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“I don’t make a habit of kissing strange men, and I shall not begin with you.”
“Familiar men?”
She blinked.
“Do you make a habit of kissing familiar men?” He was fairly sure that his voice was even, and not a growling, jealous burr.
“I am a very quick hand with a sharpened umbrella. My umbrella isn’t at hand. But we shan’t do that again, Jacob Addison, no matter how friendly we become. This was a mistake.”
He nodded, though his entire body and soul disagreed with her. But Cleo was alarmed, every sinew of her body tensed and ready to retreat. Or go to battle.
“An indiscretion brought on by French brandy,” he said lightly. “We’ll think no more of it. Tomorrow, may I order you a wardrobe, Your Majesty of the Nile?”
It took a moment, but Cleo reassembled herself into a dignified woman, though her cheeks still burned rosy, and her lips were swollen by kisses.
“A wardrobe for a lady’s London Season is frightfully expensive,” she told him. “I shall pay for my own clothing.”
“Of course. Will you order a wardrobe for me?” He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and nudging a curtain of red curls behind her ear. “Your hair . . .”
“I know,” she said. “Red as fire, etcetera. Believe me, I’ve heard all the terms that could possibly be applied.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t mean that.” He could hardly tell her that her hair was the most erotic thing he’d seen in his life. That the mere sight of locks sliding over her chest had turned his cock to a steel bar threatening to break from his overly tight breeches.
Mischief sparked deep in her eyes. “You’ll allow me to order whatever garments I wish? Flowered and spangled and fringed?”
“As long as you give me the same latitude. I promise to remain within the bounds of half mourning. My mother wore lavender and violet for six months after putting away her blacks. White and cream with black trim.”
“You must remain within the boundaries of good taste,” she ordered. “I’m serious about dampened petticoats, no matter how fashionable they are. I want to be a wallflower.”
“I understand.” The devil made him succumb to temptation. “Do you wear a long corset? It makes a difference in the design of a gown, as I understand it.”
Cleo was no Puritan. Her chin rose and she met his eyes jauntily. “Short. No whalebones necessary.”
Any man would have celebrated his control: he didn’t allow himself to glance below her neck. Now he knew that her breasts were not fenced in by the bones of a sea creature, merely lifted and supported—
No.
“What about drawers?” he heard himself say.
Her lips curved into an impish smile. “My undergarments come from Paris, and I have no need of more.”
Game to the lady.
“You minx,” he whispered.
She looked back at him, fearless, laughing.
Words had left Jake’s control, replaced by an image of Cleopatra Lewis wearing a silk shift with a wide neck, falling down one creamy shoulder, red hair scattered over the pillow. His body tightened even more, his mind jumping to a ready image of Cleo in the throes of abandoned pleasure, the queen lying under him, her eyes languid, cheeks, breasts—
He took a step back.
He wasn’t a gentleman in the courteous, courtly mold, perhaps, but he was an American gentleman. Merry’s question echoed in his mind. Of course, he wouldn’t seduce Cleo, if she were seducible.
Honorable men do not seduce maidens after sneaking into their chambers under false pretexts, wearing servants’ clothing.
He jerked his coat down so that it did a better job of covering his erection and took another step backward. “I shall bid you good night.” He moved to pick up the silver platter, the empty plate, the brandy glasses. “Tomorrow morning in Quimby’s?”
“We should order our wardrobes separately, because otherwise they will not be a surprise.”
