Chapter 11 #2
“Good heavens,” he sputtered, reaching for a napkin. “That is… quite the brew.”
Eleanor couldn’t suppress her laugh. “Is something amiss with your tea, Your Grace?”
His Smugness dabbed at his soiled jacket, eyebrows raised. “Unless the sea has recently been emptied into my teapot, I’d say there’s been another deliberate incident this morning.” His eyes met hers, sharp and knowing. “Really, Eleanor, these childish pranks are hardly becoming of a duchess.”
“But might they deter you from remaining in London?”
“Not in the slightest.” He set down his napkin with a decisive gesture. “Though they do seem worthy of a response.”
Before she could question his meaning, His Insufferable Grace stood and began removing his stained jacket, shrugging it off with casual disregard for propriety.
Eleanor watched in growing alarm as he then loosened his elaborate cravat and pulled it free, dropping it carelessly on the chair beside him.
“What are you doing?” Her voice rose slightly.
“My jacket and cravat are soiled. I can hardly be expected to wear them in this condition.”
To her horror, he then unfastened the top buttons of his pink shirt and opened his peacock waistcoat, exposing a disturbing amount of his chest. Lean muscle moved beneath tanned skin as he settled back into his chair and reached for a piece of toast as if nothing unusual had occurred.
“You cannot sit at breakfast in such a state of undress,” Eleanor protested, heat rising to her cheeks. “It’s entirely improper.”
“Improper?” The insufferable man spread jam on his toast with maddening calm. “How interesting. I find it far more improper for a wife to sabotage her husband’s wardrobe and poison his tea. But perhaps I misunderstand the finer points of English etiquette after my time abroad.”
Eleanor found her gaze drawn unwillingly to the exposed triangle of his chest. The man was insufferable, outrageous, and distressingly well-formed.
“You’re completely unhinged,” she informed him, forcing her eyes back to his face.
“And you’re completely transparent.” He bit into his toast with evident enjoyment.
“Allow me to establish a new household rule, Duchess. Each time you attempt one of these charming little pranks during our meals together, I shall remove another article of clothing. A simple cause and effect that you will appreciate.”
“You are shameless.”
“That I am.” His smile was wicked. “I spent three years in climates where clothing was considered optional at best. Your English sensibilities about propriety mean very little to me.”
Eleanor felt her carefully constructed plans crumbling. She had sought to discomfort him, to drive him from her home through a thousand small inconveniences. Instead, he seemed to delight in turning each attack back upon her.
“You find me disturbing,” he observed, reaching for a second piece of toast.
“I find you intolerable,” she corrected.
“And yet you can’t seem to stop looking at me.” His voice had dropped to a lower register that sent an unwelcome shiver along her spine.
To her alarm, her proxy husband set down his toast and rose from his chair with the eerie elegance of a predator.
Before she could retreat, he rounded the table and stood before her, towering over her seated form.
Then he leaned down, bracing one hand on the arm of her chair, bringing his face disconcertingly close to hers.
His nearness was overwhelming—the heat radiating from his partially exposed chest, the faint scent of sandalwood and bergamot, the sheer physical presence of him invading her carefully maintained space.
“Your eyes keep returning to what I’ve exposed, despite your protests,” he murmured, his breath warm against her cheek. “One might almost think you appreciate the view, duchess.”
Eleanor felt trapped between her chair and his broad chest, her heart racing traitorously in her breast. She tilted her chin up defiantly, determined not to show how his proximity affected her. “You’re mistaking shock for admiration.”
“I believe you feel both.” His Smirking Grace leaned closer still, his green eyes capturing hers with unsettling intensity.
From this intimate distance, she could see flecks of gold near his pupils.
“Then why is there color in your cheeks? Why do your eyes dilate when they meet mine?” His gaze moved deliberately over her face, lingering on her lips.
“These are not the physical responses of mere shock, Eleanor.”
She pushed back from the table, standing abruptly. “You’re delusional as well as improper.”
“And you’re fighting a battle you can’t win.” He stood to his full height and crossed his arms and continued, “Your presence doesn’t disturb me. Your pranks don’t discomfort me. And I see through you enough to know you’re attracted to me and want my attention.”
Eleanor gripped the back of her chair, searching for a suitably cutting response. Before she could formulate one, Simmons appeared in the doorway and then froze, his eyes widening at the sight of the duke’s state of dishabille.
“Your Grace,” the butler stammered, addressing the duke. “I… that is… a Mr. Hamilton has arrived for Her Grace regarding a business appointment.”
“Excellent,” The unbearable man replied, his eyes still fixed on his wife. “Show him to the library, Simmons. I’ll join him momentarily.”
“Uh… Yes, Your Grace.” The butler’s eyes darted between them before he retreated hastily.
His Smugness smiled good naturedly at Eleanor. “I hate to end this delightful conversation; however, duty calls.”
“I asked to see him,” she said incredulously.
“I beg your pardon.” His smile broadened. “I shall take this meeting and any others the rest of the week. Did I fail to mention that any more sabotage shall also result in the loss of your rights one appointment at a time, one week at a time?”
He moved toward the door, then paused as she gaped at him. “And, Duchess? I’d strongly advise against further culinary surprises. The consequences might prove more revealing than you’re prepared for.”
With that parting shot, he left the room, leaving Eleanor staring after him in frustrated disbelief.
She sank back into her chair, trying to ignore the humiliation at being outplayed, not to mention the lingering image of his partially exposed chest and the disturbing warmth it had kindled. This was not at all how her plans were supposed to unfold.
Instead of being discomfited, the duke seemed to be enjoying their battle of wills, turning each of her attacks against her. Worse, he was right—she couldn’t seem to stop her eyes from returning to what he’d revealed, couldn’t prevent the heat that rose to her cheeks at his knowing gaze.
“This changes nothing,” she told herself firmly, reaching for her cold tea. “He still needs to leave.”
But a small, traitorous voice wondered what more he might reveal—about himself and about her—if he stayed.