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In fact, she hadn’t been so irritated in months. Not since she discovered that her fiancé was sneaking around behind her back making plans to sell Lewis Commodes.

Jake Addison apparently thought her exquisite ensemble befitted a plumber’s wife. What did he know? He was just an American. An unattractive one at that, as confirmed by a real duchess.

The fact that she seemed to find his jaw . . . his whole self . . . wildly attractive just confirmed how unladylike she was. Ladies certainly wouldn’t appreciate his sculpted muscles. They definitely wouldn’t feel something that she admitted was raw lust.

Lust, it seemed, was irrational, if powerful.

She pulled herself together and changed the subject. “My mother would have enjoyed the gaudy clothes you intend to order,” she said, trying to make her tone informative and friendly. “I can probably advise you on precisely how to make them as eye-catching as possible.”

Too late she remembered that any help she gave him would be a mistake. A business mistake.

Jake grinned at her. “Not to belabor the point, but as I peacock around London in clothing that your mother might have appreciated, the mayor’s daughters will be terrified. Moreover, as you stroll around London wrapped up in two-day pudding, anyone who wasn’t terrified by me will be disheartened by you.”

A flash of anger went up Cleo’s backbone. “Two-day pudding? How dare you!”

“Pudding takes on a grayish tinge,” he pointed out.

“I am dressed in half mourning,” she told him icily. “I am grieving for my mother.”

“I am sorry. When did she pass away?”

“Ten months ago.”

She couldn’t fool herself that his eyes were brimming with sympathy, and indeed, he didn’t bother to offer another platitude. “I remember the feeling,” he said instead. “My father died just over two years ago. My point is that between your drab clothing—no matter how relevant to your emotions—and my garish costumes, the ton will not flock to Quimby’s.”

Cleo’s jaw set. “I plan to remain in half mourning for two more months in honor of my mother.”

“On the worthy side, it allows Martha Quimby to show range. Garish and gray.”

Despite her irritation, her lips quirked up. “You’re not helping your own cause. You should be secretly reveling in the fact that my clothing will frighten polite society instead of making such a point of it.”

“I’d rather win fair and square. That’s how we do it in America. Anyway, my clothing will be frightening, yours merely dismaying.”

“The British are just as interested in fairness as Americans. I have never engaged in unscrupulous dealings of any kind.” She gave him a fierce stare. “Ever!”

Did she have to put a hand over her bosom?

Naturally, Jake’s eyes dropped to her breasts, which were handfuls. More than handfuls. Curved and heavy and . . . He couldn’t think of any more appropriate words because his body surged with inarticulate passion.

Not that those words were appropriate. He could just imagine her response if he described her breasts as big handfuls.

He wanted. He wanted to take her in his lap and kiss her happy, and then trail a hand over her bosom and make her more than happy.

Jesus.

What was happening to him?

“Well,” he said briskly, “you know all the details of my plan, and I needn’t badger you any longer. Wouldn’t be gentlemanly, would it?”

“As if you cared about being gentlemanly!”

“I don’t when it comes to namby-pamby rules about boots and hats and the like. Wide cravats versus a glimpse of a man’s neck. To me, the definition of gentleman is something different.”

She looked at him curiously.

“Honor is the most important aspect of a gentleman,” he found himself telling her, surprised. He never explained himself.

“Courtesy is crucial to the definition,” she noted.