Don't Tempt Me by Loretta Chase

for whom he’d lay down his life, the Duke of Marchmont might have tried to find out exactly how innocent she was.
    But she was Lexham’s daughter, and in a snit about something, and all in all, perhaps it would be wisest simply to humor her.
    â€œI’m shocked, deeply shocked, that no one’s told you,” he said. “I am not intelligent. You had better explain carefully. And try not to use any big words.”
    She shot him one of her sidelong glances, a flash of blue suspicion.
    â€œAsk your father,” he said. “I’m surprised he didn’t warn you what a thickhead I am. I’m sure he’s mentioned it to me many times.”
    â€œHe did tell me so,” she said. “He told me not to expect too much.”
    â€œOuch,” he said. “‘A hit, a very palpable hit.’”
    She rolled her eyes. “I see how it is,” she said. “No matter. Some things even you can understand. I need clothes.”
    â€œYou do? Has my thick brain somehow overlooked the fact that you’re naked?”
    â€œNot these clothes,” she said, drawing her hand down the front of the dress in the most provocative manner. “This is last year’s dress!”
    â€œHow appalling. You must take it off immediately.”
    â€œIs that a dare?” she said.
    He had replied without thinking. Now images from the past crowded into his mind: Zoe challenging and taunting her brothers, Zoe taking every “you mustn’t” and “you oughtn’t” and “you can’t” and “you wouldn’t” as a challenge or taunt.
    What he’d jestingly suggested was a dare of the first order. For a lady to take off her dress in public was not merely unthinkably improper; it was practicallyimpossible. Undoing the numerous and complicated fastenings—which were located for the convenience of the maid, not the mistress—would require the agility of an acrobat and a contortionist combined. No lady would get far unaided.
    On the other hand, this was Zoe. She’d find a way to do it or die trying. And the process of her finding a way to do it was bound to be entertaining.
    The temptation to dare her was almost overpowering.
    But he collected his wits and said, “No, it was a joke.”
    â€œThis dress is no joke to me,” she said. “I shall get no respect in Society if I dress like a dowd. My attire must be in the latest mode. I should not have to explain this to you. You told me about Beau Brummell. Even my sisters admit you are fashionable, though it kills them to say so. And I can see it for myself: your dress tells me that you understand these matters.”
    He said, “Actually, I leave it to my valet Hoare to understand.”
    â€œAnd does Hoare go to the tailor to choose your garments as well?”
    â€œNo, I go to the tailor, but I leave the decisions to him,” he said. “He knows I don’t care. Still, any tailor would know that if he dresses me badly, his reputation will suffer and he’ll lose custom.”
    This seemed to give her pause.
    He watched her ponder, and something in her expression made him imagine her mind working, absorbing the few sentences he’d uttered, and filing the knowledge away for future reference. He pictured her mind as a miniature of London’s General Post Office,filled with lines of workers at the long benches, neatly filing letters into their proper slots.
    â€œDo you mean to have your valet order my clothes?” she said.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDid you mean to leave the ordering of my wardrobe to my sisters?”
    â€œGad, no.”
    She folded her arms and waited.
    He waited, too, drawing out the moment, because sunlight kissed her nose and glanced off the curly tendrils escaping from under her bonnet, and because what might be a smile hovered at the corners of her mouth.
    He stood, he was aware, some inches too close for propriety. A passing