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Cleo flinched, and Jake’s heart skipped a beat.

He took another step toward her. “I can understand why you wish to warn off suitors.” He took a last step so that he was standing directly before her and tipped up her chin. “You need not wear a gown that can double as a suit of armor. You can reject any proposal that comes your way and laugh in his face, if you wish.”

She lifted her eyes to his, her expression frosty. “I need no reassurance from you, Mr. Addison.”

“You are named after the Queen of the Nile. The name is enough.” He lightly touched a curl. “Added to your hair. Your eyes. Your laugh.” The firelight behind her shoulder made her hair richer and darker, her skin flawless.

She didn’t glow because of firelight, but because of her own spirit. Her intelligence and reckless courage and a passion for life that extended to admiring the beauty of poisonous berries.

He didn’t know how to put any of that into words. “Your lips,” he added.

She said nothing for a moment and then crooked her mouth into a joyless smile. “An itemization delivered without adjectives, but delivered, nonetheless. Thank you.”

At that moment, he gave in.

Cleopatra Lewis had conquered him without a single come-hither smile.

In the back of his head, he reshuffled his life goals, and an impetuous, exasperating, utterly desirable British woman stepped to the fore.

Thinking faster than he had in his entire life, he said, “You claim that the British are fair, and I claim the same for Americans. I have an idea. You will order my wardrobe from Quimby’s, in bright colors. I will order yours, in half mourning.”

She shook her head. “Why on earth would I allow you to order my clothing? Let alone do the same for you?”

“Because it would be fair, Cleo. We’ll spar like the honorable people we are: I will try to win Quimby’s for you, and you will try to win Quimby’s for me.”

“That’s utterly absurd! You seem to be overlooking the fact that I have already won the emporium.”

He had to admit that she had a point, but he was playing a double game: he no longer gave a damn about Quimby’s. He needed a reason to see Cleo: a solid reason that would give him the time and space to win a woman who seemed damned near unwinnable—because she couldn’t be courted by conventional means. At the moment, if he asked her to dance, she would conclude that he was trying to cozen her into giving up Quimby’s.

“Martha deserves a chance to decide whether she prefers to use her imagination, clothing everything from fairies to monarchs,” he said. “If your plan succeeds, she’ll spend much of her time measuring tiresome young women whose ambitions don’t match up to reality. How many viscounts are available to marry fishmongers’ daughters?”

Her brows drew together.

“It would be equitable,” he added, keeping his gaze somber without a hint of desire. Though he felt it, all right. Carnal desire gripped his limbs, but he refused to reveal it. “I will use fair means to convince Martha Quimby that clothing the gentry is tiresome. When ordering your clothing, I will give her the opportunity to create a wardrobe that befits a duchess.”

Cleo pressed her lips together. “I want to be a wallflower, and I plan to order clothing that will match my ambition.”

Jake’s mouth fell open. She pictured herself a wallflower? Not even layers of gray fabric could disguise her, any more than livery was disguising him. “You can’t ask Martha Quimby for a miracle!”

She gave him a perplexed look. “There’s nothing miraculous about it. I don’t care to be the center of attention, that’s all. Some women wear gowns that are translucent. My mother—” She broke off. “I don’t want to look naked, and I shall never dampen my petticoats.”

“I wouldn’t order such a gown,” Jake promised, revolted by the idea of men leering at her legs.

Cleo raised both eyebrows this time. Damn it, who ever imagined that a woman’s eyebrows were erotic? But hers were: winged, slender, derisive, thoughtful.

His control slipped another notch. He bent his head until his breath feathered over her lips. “Cleo.”

She met his eyes, fearless, amused. Desirous.

“Have you ever been kissed by a servant, Queen Cleopatra?”

“Never.” She didn’t move.

“Your mouth doesn’t match your dress,” he whispered. “Dress severe, lips plump and generous. Dress stern, mouth curving and delicious. Dress dismal, lips colorful, rosy.”

Her lips curled. “You do know adjectives, it seems!”

“A few.” His lips touched hers. “Irresistible.”