Eleanor swallowed hard, struggling to find her voice. “Your Grace,” she managed finally. “How colorful you look this morning.”
“Do you like it?” He turned in a slow circle, displaying the full horror of his ensemble. “I felt inspired to embrace a more vibrant palette today. One might say I’ve been… tickled pink.”
His knowing grin made it clear he was fully aware of her involvement in his wardrobe transformation. Eleanor fought to maintain her composure.
“The pink becomes you remarkably well,” she said with a sweetness that would rot teeth. “It brings out the uniqueness of your complexion.”
The pink duke laughed, seemingly delighted rather than offended. “How kind of you to notice. I’ve always believed gentlemen should be more adventurous in their attire.”
He settled into the chair opposite her, reaching for the teapot that had been specially prepared. Eleanor watched with carefully concealed anticipation as he poured himself a cup, added a generous spoonful of sugar, and raised it to his lips.
The moment he took a sip, his eyes widened. A fraction of a second later, he sprayed the liquid across the table, a significant portion dribbling down the front of his outrageous jacket and onto his pink shirt.
“Good heavens,” he sputtered, reaching for a napkin. “That is… quite the brew.”
Eleanor couldn’t suppress her laugh. “Is something amiss with your tea, Your Grace?”
His Smugness dabbed at his soiled jacket, eyebrows raised. “Unless the sea has recently been emptied into my teapot, I’d say there’s been another deliberate incident this morning.” His eyes met hers, sharp and knowing. “Really, Eleanor, these childish pranks are hardly becoming of a duchess.”
“But might they deter you from remaining in London?”
“Not in the slightest.” He set down his napkin with a decisive gesture. “Though they do seem worthy of a response.”
Before she could question his meaning, His Insufferable Grace stood and began removing his stained jacket, shrugging it off with casual disregard for propriety. Eleanor watched in growing alarm as he then loosened his elaborate cravat and pulled it free, dropping it carelessly on the chair beside him.
“What are you doing?” Her voice rose slightly.
“My jacket and cravat are soiled. I can hardly be expected to wear them in this condition.”
To her horror, he then unfastened the top buttons of his pink shirt and opened his peacock waistcoat, exposing a disturbing amount of his chest. Lean muscle moved beneath tanned skin as he settled back into his chair and reached for a piece of toast as if nothing unusual had occurred.
“You cannot sit at breakfast in such a state of undress,” Eleanor protested, heat rising to her cheeks. “It’s entirely improper.”
“Improper?” The insufferable man spread jam on his toast with maddening calm. “How interesting. I find it far more improper for a wife to sabotage her husband’s wardrobe and poison his tea. But perhaps I misunderstand the finer points of English etiquette after my time abroad.”
Eleanor found her gaze drawn unwillingly to the exposed triangle of his chest. The man was insufferable, outrageous, and distressingly well-formed.
“You’re completely unhinged,” she informed him, forcing her eyes back to his face.
“And you’re completely transparent.” He bit into his toast with evident enjoyment. “Allow me to establish a new household rule, Duchess. Each time you attempt one of these charming little pranks during our meals together, I shall remove another article of clothing. A simple cause and effect that you will appreciate.”
“You are shameless.”
“That I am.” His smile was wicked. “I spent three years in climates where clothing was considered optional at best. Your English sensibilities about propriety mean very little to me.”
Eleanor felt her carefully constructed plans crumbling. She had sought to discomfort him, to drive him from her home through a thousand small inconveniences. Instead, he seemed to delight in turning each attack back upon her.
“You find me disturbing,” he observed, reaching for a second piece of toast.
“I find you intolerable,” she corrected.
“And yet you can’t seem to stop looking at me.” His voice had dropped to a lower register that sent an unwelcome shiver along her spine.
To her alarm, her proxy husband set down his toast and rose from his chair with the eerie elegance of a predator. Before she could retreat, he rounded the table and stood beforeher, towering over her seated form. Then he leaned down, bracing one hand on the arm of her chair, bringing his face disconcertingly close to hers. His nearness was overwhelming—the heat radiating from his partially exposed chest, the faint scent of sandalwood and bergamot, the sheer physical presence of him invading her carefully maintained space.
“Your eyes keep returning to what I’ve exposed, despite your protests,” he murmured, his breath warm against her cheek. “One might almost think you appreciate the view, duchess.”
Eleanor felt trapped between her chair and his broad chest, her heart racing traitorously in her breast. She tilted her chin up defiantly, determined not to show how his proximity affected her. “You’re mistaking shock for admiration.”