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Cleo blinked at him, clearly startled.
“I have not given up my plan to convince Martha Quimby that she would be happier making costumes than attiring members of polite society,” Jake announced, jumping into the awkward silence.
She raised one of those eyebrows again. “How will you do that?”
“Tomorrow I shall order a complete wardrobe from Quimby’s. The Duke of Trent is out of London, and I plan to escort his duchess to several society events, wearing Quimby’s garments.”
She laughed. “You believe that Martha will be put off by the idea of dressing an American?” Her eyes rested thoughtfully on his shoulders. “She may well charge you by the ell for fabric. Is your plan to bankrupt the emporium due to your size?”
Jake scooped up another bite. “You’ve hardly eaten anything, whereas I am outsized already.” He held it up to her lips. “Have this.”
Her lashes swept up, and their eyes met. Dimly he registered that Cleopatra Lewis’s gaze was not helpless or, for that matter, innocent. Her eyes were deep as the evening sky when it turns from blue to gray. They were knowing, older than she appeared, curious, amused . . .
Desirous.
It felt like the most triumphant moment of his life. He knew he caught a hint of desire, even though a moment later her eyes seemed to register nothing but polite inquiry.
He cleared his throat. “Once I wear my new garments to society events, Quimby’s reputation for elegant attire will suffer. I’m American, remember? Untitled, no blue blood, too large, unattractive, and all the rest of it. Merry told me once that my jaw was hard as hammered iron, and she didn’t mean it as a compliment.”
A burble of laughter came from Cleo’s lips. “You are depending on your unattractiveness to discourage people from ordering clothing from Quimby’s?”
“The nature of the wardrobe I intend to acquire will inform insecure purchasers—such as those you intend to target—that the emporium is better suited to creating clowns out of Americans than clothing a future viscountess. I plan to branch out into color.”
At that, she burst into giggles.
“Flowered fabric,” he said, enjoying the sound of her laughter. The reserved air that hung about her had fallen away. “Embroidery, pastel cravats, lacy cuffs. All manner of extravagance. Spangles and silver thread.”
“You’re planning to make yourself look like a circus master and frighten off all the prospective buyers,” she said, still giggling.
He nodded. “Precisely.”
“I don’t know why I’m surprised. Look at you.” Cleo waved her fork.
Jake glanced down at the deucedly uncomfortable coat he was wearing.
“I can’t think of an English gentleman who would be caught in servants’ clothing,” she told him. “Not even literary ones. Romeo wouldn’t have stolen into Juliet’s household wearing livery. Gentlemen are too aware of their consequence.”
“I’m not a gentleman,” Jake stated. “I’m an American.”
“So, you have no fear of garish clothing,” Cleo said, nodding to herself. “That’s clever . . . very clever.”
“Thank you.” He ate the last bite of apple tart.
“But it won’t work,” she said with utter confidence.
He frowned. “Why not?”
“Because I too am ordering a new wardrobe from Quimby’s,” she said, giving him that dimpled smile again. “Martha has already taken my measurements. New gowns, pelisses, and even headdresses. They will be exquisite. And my grandfather has managed to coerce me into accompanying him to any number of society events, so if you will be a walking advertisement for absurdity, I shall be the same for would-be viscountesses.”
Her lips were gleaming with French jam. Jake was struck by an impulse to lean forward and lick it off that was so strong he felt it to the depths of his . . .
Gut.
Not lower.
“Your attire will be balanced by my gowns,” Cleo added, pointing a fork at him in a markedly unladylike fashion.
“How will you know if your wardrobe is appropriate?” he demanded, the irritation he felt at his unruly and unwanted emotions leaking into his tone. “After all, you haven’t been presented to the queen. Perhaps your taste is garish.”
