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Jake stepped back and pivoted so that the corner of the table covered his middle area.

“Hello, Byng,” Cleo said, looking as serene as if they’d been caught sharing a cup of tea.

“I heard something about kippers as I was climbing the stairs. Are you hungry, Mr. Astor Addison?” Mr. Byng-Stafford’s eyes held a laughing glint.

“Not at the moment, sir,” Jake told him.

“Oh, good. Now you’d better address me as Byng, because that’s what all my friends call me, and I have a feeling that you rank in their midst. After all, you have agreed to wear the clothing I am designing. You and I will be virtually the only gentlemen in London stemming the tide of black.”

“The tide?” Cleo asked, looking confused.

“We’ve been infected in this country by a terribly tedious fellow named Beau Brummell who wears nothing but black,” Byng said. “Have you heard of him, Mr. Astor Addison?”

“I go by Addison,” Jake told him. “No, I know nothing of the man.”

“Tiresome, very tiresome,” Byng said with a sigh. “Shall we look at the fabrics you’ve chosen?” He turned to the long table. “Just look at this!” He unwrapped a length of chintz patterned with large red tulips.

Jake could scarcely stop himself from shuddering. “Surely that fabric is meant for a woman’s garment?”

“It will make an astonishing coat,” Byng said, ignoring him. “Dear Cleo, have you seen an orange silk anywhere, perhaps corded? Imagine this fabric with an orange lining. Breeches to match, of course.”

Cleo’s face lit up with her dimpled smile. “I have!” She pulled bolts of cloth to the side, finally coming up with a fabric so bright that it would put a Seville orange to shame.

“Orange breeches?” Jake asked, knowing dismay leaked into his voice.

Cleo sidled over to him and bumped her hip into his. “Kippers?”

He cracked a laugh. She was right; the image of orange breeches had laid his tool to rest.

“What’s all this about kippers?” Byng asked. He had taken out a pencil and was scribbling on a piece of notepaper. “Now, darling Cleo, I don’t want to have all the fun of ordering Addison’s clothing. You must do your part.”

“We could choose fabric for your gowns,” Jake suggested. “Let’s make another round of all the shelves, and I will hold bolts up to your hair.”

“Only half-mourning colors,” Cleo reminded him.

Jake had a distinct sense that she had latched on to half mourning as a way of ensuring her crackpot notion of being a wallflower. It wasn’t up to him to point out that she glowed, no matter her clothing.

Even in gray.

“Try blue,” Byng said, not looking up as he jotted down more notes. Jake was horrified to see that he had plucked a lilac feather from somewhere and was holding it up to some rose fabric. “Green is too obvious.”

“Green is not acceptable for half mourning,” Cleo stated.

Jake reached over and stole the lilac feather, poking it into her chignon. It stood up behind her head, waving slightly.

Cleo glanced over at the glass, leaning against the wall, and laughed. “I think not!”

Byng took the feather back. “Right idea, but look for violet, rather than lilac.”

Jake slipped his hand into Cleo’s and led her along the wall. “What in the hell is the difference between violet and lilac?”

Her fingers curled around his felt like the most erotic handshake he’d experienced in his life. He cursed under his breath, turned and met laughing eyes.

“If you’re touching me, I need to put on my damned coat.”

“Well, well,” she said, raising dancing eyes from his waist. From below his waist.

His hand tightened around hers. “In case you’re wondering, this doesn’t happen to me. Ever.”