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“Good morning, Madame Francine.” Catherine took the lead. “We would like to commission a few dresses for my darling friend here.”

Emmy waved her hands excitedly, her eyes still darting around the shop.

“Alright, if you’ll follow me, Lady…?”

“Emmeline,” Emmy supplied.

“Lady Emmeline, I’ll introduce you to a wonderful world of fashion. Tell me, what do you like?” the modiste asked, leading her into a back room.

Deciding her friend was in good hands, Catherine hung back, taking a seat on one of the velvet sofas and accepting the tea poured for her.

Richard took a seat beside her but declined the tea. She noted then that he too needed a change of wardrobe. His coat fit him a little too snugly to be proper, since he’d gotten bigger in the two years they’d been away. His bulging arms and forearms were too distracting to be proper.

“You should also visit a haberdasher while you’re here, Your Grace.”

He raised an eyebrow at her.

“I noticed your clothes are a bit… improper.”

He gave a mischievous smile that told her she was about to hear something that would make her regret opening her mouth.

“I do not care much for my clothes, dear Cathy.” He smiled and leaned closer, his scent clouding her senses. “Most women prefer me out of them.”

A gasp escaped her lips as a hot blush rose to her cheeks and neck. She slapped his arm and inched away from him on the sofa.

“I am sorry if I offended your delicate sensibilities.” He smiled, obviously pleased with himself.

“You obviously are not.” She rolled her eyes.

“I am, sweet Cathy.” He pouted, feigning hurt. “Do you doubt the words of a duke?”

“No, but I’m starting to wonder if the curriculum at Oxford no longer includes proper speech,” she retorted once the heat in her cheeks dissipated.

“What about my speech was not proper? I only spoke the truth.” He laughed.

“A truth I was better off not knowing.”

“Why?” he asked, leaning closer. “Because you are one of them?”

Her eyes flicked down to his arms, and she looked away, trying to school her features. But damn her propensity to blush.

“Not at all.” She shook her head vigorously. “I will not entertain such a pointless thought, and I really think it’s not just Emmy who needs lessons in decorum.”

“Are you offering your services, Cathy?” he asked with a teasing smile. “Are you trying to spend more time with me?”

She swatted his arm. “You wish.”

He laughed long and loud, and she found herself enjoying his company even though he was incorrigible.

“You look beautiful when you’re angry,” he commented suddenly, startling her.

“W-what?”

“You flush beautifully when you’re angry. I wonder what else would bring a beautiful red hue to your cheeks.”

“Your Grace, you?—”

“No, no, Cathy,” he scolded as if she was a naughty child. “When a man compliments you, you are not to scold him no matter how pig-headed he sounds. A blush will do.”