” Each item was enumerated with increasing despair.
“Don’t forget a pink cravat,” Damien added cheerfully. “Tied in the most elaborate knot you can manage.”
“The Mathematical,” Graves murmured, a man accepting his fate. “It will require starch to hold such a complex arrangement in that compromised fabric, but the effect will be…” He trailed off, unable to find an appropriate word.
“Memorable,” Damien supplied. “Which is precisely the point.”
As Graves retreated to the wardrobe with the resigned dignity of a martyr approaching the stake, Damien couldn’t help but chuckle at Eleanor’s tactics. His indignant and haughty duchess possessed a sense of humor, though she ought to have anticipated his willingness to lean into the absurdity. He wondered what her expression would be when he appeared at breakfast dressed like a particularly flamboyant tropical bird. The thought warmed him more than it probably should.
Let the duchess believe she’d scored a victory. He would transform her sabotage into a statement, and in doing so, perhaps teach her that this particular duke would not be so easily routed.
Eleanor sat atthe breakfast table, peacefully sipping her tea while inwardly savoring her triumph. The musical society had performed admirably for the second morning in a row, and Mrs. Peters in the laundry had executed Eleanor’s instructions regarding the duke’s linens with precision. By now, His Grace would be discovering that his pristine white shirts and cravats had taken on a most impractical shade of pink. The thought of his expression made her smile into her cup.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway alerted her to the insufferable man’s approach. She arranged her features into a mask of polite indifference, determined not to reveal her anticipation.
When he appeared in the doorway, Eleanor nearly choked on her tea.
The Duke of Westmore stood before her in a pink shirt so vibrant it might have been dyed with crushed roses. Rather than attempting to minimize the damage, he had paired it with a moss green jacket that clashed spectacularly, a peacock-embroidered waistcoat that defied description, and—most shocking of all—a pair of canary yellow breeches. His cravat, also pink, had been tied in an elaborate knot that drew even more attention to the compromised fabric.
He looked like a garden in full, chaotic bloom.
“Good morning, my dear duchess,” the pink duke greeted her cheerfully, as though his appearance were entirely ordinary. “I trust you slept well?”